The Blood Road Page 22

  No!

  Becca went limp.

  ‘Good girl.’ He scooped up Orgalorg. ‘No more bad behaviour, or else.’

  The Chasing Man marched her back through the hedge into the garden again, one hand holding onto her dungarees and the other holding the chain. Being all rough and shovey, like a big bully. But she didn’t cry.

  Becca squeezed Orgalorg to her chest. Cos he was scared. Cos he was only a teddy bear.

  The Horrid Monster Woman was sitting in the shed doorway, holding onto her head like it was a broken egg – the side of her face covered in slithery red.

  Good.

  ‘Keep moving.’ The Chasing Man shoved Becca across the garden till they were right in front of her. ‘Are you OK?’

  The Horrid Monster Woman looked at them, eyes all puffy and pink, tears and blood on her face. A really good lump growing on the side of her head with an oozy red slash across it.

  Becca grinned at her.

  Big fierce strong girl!

  The Horrid Monster Woman looked away. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The Chasing Man pushed Becca closer. ‘You got something you want to say to the nice lady?’

  ‘My mummy’s going to kill both of you tits.’

  ‘Gah…’ He shoved her into the shed. ‘Don’t know how you got free, but you’re not doing it again.’

  Ice melts through the tea towel, sending cold dribbles down Sally’s face to drip off her chin and onto the kitchen table. Even after two ibuprofen, two aspirin, and a couple of paracetamol, the world thuds and lurches. Like her head is a bass drum and God is stomping on the pedal.

  Raymond slides the patio door open and steps in from the garden. Thumps it closed behind him. ‘Here.’ He flicks a small silver disk onto the table, it bounces and skitters to a halt by the tiny puddle in front of her. ‘Five-pence piece. She used it to unscrew the hasp from the wall. I’ve sunk four bolts through the upright and tightened the living hell out of them. She’s going nowhere.’

  He walks over and peels the ice-filled tea towel from her forehead. Makes a pained face. ‘You might need a couple of stitches.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No, I really think you need stitches.’

  Why does no one ever listen to her?

  She tries to hold it in, but it claws out anyway: ‘I’m – fine!’

  And Raymond flinches, like he’s been slapped. Because it always has to be about him, doesn’t it? Men.

  Sally stares at the coin, shiny and glittering as the puddle of meltwater envelopes it. She sighs. ‘I’m sorry. Just … don’t make a fuss.’

  He rubs her back, between the shoulder blades, as if that makes up for everything. ‘She’s seen our faces.’

  ‘I know.’

  Then Raymond presses the towel into her hand and marches out of the room, leaving her alone with the shiny five-pence piece.

  It’s amazing – Becky’s only five years old, according to the morning news bulletins, and she managed to unscrew her chains with that. Concrete fills the bottom half of Sally’s lungs, dragging her chest down towards the tabletop. A five-year-old, alone and scared. How does this make them any different from the people who took Aiden?

  Raymond reappears, carrying a leather satchel. He opens it and pulls out a plastic Ziploc bag. Tips the bag’s contents out in a small pile: blue pills, green pills, white pills, some tiny sheets of paper divided up into squares by perforated lines – like miniature postage stamps. Takes one of the mugs from the draining board and fills it with water. Drops two of the green pills into it.

  Because no one ever listens to her. They always have to know best.

  Sally stiffens. ‘I told you I’m fine.’

  ‘It’s not for you.’ He sticks a spoon in the mug and stirs. ‘It’s a little something to help our guest relax and not attack people.’ Stirring and stirring and stirring, till the water turns a pale-blue colour.

  ‘Ray, don’t hurt her! Please.’

  He picks up one of the sheets of mini stamps. ‘I’m not hurting her, I’m … protecting her. She’ll wake up and she won’t be able to remember any of this. You want her to remember this? You want her to have nightmares for the rest of her life?’

  ‘But she’s—’

  ‘We’re doing this for Aiden, remember? And it’s better for her this way. Some Rohypnol to forget, a tab of acid so she doesn’t get PTSD.’

  How are they any better?

  Sally’s breath thickens in her throat, warmth spreading through her eyes as the kitchen blurs and a tear splashes into the meltwater puddle.

  Raymond walks over and strokes Sally’s arm. ‘Shh… It’s OK. We’ll bring Aiden home tomorrow, you’ll see.’ He leans in and kisses her lightly on the non-bloody side of her forehead. ‘I promise.’

  25

  Logan stood in front of the medicine cabinet and popped a couple of Aripiprazole out of their blister pack. The orange tablets snuggled into his cupped palm, like a small child watching a vampire movie. He filled his tumbler from the tap, right up to the brim, and—

  Banging on the door, accompanied by Naomi’s high-pitched I-want-something squeal: ‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’

  ‘Give Daddy a minute, Little Monster.’ He palmed the pills into his mouth, washing them down with every drop of water in the tumbler.

  ‘Help! I needs to make wee-wee!’

  He closed the medicine cabinet – his reflection grimaced back at him. ‘Oh joy.’

  Susan, Steel, and Tara stood at the open patio doors, nursing mugs of coffee while Naomi and Jasmine played catch-the-leaf with Cthulhu in the garden. Jumping and pouncing between the puddles.

  Logan tucked his Police Scotland black T-shirt into his Police Scotland itchy black trousers and joined the coffee drinkers. ‘At least it’s stopped raining.’

  Susan wrapped an arm around Steel. ‘You know what we should do today? We should go to the park. Big family picnic. That’ll be nice, won’t it?’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Steel looked at her. ‘With all those kids being snatched?’

  ‘Well, how about the beach then?’

  Logan straightened his epaulettes. ‘Actually, I can’t. Got to go hand over the Chalmers investigation. Now it’s a murder.’

  ‘Ooh…’ Steel turned. ‘Murder?’

  ‘Someone’s going to have to run an MIT and we all know it won’t be me.’ Epaulettes straightened, he tapped Tara on the shoulder. ‘Do you want a lift, because you’ve got that thing, don’t you?’

  She frowned at him. ‘Thing?’

  He nodded at Naomi and Jasmine, shrieking their way around the garden.

  ‘Oh, that thing! Yes. Definitely. I’ll grab my coat.’

  And they were off – hurrying through the living room and out into the hallway. Struggling into their jackets as Steel finally realised what was going on.

  ‘Hey! Wait a minute!’

  Logan zipped up his fleece, voice an urgent whisper. ‘Quick, quick!’

  Steel burst into the hall as they made for the door. ‘Wait, who’s—’

  ‘Bye!’ He bustled Tara outside, making for the car. ‘Lock the door behind you, and that litter tray needs cleaning!’

  ‘But…’

  Logan thumped the front door shut. ‘Run!’

  They scrambled into the Audi, he cranked the key in the ignition and pulled out of the driveway while Tara was still fastening her seatbelt.

  And: escape!

  Logan pulled up outside an imposing block of modern flats on Riverside Drive. The kind of place that looked as if it’d been modelled on GCHQ. Still, the top-floor flats must have had a great view of Craiginches prison, till they closed it. Bulldozed it. And turned it into yet more flats.

  Tara opened the passenger door and climbed out. Walked around to the driver’s side.

  He buzzed down his window. ‘Sorry about that. I really didn’t … you know.’

  ‘Pfff…’ A shake of the head. ‘Yeah, well, maybe it wasn’t exactly the fifth circle of hell.’ Though she didn�
��t look convinced.

  ‘The kids aren’t that bad when you get to know them.’

  Still didn’t look convinced.

  ‘OK, maybe they are, but it’s like drinking really cheap wine. The first couple of glasses kill your taste buds and after that you’re too numb to care.’

  She sighed, then leaned in through the open window and kissed him. Smiled. ‘You’re a terrible boyfriend.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  Tara turned and strutted towards the flats, putting a bit of hip into it. ‘You can spend the rest of the day trying to think how to make it up to me!’

  Logan grinned and drove off.

  Logan tucked the case folder under his arm and raised a fist to knock on DCI Hardie’s office door. Stopped, knuckles inches from the wood, as a voice bellowed out:

  ‘FOR GOD’S SAKE, GEORGE, JUST DO WHAT YOU’RE BLOODY TOLD FOR ONCE!’

  The door jerked open and Logan jumped clear as DS Robertson burst into the corridor.

  Hardie was visible in the gap between her and the door frame – sitting at his desk with his head in his hands while DS Scott tried to hand him a form.

  DS Scott stuck it on the desk instead. ‘I’m going to need you to sign—’

  ‘AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAAAARGH!’

  Robertson closed the door behind her, shutting him off. Then leaned back against it, grimacing at Logan. ‘I gave up my Sunday for this.’

  ‘Now not a good time?’

  ‘A good time?’ She pulled her chin in, lip curled, as if Logan had suggested battering puppies to death with a hammer. ‘It’s like being trapped on the waltzers with an angry badger. I’d leave it at least an hour, if I was you.’

  Fair enough.

  What most people don’t realise is that it’s not the grief or even the shock that gets you when you lose someone. Maybe, if it’s natural causes, but not when it’s murder.

  Yes, those things are there, but what really gets you, what really consumes your soul is anger. Rage. Hatred for the person who did that, not just to your husband or your loved one (the one they killed), but to you and everyone in your family. To everyone who ever knew the happy, funny, sweet, lovely man you married before some animal murdered—

  The office door thumped open and Logan looked up from Cold Blood and Dark Granite.

  It was Rennie, returned with the spoils of his important mission: two mugs of coffee. He had something tucked under one arm, making him all lopsided as he pushed the door shut again. ‘You’re not still reading that, are you?’

  ‘Hmmm…’

  you married before some animal murdered them.

  Because murder isn’t something that happens to one person in isolation, it happens to everyone they’ve ever met. Kenneth didn’t just die, he was taken from us. From me, his wife, from his mother and father, from his brother and his nephews, from his friends at work. From his son.

  Rennie thunked a mug down on Logan’s desk. ‘Nightshift CID think they’re clever, but you’ve got to stay up pretty late to get one over on Detective Sergeant Simon Rennie. Ta-da!’ He dug into his armpit and produced a packet of custard creams. ‘Hidden inside a half-empty box of past-its-sell-by-date bran flakes. As if I wasn’t going to look in there.’

  ‘Hmmmm…’

  Like a bomb going off in a crowded supermarket, a murder might ‘only’ kill one person, but it injures everyone around it. And some of them will never recover.

  Logan turned the page and there were the photographs again. The happy family snaps before the bomb went off.

  Rennie sighed. ‘Don’t know why I bother.’ He thumped into his seat and ripped open the biscuits. ‘Have you approved my press release yet?’

  Kenneth MacAuley, standing at the family barbecue – in the back garden at Skemmelsbrae Croft, going by the playset and the sheds behind him – cooking sausages and chicken. Shorts and a Pink Floyd T-shirt. Sunglasses perched on top of his head. Eyes squinted against the smoke. A smile on his face as he toasts the photographer with his free hand and a bottle of Beck’s, big fancy watch dangling from his wrist. Massive Newfoundland Monster Dog in the background…

  ‘Hello? Press release?’

  Logan stared.

  It’d been right there, all along.

  ‘Earth to Inspector McRae, are you receiving me? Over.’

  He grabbed his desk phone and dialled the custody suite.

  ‘Downie.’

  ‘Jeff? It’s Logan. Crowbar Craig Simpson – have you still got his property?’

  ‘For my sins. He’s been a complete pain in the ring all morning. “My tea’s too cold.” “My porridge’s too hot.” “My—”’

  ‘I’ll be right down.’

  Sergeant Downie tipped the contents of a brown paper bag into a blue plastic tray. Spread it out, then held up the chunky silver watch Crowbar was wearing when they arrested him. ‘One rip-off Rolex.’

  Logan took it – holding it next to the photo of Kenneth MacAuley at the barbecue. That arm raised in salute. The big fancy watch hanging off of it.

  The two watches were identical. Which was either a massive coincidence or…

  He turned the watch over. The words, ‘TO K FROM S WITH LOADS OF LOVE’ were engraved on the back. Bingo. ‘Stick Crowbar in an interview room.’

  Downie puffed out a breath. ‘You got any idea how long it’ll take to get a duty solicitor down here on a Sunday?’

  ‘Then you’d better get cracking, hadn’t you?’

  Logan stopped outside Hardie’s office. Again. This time the door was open and no one was shouting. Which was nice.

  The place was a bit crowded though: Hardie behind his desk, DS Scott on the phone, DS Robertson changing things on a whiteboard, DI Fraser on one of the visitors’ chairs – in a green shirt-dress today – frowning at printouts of something as DS Becky McKenzie handed them to her. DI Porter had the other chair, playing with the mole on her cheek while she scrolled through something on an iPad. Everyone talking over everyone else.

  DS Scott pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder, then checked some paperwork. ‘Yes. … OK, no. … No, put the POLSA on, OK?… Look, put her on, please.’

  DS McKenzie handed Fraser another sheet. ‘And that’s the third death threat since Friday…’

  Fraser shook her head and sighed. ‘What is wrong with people?’

  Porter looked up from her screen and grimaced at Hardie. ‘I honestly don’t see how we can do more without at least another dozen uniform.’

  He grunted. ‘Where am I supposed to get twelve officers from? We’re stretched razor-thin as it is.’

  ‘Well go find her then!’ DS Scott thumped his paperwork down on Hardie’s desk. ‘God’s sake, Constable Guthrie, it’s not University Bloody Challenge!’

  Logan knocked on the door frame.

  Hardie gave another grunt. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘I came by earlier, you were busy. Who do you want me to hand the Chalmers investigation over to? Oh, and I might have a lead on the Kenneth MacAuley murder, if you’ve got someone free?’

  McKenzie handed Fraser another sheet of paper. ‘This one’s a threat to rape. There’s six of those.’

  Hardie sagged. ‘Do you know how much crap I’ve got on my plate right now?’

  Fraser handed it back. ‘What about the usernames?’

  ‘No one’s using their real names. It’s all MummyLover1962 and SlipsterDavie stuff.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Hardie held up his hand, ‘let’s count them, shall we?’ Ticking the fingers off one by one: ‘Search for Ellie Morton. Search for Rebecca Oliver. Murder inquiry into DI Bell’s stabbing. Murder inquiry into whoever it was Bell killed two years ago. Chalmers’ murder.’

  DI Fraser nodded. ‘OK: get onto Twitter and find out who they really are. They must have IP addresses, something.’

  ‘Not to mention a huge drugs bust I can’t postpone, because it’s been set up for weeks.’

  DS Scott settled his bum on the edge of Hardie’s de
sk, still working the phone. ‘Stringer?… Stringer, it’s Charles Scott. … Yeah. … Yeah, look: I need you to widen your search. … Yeah, it—’

  Hardie slammed his hand down on the desk, making the pen holder rattle. ‘Can everyone just shut up for thirty sodding seconds?’ Silence. Everyone stared at him, sitting there, looking as if his head was about to go boom. ‘Can’t hear myself think.’

  Someone appeared at Logan’s shoulder, peering in from the corridor, dressed in full Police Scotland black with combat trousers and matching riot accessories. Sergeant Rob Mitchell, so big he had to stoop to look through the door, arms thick with muscle and corded with sinew. A wee smile as he waved at Hardie. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Boss, but we’re going to have to get the briefing underway or we’ll lose the dog team.’

  Hardie covered his face with his hands and screamed.

  26

  Hardie hauled open the door, revealing a tiny galley kitchen off the MIT office and a uniformed officer in the middle of doing a little dance. Short, with a Lego-style black bob. Bopping and shimmying away with her back to them, earbuds in as the kettle boiled.

  PC Dunn did a Michael-Jackson-style spin and froze, one hand clutching the crotch of her trousers. She yanked out her earbuds. ‘Chief Inspector. I was… It’s not what—’

  ‘Give us a minute, will you, Stacey?’ Hardie hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’ She glanced at the six mugs lined up in front of the kettle. ‘I can… Yup.’

  Hardie had to shuffle out of the way to let her squeeze past. Then stepped inside. ‘Inspector?’

  Logan joined him and closed the door. ‘Are you OK?’

  The two of them pretty much filled the place.

  ‘It’s like trying to juggle jelly, broken bottles, and hand grenades all at the same time.’ He slumped against the sink, pointing towards his office. ‘How am I supposed to organise everything if they won’t leave me alone for five minutes?’

  The kettle clicked and Hardie started filling PC Dunn’s mugs. ‘Officially, Superintendent Young is SIO on the Chalmers murder. Dead police officer, so it had to be someone senior. Which means I have to run the actual investigation. Which means DI Jackson should have been in charge of operational matters. Which means…?’ Letting it hang there.