Dark Blood

A tear spattered on the crumpled bed sheets.

‘Now.’ Goulding drew his chair up closer. ‘We need to talk about what you’re going to do when you get out of here.’

Knox looked at Logan. ‘What about Danby?’

‘Gone back to Newcastle. Discharged himself yesterday, said he wanted to be with his family.’

‘That’s good.’ The bruised man took a deep breath and fiddled with the bible’s cover. ‘No offence, like, but after Aberdeen it’d be nice to go somewhere hot. Can I do that? Spain, or something?’

Goulding tilted his head to one side. ‘Normally no, but given your actions in helping save DS McRae’s life…We’d need a few more sessions to confirm you’ve got everything under control.’ The psychologist smiled and patted Knox on the arm again. ‘We’ll see. You’re making great progress.’

‘Somewhere hot, with no snow.’ He even smiled, hugging the bible to his chest. ‘How great would that be?’

Logan pushed himself off the wall. ‘We’d better be off.’

The chair creaked as Goulding levered himself out of it. ‘Yes, right. You call me if you need anything, OK?’

Logan hovered by the door when the psychologist had gone, staring at the bruised figure on the bed. He cleared his throat. ‘I wanted to say, thanks. Again. For stopping Connelly.’

Knox shrugged a shoulder – the one without the bandages on it. ‘Thanks for not giving up on us. Again.’

Nod.

Silence.

‘Yeah, well…’ Logan backed towards the door. ‘Bye.’

He caught up with Goulding at the lifts. ‘You want to go on ahead? I need to see someone.’

‘Ah.’ The psychologist nodded. ‘Of course. Would you like me to wait? I’ve cleared the afternoon to write up Knox’s evaluation reports anyway.’

It wasn’t as if Logan could drive anywhere by himself – not with his hand full of stitches and swollen up to the size of a small balloon. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. ‘Actually, you’re OK. Thanks, but I can get a lift back with a patrol car. Not a problem.’

‘Well, if you’re sure…’

‘Yeah, thanks anyway.’

They said goodbye on the ground floor, Goulding getting out of the lift to walk to the exit, Logan staying on to the first sublevel. He wandered the old familiar chipped and faded corridors to the Maternity Hospital. It wasn’t visiting time for nearly two hours yet, but a flash of his warrant card and some puppy-dog eyes got Logan through the security doors and into the post-natal ward. Where a chubby nurse with squeaky shoes escorted him to a little double room. The curtains were drawn, leaving just the flickering light from a TV mounted above one of the beds, a worn-looking woman staring dark-eyed at the screen. DI Steel was sitting beside the other – empty – bed, one of those plastic nicotine inhaler things clamped between her teeth.

‘How is she?’

‘Off having a pee.’ Steel looked up, her face a roadmap of wrinkles and creases, dark purple bags under her eyes. ‘You look like shite.’

Logan sank into the chair next to her with a grunt. Everything ached. ‘Not exactly page-three material yourself.’

‘Cheeky wee shite.’ But she was smiling as she said it. ‘Any news?’

‘Been on the phone to SOCA – said they couldn’t comment on any ongoing investigation, assuming there actually was one. Which they refused to confirm or deny. Wouldn’t even tell me if Sergeant Julie Bultitude really exists or not. The bastards could’ve been anyone…’

‘Aye, that sounds like SOCA all right.’ Steel creaked her way out of her seat, rubbed the small of her back. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you.’

The little intensive care ward was dim behind the glass partition, green lights winking in the gloom on half a dozen microwave-oven-sized plastic incubators.

Steel cupped her hands to the glass, then leaned her head into the hollow.

Logan did the same. ‘Which one?’

‘Second from the right, third row. Jasmine.’

A little pink bundle of wrinkled skin with a tube up her nose – taped to her cheek with a white strip. Little fingers. Little toes. Wires stuck to her chest with sticky pads covered in printed teddy bears. ‘God, she’s tiny.’

‘Nine weeks preterm. That’s sod all these days. Before you know it she’ll be nicking fags and necking Bacardi Breezers round the back of the shops.’ Steel straightened up and slapped Logan on the back, hard enough to make him wince. ‘Who knew your knob would turn out useful for something, eh?’

‘This is a last and final boarding call for flight SZ515 to Plymouth, would all remaining passengers please go to gate number six where this flight is now closing.’

Detective Superintendent Graeme Danby shuffles another step forward in line. Fast bag drop his arse. What’s the point of doing everything online when it takes half a bloody hour to get your stuff checked in?

He leans left, favouring his gammy leg, and peers around the two chavs in Nike tracksuits. Looks like the only exercise this pair get is waddling to the door to pay for their home delivery pizza, know what I’m saying?

Graeme checks his watch. Twenty to three. Plenty of time.

He shuffles forward another step, teeth gritted, even after half a dozen painkillers.