The Blood Road Page 31

  Mrs Salt-and-Pepper-Squid was at it again.

  Logan smiled at her. ‘Can I help you?’

  Her cheeks flushed and her nose went up. ‘Why aren’t you out there trying to find that wee girl?’

  Great.

  ‘I can assure you we’re doing all we can.’

  ‘You’re not! You’re sitting there, ordering Chinese takeaway and playing on your phone!’

  The miserable old lady behind the counter dinged a small bell. ‘Order for McRae.’

  Logan stood. Bit back the reply.

  What was the bloody point?

  Pfff…

  Logan hauled on the handbrake, switched off the headlights, then the windscreen wipers, killed the engine, and climbed out of the car. Sagged for a second in the darkness and drizzle. Reached into the passenger footwell for his takeaway. Plipped the locks and made for the house.

  God, what a day.

  He let himself in, thumped the door shut and deadbolted it.

  ‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s got Chinese for tea!’

  Heavy-pawed thuds walloped down the stairs, then Cthulhu sashayed over – her huge plumed tail sticking straight up in the air as she purred and coiled around his ankles.

  At least someone wanted to spend the evening with him.

  ‘Wrrrnnnggh!’ Logan sat bolt upright, the duvet crumping down around his waist, and blinked in the gloom. Heart lump-thumping like Long John Silver staggering down a staircase.

  Cthulhu gave an irritated prrrrrrp and jumped down from the bed with all the delicacy of a breeze block.

  Faint orange light oozed in around the curtains’ edges, the only other illumination coming from the alarm-clock-radio: 23:45

  ‘Urgh…’ A whole thirty-two minutes’ sleep. That’s what he got for eating all those spicy—

  He froze.

  A pale-yellow glow outlined the bedroom door.

  Either the aliens had come to abduct him, or something a whole lot worse.

  He eased over in the bed, dropped his right hand to the floor and felt about underneath. Cat fluff. Toy mouse. Discarded sock. Ah. Now that was more like it. His fingers curled around the pickaxe handle.

  Right.

  Let’s see how clever whoever-it-was felt when he caved their skull in.

  And that’s when the door thumped open and there was Tara, looking a little dishevelled about the hair, wearing a padded jacket over a set of tartan jammies. Slippers on her feet.

  She clicked off the hall light and scuffed into the room. Closed the door behind her.

  Logan let go of the pickaxe handle. ‘Thought you had an early start.’

  Tara hauled off her jacket, dumped it on the floor and slipped into the bed. ‘Don’t get your hopes up: this is not a bootie call.’ She helped herself to two thirds of the duvet. ‘Idiots in the flat upstairs are having a party and they – won’t – shut – up.’

  ‘It’s lovely to see you too.’

  She turned her back to him, searching for his legs beneath the duvet with her feet. ‘No funny business.’

  ‘Aaargh!’ Her horrible feet were like bags of frozen peas. ‘If this is your idea of foreplay, you’ve been watching the wrong porn films!’

  ‘You gave me a key; this is what you get.’ Tara snuggled down. ‘Now stop wriggling and go to sleep. Some of us have work in the morning.’

  36

  Logan paused on the landing – health and safety first – and took a sip from his wax paper cup. Decent coffee. Proper coffee. Made by Wee Hairy Davie, instead of the Evil Vending Machine. Ahhhh…

  He shifted the folder, pinning it beneath his armpit as he started up the stairs again.

  The sound of stomping feet clattered down from the floor above, and Jane McGrath, Media Liaison Officer to the stars, thundered around the corner. Her hair and make-up might have been perfect, but she had a face like a wet weekend in Rhynie. She had a folder of her own too, only she was holding it in a strangling death grip.

  She thumped past him. ‘Unbelievable!’

  ‘I think the word you were looking for was “excuse me”.’

  McGrath stopped. Turned. Threw her hands in the air – waving the folder like a club. ‘Excuse me, oh great and all-powerful Professional Standards Person.’ She hurled the folder onto the stairs at her feet. ‘Did you see what they splashed all over the front page of the Aberdeen Examiner this morning?’

  Oh no.

  Colin Bloody Miller.

  He promised!

  Logan stuck his chest out. ‘I never called Russell Morton a workshy scrounger!’

  Her face froze for a moment, eyebrows lowering into a frown. ‘What? No.’ She snatched up her folder and yanked out a sheet of newsprint. Unfolded it. Jabbed it towards him.

  The whole front page was given over to a photo of an attractive young woman in a frock, lots of brown hair, looking flirty at the camera. An inset picture sat on the right, by her buttocks: a shed with a collapsed roof. All beneath the banner headline: ‘POLICE PERVS INJURED PEEPING ON PRETTY PAULINE’.

  McGrath thrust it towards him again, making the edges crinkle. ‘Look at it. LOOK AT IT! They weren’t injured chasing a burglar: they fell through that shed roof because they were up there ogling an eighteen-year-old divinity student jigging about in her bra and pants!’

  ‘Ah…’ So not Colin Miller after all.

  ‘I told the world they were heroes! Listen to this.’ She straightened out the front page and glowered at it. ‘“At the end of a long day’s studying I like to relax by dancing about to my mum’s old Showaddywaddy records, while I get changed. I can’t believe they were out there, night after night. I feel so violated,’ sobbed Pauline, brackets, eighteen.” Eighteen!’ McGrath crushed the front page into a ball. ‘Some neighbour filmed it all on their mobile phone: crash, right through the shed roof! How am I supposed to put a positive spin on that? Police pervs!’ She hurled the front page down and stamped on it, grinding the article into the concrete as her face got darker and darker. ‘Aaaaaaaargh! Why do I bother? Why do I sodding bother?’

  Wow.

  Logan licked his lips. ‘Erm…’

  She stood there, glaring at everything, shoulders heaving, eyes bugging, teeth bared.

  PC Guthrie appeared on the landing behind her, smiling up at Logan like a happy potato in a police uniform. ‘Inspector McRae? Have you got a minute? There’s an auld mannie in reception, wants to see you.’

  ‘Yes. Right.’ He gave McGrath a sympathetic smile and picked his way past her on the stairs. Pausing to pat her on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure it’ll all blow over eventually.’

  She took a deep breath and screwed her eyes shut. ‘AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAARGH!’

  Dear Lord, what was that smell? Sharp, filthy, and dirty all at the same time. Like someone had piddled in a bucket of mud then left it on a hot radiator all day.

  Logan blinked. Breathed through his mouth. And lowered himself into the seat opposite, keeping as far back as he could. ‘So, Mr …’ he checked Guthrie’s Post-it note, ‘Seafield. The Desk Sergeant tells me you’ve got some information?’

  Mr Seafield was hunched in the other seat, shoulders curled forwards as if he were afraid someone was going to steal the tank-top-and-tie combination he had on under his suit jacket. A pointy nose stretched out from his jowly face; no hair on top of his head, lots of it growing out of his ears; big round glasses; teeth so white and straight they had to be falsies.

  He nodded at the ancient border terrier snuffling away at his feet. ‘It’s not me, it’s Gomez.’

  OK. So he was one of those. Great.

  Logan’s smile got a bit more difficult to maintain. ‘Your dog has information for me?’

  ‘No: the smell. Dirty wee sod likes to run under bigger dogs while they’re having a pee.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Slapped it down on the tabletop. ‘I wouldn’t speak to any of those other fannies because they don’t know, do they?’

  ‘Know what, Mr Seafield?’


  Mr Seafield slid the paper across.

  Logan unfolded it. Stared.

  It was a printout from the Aberdeen Examiner website: ‘HEARTLESS POLICE SLANDER ELLIE’S DAD’ complete with the wee photo of Logan and its subheading, ‘POLICE HERO TURNS CRUEL COP’.

  He promised. The dirty, two-faced, lying—

  ‘That’s right.’ Mr Seafield thumped a hand down on the table. ‘Workshy scroungers, the lot of them!’

  ‘I never said this!’

  ‘Course you did, and you know why?’ He leaned forward, bringing with him the sweet woody scent of pipe smoke. ‘Cos it’s true. Russell Morton is a workshy bastard – pardon my French – wouldn’t know an honest day’s graft if it bit his arse for him! Him and that whore of his, living there, right next to decent God-fearing folks. With their parties and their drugs, and their loud bloody music at all bloody hours!’ He bared his false teeth. ‘Scroungers! And it’s about time someone had the guts to say it.’

  Logan folded the printout in half, then half again. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘I’ve been complaining about the Mortons for years, but would anyone listen?’ He pointed at the folded paper. ‘Soon as I saw that on the internet I said to my Avril, I said, “Finally! Here’s someone who says it like it is! I’m going down there right now to shake that man’s hand.”’ To prove it, he stuck his hand out, an expectant look on his face.

  Urgh…

  Logan shook it, the skin dry and sandpapery. ‘It wasn’t—’

  ‘You want to know what happened to little Ellie? That poor wee girl, growing up with those … animals? He sold her. Russell Morton sold her to buy drugs.’

  Of course he did. And thirteen bacon butties were flittering their way over Divisional Headquarters at that very moment. Logan had been right the first time: Mr Seafield was a nutter.

  ‘He sold her.’ Logan kept his voice nice and neutral. ‘Russell Morton sold his stepdaughter.’

  ‘To buy drugs.’ Mr Seafield’s eyes were bright as buttons.

  Gomez made whimpering yowling noises beneath the table.

  A mad man and his stinky dog.

  ‘Right. Yes. I see. Well, we’ll definitely look into that.’

  ‘I know you will, because you’re not one of these PC idiots running about mollycoddling scroungers and layabouts.’

  Logan stood. ‘Thank you for bringing it to my attention. We better not take up any more of your valuable time.’ AKA: bugger off.

  Logan smiled through the safety glass panel as Mr Seafield and his arthritic stinkhound turned and hobbled across the reception area and away through the main doors.

  Soon as the doors closed, Logan hauled out his phone and stabbed at the screen. Listened to it ring.

  ‘Colin Miller.’

  ‘What the bloody hell are you playing at? I thought we had a deal!’

  There was a thump and a faint buzzing noise. ‘Can’t a man have a wee prowl through his colleagues’ packed lunches without police harassment?’

  ‘You promised me you’d spike the story! You bloody promised me!’

  ‘And I did. Did you see it on the front page? No, you didn’t. Because I got my hands on a juicy wee exposé about a couple of pervert coppers who—’

  ‘Then why, Colin,’ getting louder as he unfolded the sheet of paper, ‘why am I holding a printout of the thing from your piece-of-crap website?’

  ‘Moi? Nah, that wasn’t me, that was the system. Automatically flags articles to publish online. Me? I deleted it, but you know what newspapers are like these days: Wee Shuggy Public is desperate for content! Blogs, tweets, feeds, podcasts—’

  Logan forced the words out through gritted teeth. ‘I will personally…’ Ram a photocopier up his backside? Slam his head in the fridge he was raiding? Rip the rest of his fingers off? Deep breath. Calm. Calm. ‘Get it off the internet, Colin. Get it off NOW!’

  ‘What’s this I spy in lovely Tupperware? Is that leftover pie?’ The crunk of a plastic lid being removed. ‘Ooh, payday.’

  ‘Colin, I’m serious!’

  ‘Aye, aye, keep yer frilly lace panties on.’ What sounded like a microwave door opening was followed by it slamming shut and some beeping. ‘I’ll get it deleted off the website. But favours begat favours, right?’

  ‘Gah!’ Logan hung up. Stood there, trembling. Gripping his phone like a stone ripe for the hurling. Then turned on his heel and stormed off down the corridor. ‘They don’t have to put up with this in North Korea! They’d just execute the bloody lot of them…’

  He thumped through the office door. Bloody Colin Miller. Bloody Colin Scumbag Lying Tosspot Miller!

  Tufty was bent over a laptop, fiddling away at the keyboard. He’d put his uniform on today, so looking a lot less scruffy. Rennie waded through a box of manila folders, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie tucked in between two buttons, the jacket of his used-car-salesman suit draped over the back of his chair.

  And then there was Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel, scuffed boots in need of a clean and up on her desk. A silk shirt with what looked like egg stains on the front. Holding the phone to her ear with one hand and rummaging about in her cleavage with the other. ‘No, Barry, I’m no’ being unreasonable. … No.’

  Because why set a good example when you could set a bad one instead?

  Logan thumped the door shut and scowled at her.

  She gave him a cheery wave in return. ‘You think this is unreasonable, you wait till I get started.’

  He raised his voice to the room in general. ‘Anything?’

  Rennie looked up from his box. ‘Sheriff’s working on our search warrant for Norman Clifton’s mum’s house. Says to give it an hour. So I’m going through Ding-Dong’s old cases again: see if we missed anything.’

  ‘You think?’ A nasty chuckle from Steel. ‘Oh I’ll do you one better, Barry: I’ll come down there myself, and see when I do?’

  ‘I need you to try getting hold of Fred Marshall’s dental and medical records again. If he’s what we dug up yesterday, I want to know for sure.’

  ‘Again.’ Rennie sagged. ‘Oh joy of joys.’

  ‘Oh aye? Think I won’t? You just try me, Barry.’

  Logan crossed his arms. ‘And while we’re at it: what’s happening about dragging Chalmers’ husband in for questioning?’

  ‘He’s having a dirty weekend in Glencoe with an account controller called Stephanie from Kennethmont. I’ve asked Northern to send a car round. See if we can’t spoil the lovebirds’ mood a bit.’

  ‘Good. Now: dental records. Go.’

  ‘Guv.’ Rennie grabbed his jacket and hurried out the door.

  Tufty looked up from his laptop. ‘Sarge? Do you want those—’

  ‘You: dig up whatever you can on one Mr Graeme Seafield. Says he’s been complaining about Russell Morton for years.’

  The lazy wee sod pulled on a spanked puppy-dog face. ‘But I made—’

  ‘Now, Constable.’

  ‘Eek…’ He turned and battered away at his keyboard.

  Logan paced the room – pausing only to glare at Steel on the way past.

  She gave him a wink in return. ‘Oh, you better believe it. Like a ton of the proverbial, Barry. With hobnail boots on.’

  ‘Okeydokey.’ Tufty scrolled through the search results he’d got back from the Police National Computer. ‘Graeme Seafield… Ooh, he’s been busy.’ Then silence.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘There’s a massive catalogue of complaints he’s made against the Mortons. Everything from putting out their wheelie bin on the wrong day to… Wow: “Undertaking satanic child-sex rituals in the back garden.” Uniform investigated – apparently it was a kids’ Halloween party.’

  And that was why you always went on your first impression.

  ‘So he’s a nutter.’

  ‘Like a squirrel’s underpants.’ Tufty spun around in his seat. ‘Now, do you want to see these maps I made?’

  ‘Maps?’

 
; ‘From the GPS on DS Chalmers’ phone? I did has a genius, remember?’

  Steel raised her heels an inch, then thumped them down on her desk. ‘Oh aye. … That’s right. With both boots.’

  ‘Go on then.’ Logan held out his hand and Tufty dug a folder from his desk, produced half a dozen sheets of paper and passed them over. Each one had a screenshot from Google Maps on it, printed in colour, with little red, green, and blue lines crisscrossing Aberdeen city and shire – peppered with tiny arrows.

  ‘See, most people don’t know their phones store GPS data, but if you access—’

  ‘Are these in any sort of order?’

  ‘I dated them in the top corner and put arrows on the lines so you can see which direction she was going in and when. See?’

  Logan spread the maps out on the desk.

  ‘No, thank you, Barry. Been a pleasure doing business with you. … Aye, and the same to you with knobs on.’

  Tufty scooted his chair over and sorted the maps into date order. ‘So this is yesterday – her phone basically stays at home in Kingswells till I arrest Naughty Naked Norman Clifton.’ He poked the sheet of paper next to it. ‘Saturday: all day at Kingswells.’ The next sheet. ‘This is the day she died.’

  It was a larger scale map than the others, the lines tracing back and forth across Aberdeen, out to Kingswells…

  ‘You’ve got the arrows going both ways here.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Tufty traced the route with his finger. ‘That’s because she went out to this industrial estate, then came all the way across town to here and stopped at this pub, then went home, then went off to the industrial estate again.’

  Steel stretched out in her seat, hands behind her head, eggy shirt riding up to expose a yoghurt-pale slash of belly. ‘You may all now bask in the glory of my magnificence.’

  Logan picked up the map and peered at it.

  The scale was so large it was hard to make out exact details, but the bit Tufty called ‘this pub’ looked familiar. ‘That’s Huge Gay Bill’s Bar and Grill, isn’t it? Chalmers was in the pub toilets when I tracked her down.’

  Tufty glanced at Steel, his face all shifty and puckered. Trying to keep his voice innocent. ‘And I didn’t help you with that at all. You found her all on your own.’