Dark Blood

Logan knocked on the driver’s window. It buzzed down and the driver smiled at him. She had blonde hair cut in a bob and jazz on the stereo.

‘Can I help you, Officer?’ English, probably from somewhere posh.

The man in the passenger seat scratched his eyebrow, keeping his eyes on the road. The one in the back seat yawned, then ran a hand through his greying quiff. All very nonchalant.

‘Can I see some ID?’

The woman’s smile got bigger. ‘I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours, Babe.’

Logan gritted his teeth, unzipped his jacket and pulled out his warrant card. Trying to stop his pink fingers from shaking.

‘Nice one.’ She reached down between the seats, rummaged, then produced a black leather card holder. Handed it out of the window.

Logan flipped it open.

It was a warrant card, just like his, only where his said, ‘GRAMPIAN POLICE’ hers said ‘SOCA’.

He checked it twice before handing it back. ‘Care to tell me what the Serious Organized Crime Agency is doing on a building site north of Aberdeen, Sergeant…Bultitude was it?’

‘Nope.’

Logan stared at her.

In the back seat, Elvis shifted from one buttock to another. ‘Close the window, eh, Julie; getting a draft, like.’

The woman went to buzz the window back up again, but Logan slapped his hand on the sill. ‘We’re not finished here.’

‘Yes we are, Babe.’

He stared at her. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? Two men and a woman – you’re the ones who took Richard Knox from Bruce Lowe’s place. Where is he? And where’s DSI Danby?’

The man in the passenger seat sighed. ‘Not again…’

The woman’s smile became sharper. ‘That’s need to know, Sergeant.’

‘Don’t screw me about: where are they?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Neil?’

‘Fuckin’ have it.’ The back door popped open and Elvis climbed out into the snow. Typical Geordie, he didn’t even have his coat on, just a black shirt picking up a dandruff coating of snow. He flexed his arms.

Jesus he was big: six-foot-two, six-foot-three, arms like a body builder’s.

Logan’s other hand dug deeper into his pocket, fingertips wrapping around the little canister of pepper-spray. Out of the corner of his eye he saw PC Butler take a step forwards, the harsh CLACK of her extendible baton clearly audible over the wind and the Range Rover’s engine.

‘Is there a problem, Sarge?’

The big man just looked at the pair of them, then smiled. Cricked his neck from side to side.

A gust of wind buffeted Logan. ‘There’s a firearms team on its way. You won’t even make it back to town.’

Sergeant Bultitude clapped her hands. ‘A firearms team? How, exciting! Will they have guns?’ She dipped back out of sight, then came back with a semiautomatic pistol clutched in her hand. ‘Like this one?’

She brought it around until it was pointing at Logan’s face.

He felt his bowels clench. Held his hands out, palms open. ‘Let’s not—’

‘This is how it’s going to go down, Babe. You get back in your little plodmobile and drive away. Nice and peaceful. Otherwise…’ She made a little circular motion with the gun barrel.

Logan stared up at her. Swallowed. Tried not to tremble. ‘Where’s Knox?’

Bultitude pursed her lips. ‘Brave. I like that.’ She nodded, back towards the building site.

‘You actually did it? You sold him to Malcolm McLennan’s mob? You’re supposed to be police officers!’

A shrug. ‘Your Malk the Knife’s the tip of a Europe-wide smuggling iceberg: drugs, goods, people, weapons. Worth millions every year. Richard Knox is a nasty little rapist, but he’s worth a lot to certain people down south. We sell him to Mr The Knife at a knock-down price, and we get an in with everyone.’

‘You can’t just—’

‘You know what he did: what he got away with. Dozens of old men, tortured and raped. And you want to let him walk?’ She snorted. ‘Sweetheart, at least this way they get a bit of justice.’

Logan stared at her. ‘What about Danby: you sell him too?’

The woman from SOCA sighed. ‘I’m afraid Detective Superintendent Danby’s been a naughty boy. We got a call from Knox a couple of weeks ago – Danby offered to smuggle him out of the country for a cut of Mental Mikey’s rainy-day money. That’s not nice, is it?’

Fuck.