The Blood Road Read online

  He sat back down at the rickety table and poked out a text message on his phone:

  As it’s Friday, how about Chinese for tea? Bottle of wine. Bit of sexy business…?

  SEND.

  It dinged straight back.

  TS TARA:

  Make it pizza & you’ve got a deal.

  Excellent. Now all he needed was—

  A strangled scream echoed down the corridor and in through the open break-room door.

  Logan put his tea down and poked his head out.

  ‘Stop bloody struggling!’ The sergeant was missing her hat, teeth bared and stained pink – presumably from the split bottom lip. Hair pulled up in a bun. Arms wrapped around the throat of a whippet-thin man in filthy trainers and a tracksuit that was more dirt than fabric. Both hands cuffed behind his back. Struggling in the narrow corridor.

  A PC staggered about at the far end, by the front door, one hand clamped over his nose as blood bubbled between his fingers and fell onto his high-viz jacket. ‘Unnnngghh…’

  All three of them: drenched, soggy, and dripping.

  Captain Tracksuit lashed his head to the side, broken brown teeth snapping inches from the sergeant’s face.

  She flinched. ‘Calm down, you wee shite!’

  He didn’t. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ Bellowing it out in an onslaught of foul fishy breath. It went with the bitter-onion stink of BO.

  Logan pointed. ‘You need a hand?’

  The sergeant grimaced at him. ‘Thanks, sir, but I think we’ve got this. So if you don’t mind—’

  Captain Tracksuit McStinky shoulder-slammed her against the wall, hard enough to make the whiteboard jitter and pens clatter to the floor. ‘GETOFFME, GETOFFME, GETOFFME!’

  ‘You sure you don’t want a hand?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  McStinky spun away and she snatched a handful of his manky tracksuit. It ripped along the zip, exposing a swathe of bruised xylophone ribs. Then he lunged, jerking his forehead forward like a battering ram.

  She barely managed to turn her face away – his head smashed into her cheek instead of her nose. She stumbled.

  ‘Because it’s no trouble, really.’

  McStinky kept on spinning, both hands still cuffed behind his back. ‘I never touched him! It was them! IT WAS THEM!’ Dance-hopping back a couple of paces then surging closer to bury one of those filthy trainers in her ribs. Then did it again.

  ‘Aaaaargh! OK! OK!’

  Logan stepped out of the break room and grabbed the chunk of plastic that joined both sides of McStinky’s handcuffs and yanked it upwards like he was opening a car boot.

  McStinky screamed as his arms tried to pop out of their sockets. He pitched forward onto the floor, legs thrashing. Bellowing out foul breaths as Logan kept up the pressure. Leaning into it a bit. Up close, the BO had a distinct blue-cheesiness to it and a hint of mouldy sausages too.

  The sergeant scrambled backwards until she was sitting up against the corridor wall. Spat out a glob of scarlet.

  McStinky roared. ‘DON’T LET THEM EAT ME!’

  The PC with the bloody nose staggered over and threw himself across McStinky’s legs, struggling a set of limb restraints into place. ‘Hold still!’

  Logan held out his hand to the other officer. ‘Let me guess: Sergeant Savage? Logan McRae. I need to talk to you about DI Bell.’

  Logan leaned against the corridor wall, mug of tea warm against his chest. The station’s rear door was wide open, giving a lovely view of PC Broken Nose and Sergeant Savage ‘assisting’ McStinky into the back of the patrol car parked next to Logan’s Audi.

  Rain bounced off the cars’ roofs, sparked up from the wet tarmac, hissed against the world like a billion angry cats.

  Ding.

  He pulled out his phone and groaned.

  HORRIBLE STEEL:

  Come on, it’s only one night. One wee teeny weeny night.

  A quick reply:

  I’m busy.

  Sergeant Savage slammed the patrol car’s door shut, then lurched into the station again. Wiped the rain from her face. Scowled. ‘God, I love Fridays.’

  Logan nodded at the car. ‘He’s nice.’

  McStinky thrashed against his seatbelt, screaming – muffled to near silence by the closed car door – while PC Broken Nose stuck two fingers up to the window.

  Savage peeled off her high-viz jacket. ‘You wanted to talk about DI Bell.’

  ‘Don’t you want to take your friend straight to the cells?’

  ‘Jittery Dave? Nah, he’s off his face. They won’t let us book him in till they know he won’t OD or choke on his own vomit. And the hospital won’t take him: not while he’s violent. So he can sit there and chill out for a bit. Smithy’ll keep an eye on him.’ She prodded at her split lip and winced. There was blood on her fingertip. ‘Why the sudden interest in Ding-Dong?’

  ‘You hear what happened this morning?’

  ‘Been chasing Jittery Dave since I got on shift. I’ve run a sodding marathon already today – never mind Mo Farah, we should put a couple of druggies in for the next Olympics.’

  ‘OK.’ Logan led the way back into the break room. ‘You were Bell’s sidekick.’

  She bristled a bit. ‘I worked with him, yes.’

  ‘How was he as a boss?’

  ‘Good. Yeah. Fair. Didn’t hog all the credit. Actually listened.’

  Logan stuck the kettle on and dug a clean mug from the cupboard. ‘What about his state of mind?’

  ‘He blew his brains out in a caravan. What do you think?’

  Teabag. ‘I think someone wouldn’t do that without a very good reason. What was his?’

  She looked away. Shrugged. ‘The last case we worked on. It was … tough for him.’

  ‘Tough how?’

  ‘Ding-Dong… Look: Aiden MacAuley was three when he was abducted. He was out with his dad, in the woods near their house. Fred Marshall attacked them. Killed the father, abducted Aiden.’

  ‘Fred Marshall?’

  ‘And we couldn’t lay a finger on him. We know he did it – he boasted about the attack to a friend of his down the pub. Told him all the grisly details about bashing Kenneth MacAuley’s brains out with a rock. Never said what happened to the kid, though. So we dragged Marshall in and grilled him. Again and again and again. But in the end, we didn’t have a single bit of evidence to pin on him.’

  The kettle rattled to a boil and Logan drowned the teabag.

  Savage prodded at her split lip again. ‘Course, we couldn’t tell Aiden’s mother any of that. We’re banging our heads against the Crown Office, but far as she’s concerned it looks like we’re doing sod-all to find her son and catch the guy who killed her husband.’

  ‘So what happened with Fred Marshall?’

  ‘It really weighed on Ding-Dong. We were a good team, you know? And now he can’t get it out of his head: he can’t sleep, he’s stressed all the time…’ Another shrug. ‘Then Ding-Dong’s whole personality changes. He’s jumpy, nervous, irritable. Shouting at you for no reason.’

  She stared at the tabletop. Shook her head.

  Somewhere in the station, that phone started ringing again.

  ‘He… He came to my house … about two in the morning. Told me I was to look after his wife. That I had to protect her from the press and the rest of the vermin. And that was the last time I saw him.’ Savage cleared her throat. ‘Until I had to ID his body in the mortuary.’

  She shook her head. Blinked. Wiped at her eyes. Huffed out a breath. ‘Anyway… Nothing we can do about it now, is there?’

  ‘You ID’d the body?’

  ‘What was left of it. According to the IB, he rigged the caravan to burn before sticking a shotgun in his mouth. The whole thing went up like a firelighter.’ Deep breath. ‘The smell was… Yeah.’

  Logan let the silence stretch.

  The station phone went quiet for a couple of seconds, then launched into its monotonous cry for attention again.

  Savage
shook her head. ‘Couldn’t get any usable DNA off the remains – you know what it’s like when you cook everything.’ She shuddered. ‘Had to do it from his possessions: rings, watch, wallet. But we had his car at the scene, the suicide notes, what was left of his dad’s shotgun; even managed to lift some of Ding-Dong’s prints off the caravan…’ Savage’s eyes narrowed. ‘You still haven’t explained: why the sudden interest?’

  Logan fished out the teabag and sloshed in a glug of milk. Added two sugars and stirred. ‘Did you ever think he was involved in something? Maybe got in over his head?’

  ‘Ding-Dong? No. He was a good cop. Most honest guy I’ve ever worked with.’

  ‘Hmmm…’ He handed her the mug of hot sweet tea. ‘I might have some bad news for you.’

  3

  Logan stepped into the Major Investigation Team office and closed the door behind him.

  Chief Superintendent Big Tony Campbell prowled the line of electronic whiteboards at the front of the room like a horror-film monster: big and bald, bushy black eyebrows scowling over small dark eyes. He barely fit into his police-issue black T-shirt, his bare arms forested with salt-and-pepper fur.

  Hardie didn’t look much happier, perched on the edge of someone’s desk in one of the cubicles that lined the other three walls, enclosing the meeting table in the middle. ‘Honestly, if you’ve got any suggestions I’m all ears.’

  Big Tony jabbed a hand at the windows. ‘Well he must’ve been staying somewhere!’

  ‘I’ve got teams out canvassing every hotel and B-and-B in the area. Media Liaison are putting together “Have you seen this man?” posters. There’s another team at Aberdeen Airport going through the CCTV and every passenger manifest for the last two weeks. What else can I do?’

  Logan knocked on a cubicle wall. ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’

  A harrumph from Big Tony, then, ‘Inspector McRae, please tell me you’ve got something.’

  ‘We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry at the moment.’

  ‘Wonderful. So you’ve got sod-all too.’

  ‘Early days, sir. Early days.’

  Big Tony lumbered over to the window, peering down at the gathered TV people and protestors below. ‘Look at them, grubbing about, sneering at us, doing their snide pieces to camera about how NE Division couldn’t find a fart in a sleeping bag.’

  Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘I want to get someone exhumed.’

  ‘Ellie Morton’s mother’s giving a press conference at twelve. No points for guessing what her main theme will be. She’s…’ Big Tony frowned. ‘Wait, what? You want to exhume someone? Who?’

  ‘Don’t know yet.’

  Hardie sniffed. ‘How can you not know who you’re going to exhume?’

  ‘We buried DI Bell two years ago, remember? Only he wasn’t really dead: he faked the whole thing. So who did we bury?’

  Big Tony’s eyes widened as it sank in. ‘Oh for… CHRIST’S SAKE!’ He booted the nearest wastepaper basket, sending it flying, crumpled-up sheets of paper and sweetie wrappers exploding out like cheap confetti.

  Hardie covered his head with his hands and groaned. ‘Not again.’

  ‘Why did no one think of this till now? What the fffffff…’ Big Tony screwed up his face, marched over to the dented bin and booted it away again. It clattered off a filing cabinet. ‘Aaaaargh!’

  ‘Now…’ Hardie peeked out between his fingers. ‘To be fair, there’s been a lot going on and—’

  ‘So let’s get this straight: not only do we have the PR disaster of DI Bell faking his own death then turning up stabbed in a crashed car, now we’ve got to investigate him for murder as well? We buried him with full police honours!’

  Logan nodded. ‘So I can dig up whoever-it-is?’

  ‘The media are going to love this…’ Big Tony sagged. ‘Our beloved bosses at Tulliallan are already pulling on their hobnail boots to give my arse a kicking. When this hits… Argh!’ He gave the wastepaper basket one last whack and stormed from the room, flinging his arms about like a man on fire. ‘Dig him up. Dig them all up! Every single last bloody one of them!’

  The door slammed shut.

  Hardie stared at it for a moment. ‘I would really like to make it clear that none of this is my fault.’

  ‘I know how you feel.’ Logan settled back against the meeting table. ‘Speaking of which: have you heard of someone called Fred Marshall?’

  A frown. ‘Possibly. Probably… I think so. Wasn’t he one of those rent-a-thug-have-baseball-bat-will-travel types? Why?’

  ‘Just wondering.’

  The office they’d given him wasn’t exactly huge: lined with half a dozen manky old desks, a couple of scuffed whiteboards, and a collection of swivel chairs that looked as if they’d fallen off the back of a lorry. And then been driven over. Twice. Everything looked shabby and used, especially the carpet.

  Logan sat back in one of the creaky chairs, phone to his ear, case file open on the scarred desktop in front of him. Frowning at the pathologist’s report on what was left of whoever it was they’d buried in DI Duncan Bell’s grave. ‘According to this, cause of death was indeterminable, but likely to be due to the extensive shotgun wound to the cranium.’

  On the other end of the phone, Rennie gave a little sarcastic laugh. ‘“Likely”? Thought it took half of Ding-Dong’s head off!’

  ‘Turns out DI Bell had stashed about fifteen litres of petrol about the caravan, set fire to the place, then tried to gargle his dad’s shotgun.’ Logan turned the page. A crime-scene photo popped and crackled with reds and blacks and pinks. Like a Texas Chainsaw Massacre-themed barbecue. ‘Urgh… What was left of the remains isn’t pretty.’ He turned the page, hiding the image. ‘Do me a favour: run a PNC check on a Fred Marshall, IC-One male, thug for hire.’

  ‘Hold on, have to excavate my keyboard.’ The sound of rustling paperwork. ‘Fred Marshall. Fred Marshall… Why does that sound familiar?’

  ‘Prime suspect in the Aiden MacAuley case.’

  ‘Ah, that Fred Marshall. Here we go. Clickity, clickity … Fred Marshall.’ A low whistle came down the earpiece. ‘Well he does seem like every girl’s dream date. Five counts of threats and extortion, four aggravated assaults, three possessions with intent, two thefts from a lockfast place, one arson, and a partridge in a pear tree.’

  ‘And where’s Prince Charming now?’

  The clatter of computer keys went on and on and on and on…

  ‘Rennie? You still there?’

  ‘Going digging.’

  ‘You better not be searching for porn on the office computers. This isn’t the Houses of Parliament.’

  ‘Moi? Never. Well, maybe that once… Right – I’ve got nothing for Fred Albert Marshall for … call it twenty-six months.’

  Sounded unlikely.

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Not so much as a parking ticket. Hang on, I’ll check Twitter and Facebook…’ More clattering. ‘Nothing. Nada. His last status update was going from “in a relationship” to “it’s complicated” and his last post … here we go: a picture of a monkey peeing into its own mouth with the caption “Police Scotland’s finest”. Two years and two months ago.’

  Logan nodded. Frowned at the wall for a bit. Two and a bit years. So Fred Marshall was definitely a contender for ‘Most Likely To Have Been Buried In A Police Officer’s Grave’.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Yeah, I need you to get me everything you can about Fred Marshall: dental records, hospital X-rays, everything.’

  ‘And do you want that before or after the other four million things you’ve asked me to do?’

  ‘Thanks, Simon.’ He hung up, and had almost got the phone back in his pocket when it dinged at him.

  HORRIBLE STEEL:

  Stop being such a dick. They’re your kids too – wouldn’t kill you to babysit the little monsters now and then!

  He thumbed out a reply.

  I’m not being a dick, I’m busy. I have plan
s. And I babysat them two nights ago, you ungrateful lump.

  Logan closed the case file.

  Ding:

  OK: you can bring Ginger McHotpants with you as long as you don’t leave dirty heterosexual stains on the couch again.

  Reply:

  That was hummus and you know it. And I’m busy. Find someone else.

  And with any luck, that would be that.

  Logan called up the inter-department contact list on his steam-powered computer. ‘Right: exhumation.’

  ‘OK. Thanks. Bye.’ Logan hung up and pocketed his phone. Swaggered over to the whiteboard and put a big red tick next to the words ‘EXHUMATION REQUEST’.

  The other whiteboard was covered in maps; post-mortem photos; photos of a burned-out caravan in a clearing somewhere; and photos of a large, hairy, middle-aged man. DI Duncan Bell. Heavy, rounded shoulders, a thick pelt of hair on his head, more hair escaping from the neck of his shirt. Skin like boiled tripe.

  Logan dumped the pen back in the tray beneath the whiteboard and grabbed his fleece. Pushed through into the corridor.

  A couple of support staff were gossiping outside the stationery cupboard. Both of them shrank back as he passed, their voices dropped to hushed whispers.

  He nodded and kept going.

  So what if they were all terrified of him. Wasn’t his fault, was it? Just because he worked for Professional Standards now, that didn’t make him a monster. Not often anyway.

  The stairwell echoed with the sound of laughter, coming from one of the landings above.

  Logan headed downward, digging out his car keys with one hand and… Stopped.

  DI Fraser came marching up the stairs – late twenties, not that tall, in a black denim shirt-dress. Black leather jacket. Long red hair with a pair of sunglasses perched on the top. Massive handbag. She was trailing a pair of plainclothes officers. One, a small wrinkly woman in a wrinkly suit. Hair like someone had run over Albert Einstein with a ride-on lawn mower. The other, a thin short-arse in the full Police Scotland ninja-black uniform, with a ginger buzz-cut and a pointy nose. Detective Sergeant Steel and Police Constable Quirrel. North East Division’s answer to Blackadder and Baldrick.

  All three froze as soon as they saw Logan, making a strange mini-me tableau there on the stairs.