The Blood Road Page 11

  ‘Mr Bell had been living in Spain under an assumed name, having apparently staged his own suicide two years ago.’

  ‘Tooth pulp cavity?’

  Logan shook his head. ‘Blew them all out with a shotgun, remember?’

  ‘…currently working with the Spanish authorities to establish his whereabouts during that time.’

  ‘Maybe someone picked them up?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘We are treating Mr Bell’s death as murder and have set up a Major Investigation Team to look into his death.’

  ‘But knowing our luck?’ Logan washed the last chunk of doughnut down with a mouthful of Irn-Bru. Suppressed a belch. ‘If Bell hadn’t set fire to the caravan you could’ve just dug them out of the walls, but mixed in with all that burnt wreckage?’

  ‘Anne Darlington, BBC: have you identified the body buried in DI Bell’s grave?’

  ‘Investigations are ongoing and I would urge anyone with information about Mr Bell’s murder to get in touch.’

  Rennie held out the doughnut bag. ‘Better eat another one before I scoff the lot.’

  ‘No, I’m good thanks.’ Logan wiped his hands together, showering the footwell with sugar. ‘Where’s the MacAuley case file?’

  ‘Back seat.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question, DCI Hardie. Do you know who it is or not?’

  Logan turned in his seat and picked up the file. Opened it and skimmed through the contents.

  ‘As I said, investigations are ongoing. So—’

  ‘Colin Miller, Aberdeen Examiner. Are you aware that DI Bell had returned to Aberdeenshire on at least three prior occasions?’

  He flipped through to the end, then back again. ‘Didn’t she write a book, or something? Thought I remembered a book.’

  Hardie cleared his throat. ‘As I say, investigations are ongoing and if you, or anyone else, has any information they should get in touch.’

  ‘Or you could buy a copy of tomorrow’s Aberdeen Examiner?’

  ‘Yeah, there was definitely a book: I read it.’ Rennie plucked another doughnut free. ‘Cold Blood and Dark Granite. Subtitled, “A Mother’s hunt for her husband’s killer and her missing child.” Doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue.’

  ‘I would strongly advise against withholding information from a murder investigation, Mr Miller.’

  Rennie bit into his doughnut, getting sugar all down his front. ‘Pretty sure she co-wrote it with a retired P-and-J journalist. There’s talk of a film, but you know what Hollywood’s like.’

  ‘Tom Neville, Dundee and Perthshire Advertiser: are you threatening the press, DCI Hardie?’

  ‘I’m asking for its cooperation.’

  Logan drummed his fingers against the paperwork. Frowning at it. His fingertips making little greasy circles. ‘Three and a half years ago, someone kills Sally MacAuley’s husband and abducts her three-year-old son. Eighteen months later, DI Bell kills someone and uses the body to fake his own death.’

  ‘Aye, tell you what: why don’t you and me sit down after this and see if we can’t help each other, but?’

  ‘Eighteen months.’ Logan stopped drumming. ‘A long time to let something fester… Guilty conscience?’

  ‘Angela Parks, Scottish Daily Post: there are rumours DI Bell was involved in a so-called “Livestock Mart” where children were bought and sold. Is this—’

  ‘I’m not here to talk about rumours, Ms Parks.’

  Rennie crammed in about half his doughnut in one go. Mumbling through it. ‘You don’t think Bell killed Kenneth MacAuley and abducted the wee boy, do you?’

  ‘Philip Patterson, Sky News: DS Lorna Chalmers committed suicide last night, is it true she was under investigation for corruption?’

  ‘No, it’s not. Thank you all for your time. No more questions.’

  Logan closed the file. ‘He was definitely running from something.’

  12

  About three or four miles past Rothienorman, Rennie pulled the car off the back road and onto a potholed strip of tarmac lined by ragged beech hedges and waterlogged fields. He slowed to a crawl, slaloming between the craters. Sheep watched them from the high ground, wool faded to ash-grey by the rain.

  The windscreen wipers squealed. Thumped. Squealed. Thumped.

  They took a right, through a farmyard with warning notices about livestock and gates and unsolicited callers and bewaring of the dogs. Past agricultural equipment and barns and outbuildings and a ramshackle farmhouse, then out the other side – onto a rough track with a solid Mohican of grass down the middle.

  Another right, past a couple of cottages lurking in a block of trees, and up the hill. Fields full of reeds and docken.

  A gorse bush scraped and screamed along the car’s bodywork.

  More trees. A tumble-down bothy with half its roof missing. Someone was standing in front of it, chopping logs. He stopped, axe over his shoulder, watching them pass.

  Logan gave him a smile and a wave. Got nothing back.

  Rennie sniffed. ‘God, welcome to Banjo Country.’

  Past a stack of big round bales, rotting and slumped in the rain.

  ‘All together now: “Squeal piggy!” Diga-ding ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding…’

  More trees. Getting thicker. Crowding the road.

  They kept on going, right to the end of the track. A sagging gate blocked the way, wrapped in chicken wire and peppered with signs: ‘BEWARE OF THE DOG!’, ‘PLEASE SHUT THE GATE!’, ‘NEIGHBOURHOOD WATCH AREA’ and ‘SKEMMELSBRAE CROFT’.

  A new-ish house sat about a hundred yards further on, just visible through the trees and tussocked grass. Two storeys high, pale pink harling darkened by moisture. Lurking in the woods. The only thing missing was a roof made of gingerbread and a small child cooking in the oven.

  Rennie nodded towards it. ‘You want to get the gate?’

  ‘I’d love to, but…’ Logan sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘Inspector, remember?’

  ‘Gah…’ Rennie climbed out into the rain. Hurried over and fiddled with the gate. Then hurried back to the car again. ‘It’s padlocked. But there’s a car in the drive and a light’s on.’

  Great.

  Logan grimaced at the downpour, tucked the case file under his fleece, pulled on his hat and high-viz jacket, then joined Rennie in the cold and damp. Branches loomed overhead, dark and oppressive. But at least they kept some of the rain off.

  Rennie clambered over the gate and froze, arms out, shoulders hunched. ‘Arrgh… Right in a puddle.’

  Idiot.

  Logan climbed over, making sure not to step in the dirty brown lake spreading on either side of the track’s central ridge. He picked his way along the middle bit, past more trees, around a corner, and there was the house.

  A big four-by-four sat outside it, along with a filthy blue-and-white horsebox. The light above the door glowed a septic yellow.

  Not exactly welcoming.

  They were about twenty foot from the house when barking exploded into the damp air.

  Rennie froze, staring. ‘Dear God, that’s a massive dog.’

  It looked more like a bear than a dog. About the same size as a bear too, covered in thick black hair. Saggy eyes and jowls. Teeth the size of traffic cones. Well, maybe not traffic cones, but big enough. Thankfully it was shut into a kennel / run thing at the side of the house.

  Beardog launched itself at the bars of its cage and they shook with a boom and a rattle.

  Rennie gave a small tittering laugh. ‘Nice doggy. Don’t eat the lovely policemen …’ He scrambled up the steps and sheltered beneath the small porch, casting worried glances at the massive scary animal as it fell silent.

  Logan joined him. Rang the doorbell.

  Rennie flinched as the barking started up again. ‘What if she’s not in?’

  ‘Then we got wet for nothing. You should’ve phoned ahead.’

  His bottom lip popped out. ‘But you keep telling me off for doing that! They always find
a way to sneak off, you said. You can’t trust them, you said.’

  ‘Yes, but I was talking about police officers, you total—’

  A woman’s silhouette appeared on the other side of the glass-panelled door, growing clearer the closer she came. Tall, with dark eyes and full lips, long brown hair falling over her shoulders. A hint of crow’s-feet and what probably weren’t laughter lines. A soft blue sweater and faded jeans. She didn’t open the door. ‘Who is…’ Her eyes widened as she looked Logan up and down. ‘Oh God. It’s… I didn’t…?’

  ‘Mrs MacAuley? Can we come in and have a word, please? It’s about your son and husband.’

  She unlocked the door and threw it open. Stood there blinking at them. Voice half panicked, half hopeful. ‘Have you found him? Have you found Aiden?’

  ‘I’m sorry, no.’

  Mrs MacAuley buried her head in her hands and cried.

  Mrs MacAuley sat at the long wooden table, digging the nails of one hand into the palm of the other. ‘I didn’t… It’s just when I saw you there in your uniform, I thought…’ A small laugh rattled free, cold and bitter. ‘But then I always do.’

  The huge farmhouse kitchen was a deep red colour, a bit too womb-like to be cosy. Lots of wooden cabinets. A big AGA-style range cooker gurgling and thrumming away to itself. The kettle rattling to a boil as Rennie busied himself making three mugs of tea.

  Logan pulled out a chair and sat across from Mrs MacAuley. ‘You have a lovely home.’

  Rennie pointed with a teabag. ‘Shame about the shed, though.’

  She frowned. ‘Shed?’

  A pair of patio doors led out from the kitchen into a big garden, bordered by a six-foot-high hedge, surrounded by woods.

  ‘All burnt down.’

  He was right. It must’ve been a fairly substantial one too, at least six-by-eight, but all that was left of it were a few burnt stubs where the walls used to be. Glistening and dark in the rain.

  ‘Ah. No. That was years ago. Kids. I think.’ She looked away. ‘I keep meaning to get rid of it, but Ken built it and Aiden painted every single bit he could reach, even when we asked him not to.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to upset—’

  ‘Anyway,’ Logan sat forward, ‘we’d like to ask some questions about the investigation, if you’re OK with that?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good. Well, when—’

  ‘Aiden had been a pain in the backside all morning, shouting and squealing and running about the house.’ She picked at her palm again, digging at it with her fingernails. ‘I was trying to do the ironing. He wasn’t looking where he was going and he … he battered right into the ironing board. The whole thing went crashing down.’ Voice getting more and more brittle. ‘And I screamed at him. I…’

  Rennie threw Logan a pained look as she wiped away a tear.

  ‘I called him a “horrible little monster”; told him he was stupid and careless.’ She looked up. Pleading. ‘He could’ve killed himself! The iron was red hot, what if it’d landed on his head? Or scarred him for life?’ She lowered her eyes, nails gouging away at her palm. ‘So Ken took him off to the shops. And I never saw Aiden again. I never saw either of them ever again.’

  Logan put his hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘The last thing I said to my son was “You’re a stupid, careless, horrible little boy.”’

  ‘You weren’t to know.’

  Deep breath. ‘It’s only fifteen minutes through the woods – there’s a track takes you right into Rothienorman. They went out for milk and flour and eggs and they never came back.’

  In the silence that followed, Rennie placed the mugs on the table.

  Mrs MacAuley covered her face. Her whole body wracked by each juddering sob. ‘They … they were going … to make pancakes … to cheer … to cheer me up. … My husband … died … and my … my little boy vanished … because … because of bloody pancakes!’

  Rennie was outside on the patio, wandering across the paving slabs, phone clamped to his ear. ‘Yeah. … Yeah. … No. Don’t think so anyway.’

  Logan stepped through the open patio doors, closing them behind him. ‘We better give her a bit of space.’ Up above, the clouds were nearly skimming the treetops. Rain drumming against Logan’s peaked cap. He set off down the path towards the bottom of the garden. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Yeah. … Will do. … OK. Thanks.’ Rennie hung up and hurried after him. ‘Creepy Sheila says that’s our exhumed remains all installed at the mortuary. Kickoff’s at three.’

  They passed the burned-out shed. Ivy crawled around the base. A drooping fern curling its way through the charcoaled wood in one corner.

  Rennie scampered past, looking back towards the house. ‘Nice place, isn’t it? Very big and fancy. Be great to bring a kid up here. Donna would love it. All this space…’

  A couple more sheds lurked in different corners of the garden, the undergrowth pressing in on all sides, windows greyed with dust and spiders’ webs. One was almost completely consumed by a rampant thicket of ivy and brambles. The other shed’s door barely clung on to its hinges, exposing the rusting hulk of a ride-on mower inside.

  Nature was reclaiming most of the garden, all except the washing line and a child’s play area: climbing frame, slide, and a pristine swingset. Slowly being battered into submission by the rain.

  The path led to a gap in the hedge, then off away into the woods. Dark and cold and deep. A thick canopy of pine blocked out most of the rain. The drops hissed and clicked above them, joining the chorus of crunching twigs and rustling needles beneath their feet as they followed the path downhill.

  Rennie stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘I mean, did you see how big that back garden was? Ours is about the size of a facecloth.’

  They passed the remains of what was probably a croft, now little more than tumbled-down ruins. Ominous bones in the gloom.

  ‘And think of the games you could play in here! Charging about with a wooden sword.’ He slashed the air with an imaginary one. ‘Being dinosaurs.’

  A clump of broom had invaded the path, crowding in from both sides so only a narrow gap remained. Logan pushed through it.

  The pine gave way to beech – leaves drooping like scraps of skin waiting to drop – opening out into a clearing with a burn running through the middle of it. Someone had thrown together a makeshift bridge over the water with planks and chunks of stone. The sort of thing a child would build.

  On the other side, a fusty grey teddy bear was cable-tied to a tree, along with some faded artificial flowers.

  Rennie wandered out into the rain. ‘Ooh… It’s like something off Winnie-the-Pooh, isn’t it?’ He grabbed a twig. ‘Wanna play Poohsticks?’

  Logan reached into his jacket and pulled out the case file, sheltering beneath a huge beech tree. He checked the crime-scene photographs, then pointed at the far side of the bridge. ‘That’s where they found Kenneth MacAuley.’

  MacAuley lay on his side, one hand dangling in the burn, head reduced to red and purple mush. Logan held the picture out to Rennie.

  ‘Urgh… That’s horrible.’ Backing away. Face curdled with disgust.

  ‘Thought you’d read the case file? I told you to read the case file!’

  ‘Yeah, but I didn’t ogle the crime-scene photos, did I? I’m not a sickie weirdo.’ A shudder. ‘Urgh…’

  ‘Imagine you’re the killer: why are you here?’

  ‘To bump off Kenneth MacAuley.’

  Logan leaned back against the tree. ‘Then why abduct Aiden?’

  ‘Ah, OK. So either that was a bonus, or maybe that’s why I’m here? It’s an abduction gone wrong.’

  ‘Then why the overkill? First blow to the head probably did the job, but you keep on going till there’s nothing left above his neck but mince. Why?’ Logan held up the photograph, moving it around until it overlaid the real scene. Kenneth MacAuley sprawled out with his hand in the water. ‘What does that get you? Why do you do that?’


  ‘Because I’m a freak?’

  ‘Or maybe you know him and you can’t stand him looking at you with those accusing dead eyes…’ Logan lowered the photo and stared off into the woods. ‘And what do you do with the wee boy afterwards?’

  Rennie dropped his stick in the water and watched it float away.

  Mrs MacAuley stood at the living room window, looking out at the dreich view. Shoulders slumped.

  A pair of big leather sofas faced each other across a large wooden coffee table covered in dog-eared – and possibly dog-chewed – copies of Horse and Hound. An old upright piano in the corner, almost buried under framed photos of Sally, Kenneth, and Aiden MacAuley. More on the walls. A shrine to the missing and the dead.

  It was difficult to tell which Mrs MacAuley was. Probably more than a little bit of both.

  Logan shifted on his sofa, the leather creaking beneath him.

  Rennie sat on the other one, notepad out, pen poised.

  Mrs MacAuley wrapped her arms around herself, kept her face to the window. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit…’ She huffed out a breath. ‘I’ve spent the last three and a half years trying to get my son back. And before you say anything: no, he’s not dead. I know he’s alive. I know it.’

  ‘DI Bell was the Senior Investigating Officer.’

  She flinched at his name.

  Strange.

  Logan tried again. ‘Mrs MacAuley?’

  ‘He was… I saw it on the news.’

  ‘His colleagues say he was obsessed with Aiden’s disappearance. With finding your husband’s killer.’

  Her chin went up. Back straight. ‘I call the station every Monday. They tell me the investigation’s still open, that you’re still trying to find my little boy. But nothing ever happens. Nothing.’

  ‘Did DI Bell come to see you before he … didn’t commit suicide?’

  ‘When my father died, I sold his house. That’s where I got the reward money from. Fifty thousand pounds after I’d paid off all his debts.’ She made a strangled hissing noise. Then, ‘Oh, there’s plenty of people who want to get their hands on it. Liars and frauds pretending they know things. And then there’s the press.’ She pronounced that last word as if it was drenched in sick. ‘Every time a child went missing, they’d be up here with their cameras and their microphones and their stupid insensitive questions. “How does it feel to lose a child, Mrs MacAuley?” “What would you like to say to the missing five-year-old’s parents, Mrs MacAuley?” Till I started setting Tristan on them.’ A smile – short and cruel. ‘One of the benefits of having a very large dog. They stopped coming after that.’