Dark Blood

Logan slammed the custody log down on the desktop, hard enough to send a mug of tea spiralling to the new carpet. ‘What the hell did you do?’

Beattie shrank back. ‘I’m on the phone!’

‘You’re going to be on your arse in a minute!’

The PCSO’s voice came from the open door behind him: ‘I told you he’d taken it.’

Then a man: ‘Sergeant McRae, would you care to explain yourself?’

Logan didn’t need to look around, he knew it was Chief Inspector Young from Professional Standards, which meant he was probably already screwed.

‘Beattie faked the custody log.’

The DI’s chin came up. ‘I don’t know what you’re—’

‘Here!’ Logan yanked the ring binder open, whipping through the pages until he got to the first forged custody record – the one that said he’d interviewed the art student at quarter to nine on Monday morning. ‘Douglas Walker, checked out of custody at oh-nine-forty-five Monday by DS McRae.’

Chief Inspector Young appeared at Logan’s shoulder. ‘And how does that—’

‘At nine forty-five I was making sure Richard Knox got through the lynch mob outside his house in one piece. You can check with DI Steel, and half a dozen PCs. It was on the bloody telly!’ He flipped back a few pages. ‘Twenty past six, Sunday night: I was arresting Angus Black for possession in Blackburn. This says I was interviewing Walker again. But the computer log says it was Beattie!’

The DI lumbered to his feet. ‘Sergeant, how dare you suggest—’

Logan slammed his hand down on the open ring binder. ‘What, you couldn’t figure out how to fiddle the electronic version? Bit more difficult than faking a signature, was it?’

Beattie looked at CI Young. ‘Chief Inspector, I want to make a formal complaint about DS McRae’s behaviour. You’re a witness, right? You and…’ He pointed at the PCSO. ‘You. He threatened me, and—’

‘I’ll do more than bloody threaten you!’

He lunged, but Young was faster, wrapping one of those huge scarred hands around Logan’s arm. ‘I think we should all calm down, don’t you?’

‘He tried to attack me! You saw him!’

Logan had another go, but Young’s grip was solid.

And then everyone froze as DCI Finnie appeared in the doorway. ‘Tell me gentlemen, am I running a CID department, or a playground for badly behaved children?’

Silence.

Logan tore his arm out of Young’s grip. Pointed at Beattie. ‘Tell him what you did.’

‘DS McRae is being abusive and threatening—’

‘You lying bastard!’

Young had to restrain him again.

Beattie backed away. ‘I want him brought up on charges, and—’

‘THAT’S ENOUGH!’ Finnie’s voice made the paintings rattle on the walls. ‘You will both behave like professional police officers, or I’ll suspend the pair of you!’ He checked his watch. ‘Chief Inspector Young, would you be so kind as to escort DS McRae back to your office for a small chat about appropriate workplace behaviour?’ He turned to face Logan and Beattie. ‘And I’ll expect both of you in my office at five this evening when we shall discuss your conduct. Do you understand?’

Logan stiffened. ‘Sir.’

‘Sir, it’s not my fault, he barged in and—’

‘Do you understand, Inspector Beattie?’

The beardy idiot deflated a bit. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘We’ve got a rapist on the loose, and a missing detective superintendent. I suggest you redirect your energies to getting out there and bloody well finding them!’

Then the head of CID turned a thin smile on the PCSO. ‘And Marie, I hate to be a stick in the mud, but the custody log is not supposed to leave the custody area.’

Pink crept up from the white collar of her shirt. ‘But—’

‘Don’t let it happen again.’

‘We didn’t do nothing.’ Wendy Leadbetter folded her arms across her chest. The white Tyvec SOC suit they’d given her to wear, while her own clothes were being examined, made rustling noises as she shifted in her seat. Up close she looked older than he’d been expecting, her face hard and cold, scowl lines already beginning to etch themselves around her eyes and mouth.

‘I am now showing Ms Leadbetter exhibits three, four, five, and six.’ Logan laid the photos out on the interview-room table, starting with the figure throwing the petrol bomb, then moving on to the reference shots of Wendy and her brother Ian in the crowd outside Knox’s home.

She shrugged. ‘Could be anybody. Got their face covered, like.’

‘We found traces of petrol on your jacket, your gloves, your jeans, and your shoes Wendy. See, petrol’s funny that way, it’s like glue: sticks to everything.’

‘Maybe I was filling up me car? Had a bit of an accident. Ever think of that?’