Dark Blood

flames, chucking a petrol bomb. Placards. Angry faces. Fire engines. Then some local plod bigwig giving a statement about how Grampian Police don’t like vigilantes.

Tony sucks the grease off his fingers and takes a swig of the Diet Coke that came with his meal, then tops it up with a good glug of that cheap brandy.

Neil holds out his Sprite. ‘Go on then, give us a splash, like.’

‘You’re designated driver.’

‘Aw, come on, that’s not—’

‘Sweethearts, I’m not going to ask you again.’

Silence.

They sit and eat, Tony flicking through Julie’s file on Danby with greasy fingers. Looking for an edge. Thinking about the little plastic baggie of wrappers in her handbag.

The piece on Knox goes back to the studio: a photo of him up in the background while some tree-hugging corduroy types get all worked up about why he was there, why he couldn’t be left alone, why it was costing so much…Blah. Blah. Blah.

And then the weather.

Neil blows his nose on a napkin, getting the Colonel’s face all covered in bogies. ‘What now?’

Julie clicks the TV doofer, and the screen fades to black. ‘Finish up, then we’re heading out.’ She stands, making for the bathroom, picking her way around the soggy towels on the carpet. ‘I’m driving.’

Tony tries not to shudder, then tops up his Coke again. What the hell – he pours a generous measure of cheap brandy into Neil’s Sprite as well. Solidarity.

If Julie’s driving they’ll both need it.

36

Colin jabbed his stumpy ring finger at the screen. ‘Hello darlin’…’

The woman in the photo had shoulder-length brown curly hair, fierce green eyes, and a ski-jump nose, her face contorted in a snarl. Steam curled from her open lips in the snowy afternoon. She was clutching a placard in her thick blue gloves: ‘RAPING SCUM OUT!!!’ with a photocopy of Knox’s face underneath. Logan scribbled down the filename displayed at the bottom of the screen. ‘Right, now we’re looking for her friend.’

Colin blew into his naked hand. ‘Friend?’

‘You try lighting a petrol bomb wearing padded gloves. How do you get the lighter to spark?’

‘Aye, well, maybe she—’

‘What, took the gloves off, set the wick, lit it, then put her gloves back on to chuck the thing?’

The reporter stared at him. ‘You’d be surprised what you get used to when you have to wear gloves all the time.’

Sigh. ‘Yes: it was all my fault and I’m sorry. Happy?’

‘I’m just—’

‘Every damn time…’ Logan reached over and poked the laptop’s ‘next’ button a couple of times, flicking through the photographs. ‘Anyway, she chucked two petrol bombs, there wasn’t time to get her gloves off and on between them.’ He flicked through to the end of the sequence, then back again.

Someone was standing next to Miss Black-and-White-Bobble-Hat in every single photograph. A young-ish man with the same curly brown hair; the same green eyes; the same snub nose; the same expression on his face.

Lynch mob, a game all the family can play.

Colin leaned forward, staring at the faces. Then gave a low whistle.

‘What?’

He pointed at the screen.

‘And?’

‘Do you lot no’ do any research?’ He tapped the young man right between the eyes. ‘That’s Ian Leadbetter. See his grandad? Supposed to be one of Knox’s earlier victims. What the hell was it…’ Colin screwed up one side of his face. ‘Seventy-six-year-old, Parkinson’s, went missin’ from a park. Cops found him six hours later on a patch of waste ground, bashed and bruised. Wouldn’t talk about it. Wouldn’t take a rape kit.’

Another poke. ‘The kids’ parents were all for keepin’ it quiet, but wee Ian here’s been shootin’ his mouth off to anyone who’ll listen. Wants Knox strung up for what he did to his grandad.’

‘Any proof?’

‘Says the old man saw Knox’s picture in the paper when he was released a couple years ago and wouldn’t come out of his room for a week. Got blootered a month later and told Ian all about it.’

‘He could still make a formal complaint.’

Colin shrugged. ‘Bit difficult when you’re sittin’ in a wee brass urn on the mantelpiece. Pneumonia, three months ago.’

Good point.

‘Can you email me a copy of the photos?’