The Blood Road Page 42

  Number One’s left hook caught Snake right across the jaw, sending her sprawling. He stood over her, flexing his fist. ‘You want to hang around counting silver till the police get here? Be my guest. The rest of us are torching this place and leaving.’

  Pig put his hand up again. ‘So: car keys?’

  ‘You want some too?’ Number One shook his fist under Pig’s snout.

  ‘I wasn’t… Sorry.’ Backing away.

  ‘Didn’t think so.’ He pointed at Number Two. ‘Two: give everyone their car keys and phones. Three: there’s a can of petrol in the boot of the Range Rover, you and Seven…’ He did a quick three-sixty where he stood. ‘Where’s Seven? SEVEN!’

  Rat shuddered. ‘Leaving the sinking ship…’

  ‘Fine. Three and Four: get the petrol splashed around. I want this place up in flames now!’

  Stan checked his watch. How long was that, twenty minutes? ‘We’ve really got to get out of here. The cops’ll be on their way.’

  ‘Then get your finger out and do as you’re told!’

  Stan followed the long line of cars, lurching their way down the track. A dense cluster of tail-lights, glowing red into the distance. Still no sign of flashing blue-and-white coming over the hills to cart them all away. Not yet anyway.

  His eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror.

  Flames danced in the open doorway of the cattle court as the damp straw smouldered, then caught. Spreading. The cottage was burning too – and a damn sight faster than the cattle court – sending gouts of orange and yellow roaring up into the drizzly sky. Illuminating the Auctioneer’s Range Rover and Number Five’s filthy four-by-four with the big dog going mental in the boot.

  The line of cars reached the junction, each one turning off in the opposite direction to the last: under strict instructions to do the same thing at every junction they came to – one left, one right – dispersing out into the night, to go home and wait for a text about the money.

  To wait for a text and hope the cops didn’t come knocking.

  Stan tightened his grip on the steering wheel, the pear-drops-and-vinegar scent of unleaded wafting up from his gloved hands. They wouldn’t come. He was safe. That was the point of all the masks and anonymous texts and never using your real name. Even if the cops did manage to pick someone up, they couldn’t inform on anyone else. The only person who knew who they all were was lying dead on the cattle-court floor, with a bullet in his guts. Burning away right now in their DIY crematorium as the flames got rid of the evidence.

  And, yes, it was a shame about the dead police officer, but it was too late to worry about that now.

  ‘Mmmnnnph…’ Warm. Really lovely and warm. For a change.

  The world strobed into life, between his heavy eyelids. Cattle court. Yes. He was in a cattle court on a farm somewhere out in the middle of nowhere.

  Tired, though. Really, really tired.

  Logan frowned.

  The floor smouldered, dancing wisps of steam and smoke swirling around each other as they waltzed towards the metal roof.

  Over by the main door a stack of hay and a pile of pallets was surrounded by flames. Then a whoomp as one of the wrapped bales went up.

  Oh.

  Great.

  And all the scumbags in the masks were gone too.

  Come on: up. On your feet.

  Logan dug his heels into the damp straw underneath him … and toppled sideways, in a slow arc, until he was lying on it.

  Closed his eyes.

  At least he wasn’t cold any more.

  Gah! Roberta stumbled on, torch held out in front of her, the other hand clasping a slightly scabby hanky over her nose and mouth. The air in here was solid with smoke. Bitter, dark, greasy smoke that reeked of burning straw, wood, and plastic.

  Her torch barely slid through it, making sod-all difference to the complete lack of visibility. All it did was light up more bloody smoke.

  A voice bellowed from somewhere outside. ‘GET OUT OF THERE! IT’S NOT SAFE!’

  Aye, right.

  She kept going, coughing and hacking. What was the point of giving up fags? Probably inhaled about six months’ worth in the last three minutes.

  The vast yellow bulk of a combine harvester loomed out of the smoke, its big rotating spiky bits the only things in focus, the rest of it hiding in the billowing darkness.

  She hacked up half a lung and staggered around the side.

  ‘SERGEANT STEEL, DON’T BE AN IDIOT!’

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Bit late to stop now, wasn’t it? Habit of a lifetime and all that.

  Where the goat-buggering hell was—

  ‘Aaaargh!’ Something tripped her up and Roberta went sprawling, needles slashing at her palms as she hit the concrete. The torch skittered away, spinning across the ground, getting smaller as its beam lighthoused around and around.

  She struggled to her knees and crawled after it. Grabbed the thing. Hacked and rattled the other half-lung up.

  Great. She’d dropped her hanky.

  ‘CAN YOU HEAR ME? GET OUT BEFORE YOU KILL YOURSELF!’

  Aye, maybe he had a point.

  She raised her other arm, burying her nose and mouth in the bend of her elbow. Swung the torch round to see what she’d tripped over…

  Bloody hell.

  It was a leg. A human leg. And it was attached to an ugly wee man – all trussed up and unconscious. Cable tied to the combine’s steps. Broken nose. The bottom half of his face stained dark red. A strip of duct tape wrapped about his bonce.

  Roberta shuffled over and felt for a pulse …

  Yup: still alive. For now.

  She swung the torch through the smoke again.

  A line of scarlet, about two-hands wide, stretched across the concrete floor. Definitely drag marks. And the smaller red splotches running along the left side of it looked suspiciously like a single handprint, repeated over and over again. And the prints didn’t start or end with the broken-nosed man. They kept going right past him.

  She scuffed forward on her hand and knees, following the trail…

  Then stopped and stared.

  A man lay at the end of it, slumped back, arms and legs splayed, grey hoodie stained with blood, face the colour of antique ivory. And behind him, one arm still wrapped around the guy’s chest, was Logan.

  That’s why there was the one handprint, over and over again on the concrete floor. Logan must have dragged this guy in here.

  She scrambled over, grabbed a fistful of bloody hoodie and hauled him off Logan. ‘No, no, no, no, no…’ Smoke burned its way down into her lungs making her hack and cough and splutter.

  ‘Logan!’ Roberta took hold of his shoulders. Shook him.

  Nothing.

  This was no’ the way today was meant to end. ‘IN HERE! HE’S IN HERE!’

  Three huge fire engines sat in the gap between the two agricultural buildings, pumping water onto the cattle court. Diesel engines growling. Their lights spun blue and white through the smoke, their warning chevrons fluorescing in the headlights of the ambulances.

  Rain hissed on the cattle court’s roof, adding to the massive plumes of steam and rolling smoke.

  ‘Get off me.’ Roberta slapped Rennie’s hands away as she paced up and down the length of Logan’s ambulance. Coughing – dry and rattling, burning up through her sandpaper throat.

  ‘You’ve probably got smoke inhalation.’

  ‘You’ll probably get a shoe-leather hernia if you don’t sod off and leave me alone!’ Another trip up and down the concrete.

  ‘At least drink some water.’

  ‘I mean it, Rennie – the whole bastarding shoe!’

  They had the ambulance doors shut, muttered voices and barked instructions coming from inside. What the hell was taking them so long?

  Tufty lurched over, hands and face smudged a dirty grey-black. He pointed at the closed doors. ‘Any news?’

  Moron.

  ‘Does it sodding look like it?’

/>   Rennie shook his head. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood. And I mean a lot.’

  ‘It’s all my fault…’ Tufty shuffled his feet. Obviously waiting for someone to tell him that it wasn’t. Well tough. He nodded, cleared his throat, and spat out a dark-brown glob. Then pointed at the other ambulance. ‘We’ve got an anonymous I-C-One male suffering from breathing in too much smoke and probably concussion. And another one who’s been shot in the stomach. Paramedics think they’ve got him stabilised. No sign of anyone else.’ He spat again. ‘Well, you know, other than the body wrapped in plastic.’

  At that, the other ambulance bleep-bleep-bleeped as it reversed through a gap between the fire engines. Did a three-point turn, and raced away down the driveway – siren on full tilt, all lights blazing. Getting smaller and smaller. Disappearing into the rainy night.

  You know what? Sod this.

  Roberta stormed up the remaining ambulance’s rear steps and flung the door open.

  Logan was laid out on the stretcher trolley. They’d cut off his jacket, his hoodie, and his T-shirt, exposing skin pale as moonlight … at least the bits not covered in blood. A couple of IV lines snaked into one arm, wires hooked his chest up to a monitor.

  She banged on the open door. ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’

  One of the paramedics hurried over to shut it again.

  Behind him, the other one stuck defibrillator lines onto Logan’s bloody skin. ‘Charged. Clear!’

  The door slammed shut, and they were gone.

  48

  ‘Shh…’ Susan wrapped an arm around Robbie and gave her a squeeze. ‘He’ll be OK, you’ll see.’ Because, let’s face it, Susan hadn’t made it this far through life by not being Princess of the Glass Half-Full People. Queen of the Silver Lining. Empress of Looking on the Bright Side.

  The blinds were partially drawn, shutting out the storm, quivering in the air that whistled through the vents. Rain crackled against the window. Machinery bleeped and whirred. The ventilator hissed and squealed with every artificial breath.

  And at the centre of it all: Logan. Still and so painfully, painfully pale. Hollows beneath his eyes. Tubes, wires, drips…

  Susan gave Robbie another squeeze, then dug out a hanky and wiped away her tears.

  Robbie blinked at her, all bloodshot and wobbly. ‘What if he doesn’t—’

  ‘Roberta Steel, you listen to me: Logan isn’t going anywhere. He wouldn’t dare.’ Susan kissed her on the forehead – still a bit smoky even after three showers. ‘This is nothing more than a tiny setback. I promise.’

  ‘Three hundred. Charging…’ The defibrillator screen filled with the wobbly yellow scrawl of ventricular fibrillation. A shrill bleep sounded and the shock light turned red. Khadija looked up from the machine. ‘Everyone stand clear!’

  The whole team skipped away from the bed, like a lumpen ballet in pale-blue scrubs, and she pressed the button.

  The patient stiffened, arms and legs rigid, then sagged back onto the sheets. Pale and naked, with a chunk of stained wadding over his side.

  Khadija checked the monitor again: still in ventricular fibrillation. ‘Damn it…’ She thumbed the button up to five hundred joules and glowered at him. ‘You are not breaking my winning streak. Charging!’

  The Rolling Stones rocked out of Danielle’s noise-cancelling headphones: ‘Sympathy for the Devil’. Perfect accompaniment to putting up a chunk of stud partitioning.

  Danielle positioned the length of CLS in the compound mitre saw and pulled the handle down – timing the blade’s shriek to the music. Then dabbed the cut ends with preservative and carried it over to what was going to be the kitchen wall. Wedged it into place and hammered the bottom edge till it sat flush with its neighbour. Nice and tight.

  She grabbed the nail gun and whacked a couple in down there, bracketing them, then did the same at the top and twice more in between for good measure.

  Right – next stud.

  She turned and…

  Ah.

  A police Transit and a couple of patrol cars scrunched to a halt on the track in front of her house-to-be. Their doors flew open and about a dozen officers burst out of them, some in uniform, some in plainclothes, and some really big ones in riot gear.

  They swarmed up onto the concrete foundations, circling her, batons at the ready.

  A goofy-looking one with bleached blond hair and a righteous expression on his stupid pink face strode through the ranks. He pointed a tin of pepper spray at her. ‘YOU! DROP THE WEAPON! HANDS UP!’

  She switched Mick off and removed her headphones. Raised an eyebrow at Blondie. ‘Rennie, isn’t it?’

  ‘DROP THE WEAPON!’

  Weapon?

  Danielle’s eyes drifted down to the nail gun in her other hand. It’d be a challenge, but she could probably take three or four of them down before the rest got her.

  Then again…

  She shrugged, lowered the nail gun, and put her hands in the air.

  ‘Urgh…’ Logan peered out at a strange room that smelled of disinfectant. Small. Blinds closed, thin slivers of sunlight chiselling their way in through the gaps to gouge holes in his eyes.

  The air tasted … horrible. Like someone had rubbed a toilet brush around the inside of his mouth.

  Everything weighed a ton: arms, legs, head, the starchy sheet and pale-blue crocheted blanket thing covering him.

  Machinery whirred, beeped, and snored?

  He let his head roll over towards the window. It looked as if the place had been dive-bombed by the Get-Well-Soon Fairy. Mylar balloons, cards, a couple of over-sized teddy bears, grapes… And slumped in a big blue vinyl visitors’ chair, head back and gob open: Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel. Snorting, gurgling, and droning away like bagpipes full of custard.

  Logan closed his eyes and let the darkness swallow him again.

  The thump, thump, thump of R&B blared out through the open window as Roberta and Tufty stormed up the path to Ellie Morton’s house.

  Sun was out. Almost made the street look pretty. But no’ quite.

  She clicked her fingers, then pointed. ‘Better give it laldy.’

  Tufty did, hammering on the red door with his fist, making the whole thing boom and shake. Even managed to do it so he wasn’t in time with the music, so it was extra irritating.

  A voice yelled out from inside. ‘BUGGER OFF!’

  Tufty kept hammering.

  The same voice again: getting louder. ‘ALL RIGHT, I’M GETTING IT. … I SAID I’M GETTING IT, YOU STUPID COW!’

  Then the door flew open and Russell Morton blinked out at them, both eyelids working independently of one another. Pupils big and black in a sea of pink. The thick sweaty reek of marijuana rolled off him like fog, accompanied by stale beer and whisky.

  He grabbed onto the door frame and wobbled a bit, squinting as the music thump, thump, thumped out behind him. ‘The hell do you want?’

  Roberta gave him a big happy smile. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t my old pal Russell Morton.’ She clapped her hands, as if she was encouraging Naomi to go potty. ‘Guess what, Russy-boy: you’re nicked.’

  The magic words seemed to cut through the fog of booze and dope, because those big black eyes went wide and Morton turned to run off into the house.

  Tufty leapt inside, grabbed the lanky wee scumbag and wrestled him to the hall carpet. ‘Hold still! HOLD STILL!’ Struggling the cuffs into place.

  Roberta pulled out her e-cigarette, inhaled a big cloud of black cherry and puffed it out in a satisfied sigh. ‘Ahh… I enjoyed that.’

  ‘You still no’ up and about?’ Steel plonked herself down in his high-backed visitor’s chair and swung her feet up onto the bedclothes. ‘Five days slobbing about in bed: that’s malingering, that is.’ Today, her hair looked as if she’d had a fight with a tumble drier. And lost. ‘You’re a proper sight, by the way. Can you no’ have a shave or something?’

  Logan shifted beneath his crinkly sheet, voice barely a whisper. ‘Thirsty
…’

  She tossed a folded newspaper onto his bed. ‘Present for you.’

  His hands trembled a bit as he picked it up, the IV line jiggling about on the end of its cannula. ‘TRIBUTES PAID TO DEAD HOMELESS MAN’ sat above a picture of a young bloke with a long brown beard and sunken eyes, singing away outside the Greggs on Union Street – one hand on his chest, the other in the air. ‘Oh no… Sammy Show-Tunes died?’

  ‘No’ that, you idiot, other side.’

  Ah.

  Logan turned the paper over. It was that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner, with the headline, ‘EVIL STEPDAD SOLD ELLIE TO PAEDOPHILE RING’ stretched across its front page. A nice big photo of Russell Morton being bundled away in handcuffs.

  Aw, diddums. He looked very upset.

  A smile pulled at Logan’s cheeks, making the layers of stubble itch.

  Steel dug a hand into her armpit and had a good scratch. ‘Don’t say I never do anything nice for you.’

  ‘Do you want to make it two nice things?’

  She pulled in her chin. ‘It’s no’ a bed bath, is it? Cos there’s limits.’

  God, there was an image.

  ‘No: my mobile phone’s got photos on it. One of the paedophiles from the Mart – I got his face and number plate.’

  ‘Now you’re talking!’ She stuck out her hand. ‘Well, where is it?’

  Ah…

  ‘Look! Look!’ Stephen MacGuire stood on his tiptoes and placed a big squashed box of chocolates on the bed. ‘We got you chocolates, but Ellie sat on them.’

  Ellie stuck out her bottom lip. ‘Did not!’

  ‘Did too!’

  The five of them surrounded his hospital bed: Stephen, Ellie, Rebecca, Vernon, and little Lucy Hawkins in her pink dungarees – hugging Rebecca’s teddy bear, with one thumb wedged firmly in her mouth. The only kid not staring at him like he was a two-headed goat in a petting zoo was Vernon. He stood in the corner not making eye contact, a long-sleeve top pulled down over his fingertips to hide the small circular scars that covered his arms. All the kids from the Livestock Mart, except for Aiden MacAuley.

  Their parents stood out in the hallway, looking in through the observation window, every one of them teary and smiling.

  Good job he’d taken Steel’s advice yesterday and had a shave.