Dark Blood

‘Someone rammed my car with a Transit van! What am I supposed to say, “everything’s fucking peachy”?’

She wiped her sleeve across her face. ‘I can’t…’ Stood. Turned to march out of the room.

Logan grabbed her. ‘What happened?’

She wouldn’t look at him. ‘I can’t be your security blanket any more. It’s too much.’

‘I don’t need a security—’

‘Just stop it.’ Samantha placed two hands on his chest and shoved him away. She stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

‘Oh for fuck’s…Samantha!’ Logan followed her through to the bedroom. She was stuffing clothes in a holdall.

‘Can we at least talk about it?’

‘What’s to talk about?’ She rammed a pair of black leather pants in the bag, voice clipped and angry. ‘You’re going to be a father. You’ll have a family. What the hell do you need me for?’

‘What do I need…? I don’t love Steel, or Susan. OK? I love you. I don’t want—’

‘Then why is it always me? Why do I always have to be the one who suggests sex? Why do you never want me?’

‘I do! I’m just…Bloody hell.’ The phone was ringing, a handset warbling away on top of the bedside cabinet. ‘I’m trying to—’

She pushed past, back out into the hall.

‘Samantha, it’s not…’ Through into the lounge again. ‘Will you stand still for two minutes?’

She grabbed a handful of CDs from the pile by the TV. ‘When you figure out what you want you can call me.’

‘I want you!’

The ringing stopped and the answering machine picked up: Logan telling whoever it was to leave a message.

DI Steel’s voice growled out of the speakers. ‘Laz?’

‘I’m sorry, OK? I’m just…everything’s screwed up and I don’t…’

‘Laz, I know you’re there – pick up the bloody phone!’

He reached for her. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

‘Don’t make me send someone round!’

Samantha wiped her eyes again. ‘You’re supposed to know.’

‘Laz?’

‘I didn’t. I’m sorry.’ This time, when he held her, she didn’t push him away. ‘Stay, OK?’

‘Laz, I’m serious!’

Samantha sighed. Looked away. ‘Go on then. Answer it.’

‘Screw her, it’s—’

‘You know what the old bag’s like – she’ll just keep ringing and ringing till you do.’

Logan snatched the phone out of its cradle. ‘Are there no other bloody police officers in Aberdeen you can annoy?’

‘Get your arse back to the station. Someone’s set fire to Knox’s house.’

There was something strangely comforting about watching a house burning in the middle of a snowstorm. Choking black smoke curled up to meet the low clouds: the sharp smell of bubbling plastics, the soft edge of charring wood. Up close, the snow had melted away, beaten back by the blistering heat, but that didn’t stop more from whipping down from the February night sky.

Logan sidled up next to DI Steel. Her face was all pink and shiny and she’d put on a thick, padded parka, the front unzipped and pulled wide while she sipped at a polystyrene cup of something brown. ‘Hope you brought some marshmallows.’

‘Fire Chief says it’d be out already if it wasn’t for the wind. At least they’ve managed to stop it spreading.’

A pair of huge white fire engines blocked the street, their flickering lights sparkling through the snow, thick jets of water raining down on the burning building.

‘Got any fags? I’m gasping.’

Logan handed her the packet.

‘Ta. Neighbour called it in about nine, seems our conscientious media bastards stood and filmed the place burning; never thought to actually get on the blower and call nine-nine-nine.’

‘There’s a shock.’ Logan turned on his heel, looking past the blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape cordoning off the front garden, to the forest of TV cameras and zoom lenses on the other side. ‘Think they got whoever did it on film?’

‘God, that’s brilliant!’ She slapped a hand against her forehead. ‘Why do you think I dragged you all the way out here, to sing songs round the camp-fire?’

‘Thanks. Couldn’t have got Uniform to do it, could you? No, had to drag me out in the middle of the night. Just because you’re not getting any—’