The Blood Road Page 32

  Steel frowned at the pair of them. ‘Well, don’t all rush at once!’

  Logan followed the line to Northfield. That shonky green duck shape underneath it looked like Allan Douglas Park. Which meant Chalmers had been…

  Sod.

  He grabbed his fleece from the coatstand. ‘Tufty – get the car!’

  ‘Guv.’ Tufty snatched up the printouts, his stabproof vest, and equipment belt, jamming his peaked cap on his head as he bolted from the room. Logan hurried after him.

  ‘Oh for…’ Steel’s voice rang out into the corridor. ‘Does no one want to bask in my sodding magnificence?’

  37

  Tufty stopped at the junction with Broad Street. Morning rush-hour traffic crawled past: buses, cars, taxis, vans, and lorries full of miserable-looking people trying to get to work for nine. And probably failing. The new development loomed on the other side of the street – a massive block of grey and glass – Satan’s Rubik’s cube, all streaked and gloomy in the rain. Marischal College squared up opposite it, façade like a cathedral in granite with spikes and turrety bits.

  Tufty sat forward, pulling his seatbelt tight. ‘Where to, Sarge?’

  ‘“Inspector”, you muppet.’ Logan took out his wallet and selected Raymond Hacker’s business card from the dog-eared collection of social workers, lawyers, senior officers, and other assorted layabouts.

  A small off-white rectangle with the ram’s-head logo on it, ‘ABERRAD INVESTIGATION SERVICES LTD.’, and the company address, website, and Twitter handle underneath. Complete with Hacker’s mobile and office number.

  According to the info printed on the back they were open Wednesday to Sunday, ten till half six. Which was sod-all use at twenty to nine on a Monday morning.

  Logan called Hacker’s mobile.

  It picked up on the fourth ring. ‘Yup?’

  ‘Mr Hacker, it’s Inspector McRae. We met on Saturday.’

  ‘McRae? Oh right. Yes. You wanted to know about Ding-Dong.’

  ‘I need to ask you a couple of follow-up questions. Tell you what, give me your address and we’ll come to you.’

  ‘Ah…’ There was a faint whirr, click, whirr, click noise in the background and was that someone whistling? ‘Sorry, the office is shut till Wednesday and I’m out of town. Working.’

  Aye, right.

  ‘Oops, sorry, can you hold on for a second, my DS wants something…’ Logan pressed ‘MUTE’ and stuck out his hand at Tufty. ‘I need your phone.’

  Tufty unlocked his mobile and handed it over.

  Logan pressed ‘MUTE’ again. ‘Sorry about that, Mr Hacker. You know what the Job’s like. Monday mornings, eh?’ Logan thumbed the AberRAD office number into Tufty’s phone.

  ‘Right, well, I’ll get in touch with you next time I’m in Aberdeen.’

  The office number rang on Tufty’s mobile. And, in a weird unforeseeable coincidence, a phone rang in the background of Logan’s call to Hacker. Strange that. It was almost as if he’d lied about being away on business.

  Logan smiled. ‘If you would, that would be very much appreciated, Mr Hacker. Enjoy your trip.’ He hung up both phones. Returned Tufty’s. ‘Northfield. And step on it. I want to get there before Hacker realises we’re on our way.’

  ‘Oooh, lights, camera, action!’ Tufty hit the button on the dashboard and the blue-and-whites hidden behind the pool car’s front grille flickered into the rain, accompanied by the siren’s mournful wail.

  The rush-hour traffic parted … and they were off.

  Anderson Drive ruined their winning streak. Even with the lights and sirens on, the traffic was thick as day-old porridge. Why did no one get out of the bloody way any more?

  So Logan killed the lights-and-music, then moved on to the next GPS map from Chalmers’ phone.

  The windscreen wipers protested their way across the glass, clearing greasy arcs in the rain.

  Tufty reached a hand for the car radio, fingers hovering over the controls. ‘Can I…?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Groovy.’ He clicked it on and something upbeat and jangly bounced out of the speakers. ‘Ooh, I like this one.’

  Logan pointed at a high-level map that extended all the way south to Stonehaven. ‘She was at Nairhillock Farm five days ago.’ He pulled out another one that extended north to Dufftown. ‘Four days ago she visited Ben Rinnes.’

  ‘And never said a word about it, either. Sodding sloped off when she was meant to be helping me and DS Steel interview people about Ellie Morton.’ He shook his head. ‘Not exactly a team player.’

  Tufty took the first left at the roundabout, onto Provost Fraser Drive. Strange little houses drifted by on the left, the red-brick penitentiary of Northfield Academy on the right.

  ‘OK.’ Logan shuffled the maps into an orderly stack. ‘What else did you get off the phone? You said texts … and?’

  ‘Photos. And there’s printouts of her call history in the folder.’

  Logan reached behind him and plucked the folder off the back seat. Flicked through the contents. ‘Where’s the photographs?’

  That got him a smirk. ‘You’re kidding, right? Had to upload the photos to my phone, there’s loads and loads and loads of them.’

  ‘Hmmm…’ He pulled the call history from the folder. Tufty had married up all known numbers with their contact name in Chalmers’ phone, printing everything out in a table with number called, time, duration of the call, and whether it was outgoing or incoming.

  Logan’s own number appeared a fair few times, each instance tied to the contact, ‘MCRAE: AVOID!!!’ Charming. ‘What about fingerprints?’

  ‘On the phone? Mix of Chalmers and Norman Clifton.’

  They passed more strange little houses. A fenced-off area. Then a row of bungalows. All brown and bleak in the rain.

  The Granite Hill Transmitter loomed in the middle distance, huge and ominous, warning lights shining red against the heavy dark clouds. Like a massive angry Dalek.

  Logan frowned at the list. ‘Why would she delete everything except the Samaritans call? Doesn’t make any sense, does it? Even if there’s something incriminating in here, what do you care? You’re killing yourself anyway.’

  A cheery mishmash of guitars and drums and saxophones brought the song to an end and the DJ blared out instead. ‘Kitten-Heel Pirates there, with their latest single: “Onion Boy”!’

  Tufty turned right onto Kettlehills Crescent. ‘Maybe she was covering for someone?’

  ‘Maybe…’ Didn’t feel right, though.

  ‘Don’t forget we’re helping raise money for Ellie Morton’s family all week here on Silver City FM.’

  They drove past a wall of bushes.

  ‘And I’m delighted to announce that in addition to putting up a reward for any information, local company Whytedug Facilitation Services Limited have pledged a thousand pounds to the fund!’

  Past the swimming pool.

  ‘Aha!’ Tufty held up a finger. ‘Maybe it wasn’t her! Maybe Naughty Norman deleted it?’

  ‘No. He’d want to keep every last thing he could. That way he can sit in his bedroom reading Chalmers’ texts and “stimulating” himself.’

  ‘—delighted to say that Jerry Whyte, CEO of Whytedug, is on the line with us now. Hello, Jerry!’

  There were a lot of numbers with no contacts next to them. ‘Did you reverse look-up any of these?’

  Jerry Whyte’s voice smugged out of the radio. ‘Hi, Tina, great to talk to you.’

  ‘Ah…’ Tufty pulled his chin in and his eyebrows up. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What matters is making sure we get little Ellie Morton back. It’s—’

  ‘Then we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.’

  ‘—and I know, if we all pull together, we can—’

  Logan clicked the radio off, pulled out his phone and dialled the last number on the list:

  ‘10:22 → 15 MINS → OUTGOING.’ The one to the Samaritans. It rang and rang and rang.

 
Then, ‘Hello, Samaritans, how can I help you?’ A friendly voice, like someone’s grandad.

  ‘Hi, this is the police. I need to talk to whoever answered a call at ten twenty-two on Friday night, from mobile number: zero seven eight—’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we can’t do that.’

  Oh really?

  ‘I can get a warrant.’

  Clumps of terraced housing sulked in the rain on the left, reaching away into deepest darkest Northfield. On the right: a wide expanse of featureless grass, shut away behind a high chain-link fence, trapped beneath the thick grey clouds. And still the angry Dalek loomed.

  ‘I know, but that probably won’t help. The volunteers who answer the phones don’t see the caller’s phone number. We don’t record calls. And unless the caller chooses to give us their details, it’s a hundred percent anonymous.’

  ‘The woman who called is dead.’

  A disappointed sigh. ‘I’m sorry for her family’s loss. But we still can’t give you any details without a warrant, assuming we have any. Even after death.’

  ‘Oh.’ So much for that.

  The car rocked its way through a set of speed humps.

  ‘Now, is there something I can help you with? I’m not trying to tout for business or anything, but it can’t be easy being a police officer these days. Must be very stressful.’

  Logan blinked. ‘Me? No. Er… No, thank you.’

  ‘OK. If you’re sure…?’

  He hung up and scribbled the words ‘SAMARITANS: WARRANT?!?’ next to the number he’d just rung.

  Tufty frowned at him across the car. ‘No joy?’

  ‘No joy.’

  Second last entry on the list was ‘BLOODY BRIAN’, so Logan skipped that one and moved on to the third last. Poked in the number.

  It rang. On and on and on.

  Maybe there was nobody—

  ‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice: thin and nervous. Familiar, but not familiar enough to put a name to. The sound of a small dog, yapping in the background. A whining baby.

  ‘Hello? Who am I speaking to?’

  ‘Craig isn’t here.’

  ‘My name’s Inspector Logan McRae, I’m looking for…’ Oh. He put the phone down. ‘She hung up.’

  He tried the number again. Only this time it went straight through to an automated voice. ‘THE NUMBER YOU ARE CALLING IS NOT AVAILABLE, PLEASE TRY LATER.’

  Oh, don’t worry: he would.

  Tufty pointed through the windscreen. ‘Nearly there.’

  A small industrial estate appeared through a break in the hedges – little more than a row of big metal sheds in matching shades of grey.

  The next number on the list was: ‘McRae: AVOID!!!’

  Tufty took a right at the junction.

  The number after that looked like… He pulled out Raymond Hacker’s business card again. Yup. It was the office number.

  The pool car stopped at the junction with Quarry Road, waiting as a dirty big removals van rumbled by.

  Logan dialled, listened to it ring.

  ‘AberRAD Investigation Services Limited?’ That sounded like the woman who was going to kick Rennie’s backside for him. Danielle? Something like that anyway. ‘Can I help you?’

  The pool car nipped across the road once the van had passed, and into the industrial estate.

  ‘Hi. Is Raymond Hacker about?’

  Tufty parked outside the AberRAD Investigations Portakabin.

  ‘Hold on, I’ll get him. Who’s talking?’

  Logan leaned across the car and thumped his palm down on the horn. A harsh ‘Brrrrrrrrr‌eeeeeeeeee‌eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!’ blared out.

  Danielle’s face appeared at the window, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised.

  He waved. ‘I am.’

  Logan smiled across the desk. ‘How nice of you to cut your trip short for us.’

  Hacker took another sip of coffee, face blank. ‘We like to be civic-minded.’

  The fish tank gurgled and hissed. Tufty hovered in front of it, bent over, staring in at the multicoloured inhabitants with a big smile on his face. ‘Oooh…’

  Other than that, the only noise was the rain, thumping down on the Portakabin roof.

  Danielle appeared in the open doorway and knocked on the frame. Shoulders back, chin up. Like a particularly unhappy bouncer. She nodded at Hacker. ‘That thing? Just got a text: it’s tonight.’

  ‘Thanks, Danners. Do us a favour and tell Andy he can head off home soon as he’s finished that report on Mrs Floyd, OK? Want to make sure he’s nice and fresh.’

  ‘Guv.’ But she didn’t move. She stayed where she was. On guard.

  Hacker turned a thin smile on Logan. ‘Not that it isn’t nice to see you again, Inspector … Mackay, wasn’t it?’

  ‘McRae.’

  ‘Sorry. Inspector McRae.’ The smile warmed a bit. ‘But we don’t usually work on a Monday. Had a long weekend photographing cheating spouses and insurance fraudsters. You know how it is: guy claims he’s got crippling whiplash from a rear-end shunt and next thing you know we’re snapping him having a threesome with a dinner lady and someone dressed as a kangaroo.’ A shrug. ‘And it all needs written up.’

  The tank gurgled.

  The rain thumped.

  Logan opened the folder from the car and pulled out one of the phone logs. ‘When we spoke on Saturday, you didn’t tell me you’d already met with a colleague of mine.’

  ‘Didn’t I?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Lorna Chalmers. She was here on Friday. Twice.’

  Hacker raised his eyebrows. ‘Was she?’ Look at me, I’m so innocent, I never done nuffink wrong, Officer.’

  ‘And she phoned your business number,’ he held up the printout, ‘at nine fifteen that evening.’

  ‘We close at six.’

  ‘The call lasted five minutes.’

  No reply.

  Logan had another go: ‘Why was she here?’

  ‘Danners, you remember a DS called Chalmers?’

  Danielle made a big show of thinking about it. Then. ‘About yay tall with spaniel-perm hair? Yeah, she came past a couple of times looking for the boss.’ Shrug. ‘He was out. Told her to come back later.’

  No one said anything.

  No one moved.

  ‘I love tropical fish.’ Tufty shuffled closer to the tank. ‘Did you know the scientific name for Angelfish is Pterophyllum? It’s from the Greek for “winged leaf”.’

  Logan returned the phone log to the folder. ‘And when Chalmers turned up again?’

  The pair of them shared a look. Then Hacker gave Danielle a small nod. As if he was granting permission.

  ‘She wanted to ask about DI Ding-Dong Bell. Same as you did.’

  The tank went on gurgling.

  Outside, a van did a six-point turn, bleeping every time it reversed.

  For goodness’ sake. Logan gritted his teeth. ‘This would go much quicker if I wasn’t having to play dentist, here.’

  Hacker sighed. Made an ‘after you’ gesture with one hand. ‘It’s OK, Danners.’

  ‘She was flapping her top lip about how Ding-Dong was running round the countryside, acting all Batman and Robin. Course we tried to tell her she was off her head – Ding-Dong died ages ago. I was at his funeral, so were Andy and Ray. But she wasn’t having any of it. Got a bit rowdy, so Andy and I had to … calm her down a bit.’ Danielle shook her head. ‘Of course, the next day it’s all over the news that DI Bell’s turned up stabbed to death in a crashed car, but we weren’t to know that, were we? Lorna…’ A small smile, then Danielle cleared her throat. ‘Chalmers sounded insane at the time.’

  Tufty pointed at the tank. ‘Angelfish breed for life. They’re like albatrosses, or my Great Aunt Effie. Once their mate dies, that’s it – might as well not even have genitals.’

  She glowered at him. ‘Will you shut up about fish?

  ‘Sorry. I was wondering about fidelity: what with you guys specialising in cheating-spouse cases and DS Chalmers’ husb
and being at it with someone from work?’

  ‘You want to know if she was a client? Pff… We can’t confirm or deny that without a warrant. Data protection. Isn’t that right, Guv?’

  Hacker nodded.

  Funny how people like that were so keen on the law when it suited them.

  The seat creaked beneath Logan as he turned to Hacker. ‘What else did Chalmers want?’

  ‘She thought Ding-Dong was caught up with these so-called “Livestock Marts”.’

  ‘And was he?’

  ‘If they even exist. Bunch of sketchy paedophiles getting together to sell-on abducted kids? Been hearing rumours ever since I joined the Job, but…’ Hacker shrugged. ‘Don’t know if I believe it. I mean, if you’re that kinda guy, why take the risk?’

  Interesting.

  Sometimes, what wasn’t said was more telling than what was.

  ‘You didn’t answer the question.’

  ‘Didn’t I?’

  ‘You work for Sally MacAuley. Her husband was killed trying to stop their son being abducted.’ Logan sat forward, setting the chair creaking again. ‘You know what I think? I think someone was paid a lot of money to snatch Aiden MacAuley. I think killing Kenneth MacAuley made Aiden even more saleable. All that controversy?’

  ‘No one’s ever proved the Livestock Mart even exists.’

  ‘Are you saying you’ve been working this case for three years and you never looked into it? Sounds to me as if Sally MacAuley needs to get better private detectives, because you and your useless bunch of idiots are taking her money and doing sod-all.’

  Pink flushed up Hacker’s neck, darkening his cheeks. ‘We are doing everything possible!’

  ‘You’re ripping her off!’

  He shoved himself upright, looming over the desk. ‘We will get Aiden back!’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure the three of you are great at taking bribes, nicking stuff, and beating up motorists, but actual detecting?’ Laying it on thick.

  ‘What do you bloody know? Three years and you haven’t got anywhere near these people, while…’ A light must have flickered on somewhere inside Hacker’s brain because he clamped his mouth shut. Took a deep breath. Lowered himself into his seat again. All calm and collected. ‘I see what you’re doing. Very good.’

  ‘“Not got anywhere near these people, while” what, Mr Hacker?’