Dark Blood

whisper. ‘Think Steel’s on the blob too. Been stomping about like someone’s smeared her tampons with Deep Heat. Beware of the lesbian!’

Logan’s phone was ringing again.

The Wee Hoose had been relatively quiet — unlike the main CID office — giving him a chance to type up Alan Gardner’s confession before heading off home.

He peered at the phone’s display, making sure it wasn’t that idiot Beattie, before picking up. ‘McRae.’

DSI Danby’s huge bass voice boomed out of the earpiece. ‘Any news on Knox?’

Logan snatched the phone away from his ear. ‘Bloody hell…’ He trailed off. DS Doreen Taylor was staring at him, her eyes bugged out, mouth an angry line. She pointed at the little fairy princess sitting on her desk, legs dangling over the edge. Nicole’s wings were getting crumpled, and the chocolate biscuit they’d used as a bribe to stop her crying was slowly making its way all over her face.

Doreen jabbed her finger at him, her voice a sharp whisper, ‘Language!’

Logan grimaced. ‘Sorry.’ He swivelled his chair around until he had his back to them both, then turned the volume down on the phone. ‘Sorry, sir, had to close the door. They’re still swamped with sightings of Knox.’ The last part was true at least, the phones hadn’t stopped ringing in CID all day.

‘How many worth chasing up?’

‘Backshift are still checking, but you know what it’s like. A big case like this brings out all the loonies.’ Logan clicked on his email and skimmed through till he got to the message from the hospital. ‘Harry Weaver from Sacro woke up an hour ago — DS MacDonald interviewed him, but he can’t remember anything. Tox report says he was full of Rohypnol.’

‘The woman?’

‘Too early to tell.’

There was a pause. ‘Been on to my team. No one in Tyneside’s heard from Knox since he left, but there’s a lot of folk wanting their hands on Mental Mikey’s nest egg. Better tell your people to keep their eyes open for Newcastle gangsters, know what I’m saying?’

Logan groaned. ‘Christ, that’s all we-’

A pad of pink Post-it notes clattered off his monitor.

Doreen had her finger out again. ‘Language!’

‘Oops…’ Logan went back to the phone, thanked Danby, and hung up. Newcastle gangsters: as if things weren’t complicated enough.

The handset had barely touched the cradle before it was ringing again. ‘Oh for fff…’ He shut his mouth before Doreen could throw anything else. ‘McRae?’

Samantha: ‘I was…Are you doing another late night? I mean it’s OK if you are, I just wanted to…you know.’

Logan checked the time on the computer — 19:40 — nearly three hours after the end of his shift. ‘Drowning in paperwork: caught the guy doing over the jewellery shops.’

‘Oh…Well, never mind.’

He took a deep breath. ‘Actually, I’m just about done. How about I pick up a Chinese on the way home and…Sod it, I can’t. I’ve got an unattended minor here. Have to keep an eye on her till social services turn up.’ Logan closed his eyes and banged his head softly against his keyboard.

‘It’s not important.’

Of course it was, he could hear it in Samantha’s voice.

Doreen cleared her throat. ‘I can look after her.’

Logan raised his head. There was a long line of gibberish stretching across his screen.

Doreen ran a hand through the little girl’s pale-yellow hair. ‘Nicole can help me prepare case papers for the golf club murder, can’t you Nicole?’

The fairy princess stuck her thumb in her chocolaty mouth and sooked. To be honest, she’d probably be more help than most of CID.

‘Hello? You still there?’

Logan made more keyboard gibberish. ‘I’m on my way.’

43

Logan picked his way down Marischal Street, a plastic bag from a nice little Chinese carryout on King Street swinging from one hand. The council hadn’t bothered to grit this bit and the pavement was a treacherous mixture of snow and ice. Which would’ve been bad enough, but the road made a steep descent from Union Street all the way down to the docks, turning the whole thing into a toboggan run.

The wind wasn’t helping any either, hammering icy nails into his face, making his skin throb and ache with cold.

He slithered to a halt outside the building’s front door and fumbled in his pocket for the keys. Could barely see the lock in the gloom…He shifted sideways, letting the streetlight’s yellow glow fall on the scarred wood.

The key skittered around the lock, before finally going in. And then the light disappeared.

‘God’s sake…’ Bulb had probably blown again. The seagulls liked to eat the rubber sealant, letting the water in, because they were rotten evil bastarding things…

Not seagulls. The light hadn’t gone out, it’d been eclipsed by a huge shadow.

‘Been waiting fucking ages for you.’

Oh shit. Reuben.

Logan span around, feet slipping on the ice, staggered, bounced off the damp granite wall and fell on his backside.

Pain jagged across the base of his spine.

The plastic bag made a dull thud as it bounced off the pavement beside him, egg foo yung and prawn crackers going everywhere.

Ow…

He looked up to find Wee Hamish Mowat’s right-hand man standing over him, that scarred fat face twisted into a grin. ‘Classic. Didn’t even have to lay a finger on you.’ In the dim light, the bruises were almost black, the plaster across the bridge of Reuben’s nose a pale grey strip against the swollen skin.

The big man reached inside his thick padded jacket and Logan flinched. Gun? Knife?

Reuben sighed. ‘Moron.’ He pulled out an envelope and threw it in Logan’s face.

It bounced, and fell into his lap.

‘Open it.’

Logan peeled back the self-adhesive flap. More money. ‘I can’t-’

‘Mr Mowat says if you want any more, you go see this man.’ He pulled out a sticky note and slapped it onto Logan’s forehead. Then stood there, grinning as the snow battered down all around them.

Logan pulled the note from his head and scowled at it — ‘JAMES CLAY’ and an address in the Bridge of Don.

One of Reuben’s massive hands clamped down on the top of Logan’s head. ‘See you around.’ He shoved, sending Logan sprawling on his back.

Logan tensed, waiting for the kicking to start. But it didn’t. Instead he heard a car door slam, then the tractor-rattle of a diesel engine starting up. A car driving slowly away.

He sat up, watching the dented BMW pause at the bottom of the road, then turn right onto Trinity Quay and disappear into the night.

‘What happened to you?’ Samantha looked up from her spot on the sofa, electric fire blazing, a cup of tea steaming away on the coffee table, some sort of costume drama on the telly, and a book open in her lap.

Logan dumped the plastic bag next to her mug, then struggled out of his jacket. ‘Going to have to share the