Dark Blood

‘He’s no’ bloody dead. Want to know why he did it? Get your arse up the hospital and ask him.’

Logan dragged a big, black leather portfolio out from between the wardrobe and the single bed, dumped it down on the mattress beside Steel, and unzipped it. It was basically a huge ring binder: large sheets of black paper in clear plastic sleeves, held together with six shiny steel clips. Some photos, some prints, some originals. All pretty good.

Steel flipped through the pages. ‘Got any nudes?’

There was a little pocket at the front, with some leaflets for local galleries stuffed into it, and a fancy-looking CV with abstract black-and-white photos mixed in. Very arty.

‘Course, you know why he did it, don’t you?’

Logan looked up. ‘What, Walker?’

‘No, Finnie. Sent us out here cos he’s pissed off about Knox going missing — spreading the misery. Petulant tit.’ She looked up at the constable. ‘Anything else? Any missing kitties we should be getting out of trees? Stolen gnomes? Stuff like that?’

The PC’s cheeks went pink. ‘It’s not my fault. I just-’

‘Come on Laz.’ She levered herself off the bed. ‘I hereby declare this a waste of CID resources. Our plucky boys in uniform can save the day for a change. We’ve got a van driver to interview before they let the bugger go.’

The Airwave handset clipped to the constable’s shoulder started making bleepy noises. He fumbled it round to his mouth and squeezed the button. ‘One-Zero One-Twenty, over?’

A broad Aberdonian accent crackled out of the little speaker. ‘That you Lachlan?’

‘Roger that Control. Over.’

‘You still got DS McRae there, Lachlan?’

‘Aye…I mean, affirmative. Do you want-’

‘Tell the loon to switch his bloody phone on: there’s bin anither of his wee jewellery heists. Mackenzie and Kerr, that place on Huntly Street, next to the naughty knicker shop.’

Logan hauled out his notebook, flipped it open and scribbled down the jewellery shop’s details. ‘Does he know if-’

‘See if you’re going to the naughty knicker shop-’ DI Steel jabbed her elbow in Logan’s ribs.

‘Shite!’ Logan flinched. The notebook tumbled from his fingers, splatting down in the puddle of sick.

Steel blew out her cheeks. ‘Clumsy.’

‘It wasn’t clumsy, it was you!’ He looked down at the vomit-sodden book. No way he was picking that up. Logan grabbed one of Douglas Walker’s fancy CVs, writing ‘MACKENZIE amp; KERR — HUNTLY ST’ on the back of it. ‘Ask them how much he got away with.’

The constable relayed Logan’s question.

‘Aboot two hunnerd thou, give or take a couply watches.’

A much better haul than last time.

‘And you’re sure it’s the same person?’

The constable hadn’t even opened his mouth before the voice of Control crackled back, ‘Aye, I’m sure. Yer mannie had a sawn-off sledgehammer and a wee bairn with him.’ There was a pause. ‘And DI Beattie’s looking for you. Something about a flasher?’

As if Logan didn’t have enough to worry about.

He flipped open an evidence bag, turned it inside out, then used it as a pooper-scooper to pluck his notebook from the rancid mush. He sealed it closed, the sodden pages feeling cold and slimy through the plastic. ‘Tell him he’ll have to take it up with DI Steel.’

‘Turn yer bloody phone on and tell him yoursel!’

It took over forty minutes to get into the centre of town — a little snow and everyone forgot how to drive, pootling along at ten miles an hour and still managing to crash into things.

Logan parked the pool car just down from the jewellery shop.

Huntly Street was a little cobbled road, setting off from Union Street at a jaunty angle. The granite hulk of St Mary’s Cathedral loomed on the other side of the road, a mass of sharp edges and shadow, washed in yellowy streetlight. Thick flakes of white drifted down from the dark-orange sky.

Mackenzie and Kerr — Jewellers by Appointment to Princess Anne, according to the understated sign above the shattered window — was sealed off behind a cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape, a filthy patrol car sitting right outside it.

Logan stepped out into the bitterly cold evening, then stood there, waiting for DI Steel to finish staring at the display of basques, suspenders, and shiny leather kinky boots in the window of the shop next door.

She hitched up her trousers. ‘You need me, I’ll be in there trying on something naughty.’

Logan picked his way across the slippery cobbles, ducked under the cordon and peered in through Mackenzie and Kerr’s shattered shop window. All the display cabinets lay smashed and empty on the floor, the counter little more than a broken wooden frame. The burgundy carpet was awash with glass, chains of gold and silver trodden into the deep pile.

He pulled on yet another pair of gloves, hauled the buckled front door open, and stepped inside.

It smelt vaguely of wee. And dust. And air freshener.

A handful of rings and bracelets lay scattered on the glass-strewn velvet of the counter.

A face poked through from a door at the back of the room. ‘Sarge?’ PC Guthrie grinned, his cheeks straining like an overgrown, shaved hamster’s. He chewed, swallowed then pointed over his shoulder. ‘Got the kettle on if you want a brew?’

Guthrie led the way into a small kitchen, just big enough for a small fridge, kettle, microwave, and breadbin; a half-sized sink and draining board; a tiny table complete with carrot cake; and two wooden chairs. Both occupied by grey-haired women — one in a pink twinset and pearls combo, the other wearing enough tweed to upholster a medium-sized hippopotamus. Which was appropriate.

PC Guthrie did the introductions. ‘Ladies, this is Detective Sergeant McRae. Sarge, this is Nora Mackenzie and Peggy Ramsay, the owners. They were here when it happened.’

The tweed hippo pressed a hand to her considerable chest. ‘It was horrible! He went mad, didn’t he Nora?’

Twinset-and-Pearls nodded, setting the sag of skin beneath her chin wobbling. ‘Smashed everything-’

‘Everything.’

‘Kept screaming it wasn’t his fault-’

‘On and on. I was terrified, wasn’t I Nora?’

‘Look at the state of the place, it’s all ruined!’

Logan held up his hands. ‘Did either of you get a good look at him?’

‘I mean, you read about these things in the papers, but you never think they’ll happen to you, do you?’

‘Terrible.’ Nora Mackenzie fingered the pearls around her throat. ‘He was a big man, broad shouldered, and he had a thing…’ She waved a hand in front of her face. ‘Didn’t he Peggy?’

‘Glasses and a big pink nose. And one of those bristly moustaches.’

‘And a mole, on his cheek.’

‘Oh yes, a mole. And a wee toddler in a pushchair.’ Peggy picked at the slice of carrot cake in front of her. ‘Poor little mite. What’s she going to think, growing up with a father like that?’

‘It’s a disgrace so it is.’

Logan looked at Guthrie. ‘You checked with CCTV yet?’

The constable nodded. ‘They’re running the footage back at HQ.’

Nora tugged at her pearls. ‘You will catch him, won’t you?’

Logan pointed through the door at the bombsite shop. ‘You’ve got a security camera?’

Peggy raised her not inconsiderable frame and lumbered over to a little telly and video recorder, mounted on a bracket in the corner. ‘My nephew James put it in last year.’ She pressed a couple of buttons and the machine whirred for nearly a minute. Then clunked. Then started to play.

The shop interior appeared on the TV: Peggy rearranging something in a glass-fronted display cabinet. The