Dark Blood. Stuart MacBride

you know what I’m saying?’

      ‘Just an observation.’ Knox’s voice was nearly an octave higher, but still broad Geordie. He took a grip of the handrail and picked his way down the steps to the wet tarmac. ‘Not like this all the time, is it?’

      DI Steel grinned at him. ‘No, most of the time it’s a lot worse. Why don’t you try somewhere warmer? Like hell? That’s meant to be nice this time of year.’

      Knox stared back, expressionless. ‘Funny. You’re a funny lady.’

      ‘And you’re a raping wee shitebag.’

      ‘Served me time. Paid me debt to society, like. God has forgiven us.’

      ‘My sharny arse! People like you—’

      ‘All right.’ The big man limped between them. ‘I think that’s enough team bonding for one morning.’ He stuck out his hand for Steel to shake. ‘Detective Superintendent Danby.’

      She looked at the hand for a moment, then grabbed it, her fingers disappearing into the DSI’s grip. ‘Detective Inspector Steel.’

      ‘Excellent.’ Danby nodded, getting an extra chin for his trouble. ‘Now, any chance we can go inside before we all freeze to death?’

      Knox didn’t say much on the way into town, just sat in the back of the patrol car, sandwiched between Logan and PC Guthrie, clutching an Asda carrier bag to his chest while Steel drove.

      DSI Danby was a lot more chatty. ‘So there we were, half the bobbies in Newcastle, and we still can’t find our missing grandad anywhere. We’ve checked the shops, the post office, every shed and garage for three miles round his house. So it gets dark and we have to give up for the night. Newspaper appeals, radio, even got us a two minute spot on the local telly news. Nothing.’

      Knox shifted in his seat, rubbing against Logan in the confined space. Up close he smelled of lavender and peppermint. Like an old lady’s handbag. Knox sniffed. ‘Do we really need to hear this, again?’

      ‘Three days later, the old boy turns up at the local library, still in his jammies, gabbling on about how he’s been abducted by aliens. Course, everyone knows he’s got Alzheimer’s, you know what I’m saying? So they pat him on the head and get someone to drive him home. Only he keeps going on about how the aliens took him to their underground lab and did experiments on him. Anal probes and all that.’

      Danby sniffed, one hand wrapped around the grab handle above the passenger door, staring out of the window. ‘So finally his sister calls the doctor and he examines the old man, doesn’t he? You know what?’

      Knox cleared his throat. ‘You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Spoiling things for us.’

      ‘Just making conversation.’

      ‘Well don’t. It’s not funny.’

      ‘Suit yourself.’ The DSI went back to staring at the drab, grey scenery. On a good day, Aberdeen sparkled … but this wasn’t a good day. The granite buildings sulked beneath the heavy clouds, their grey walls stained dark by the never-ending drizzle. Headlights shimmered back from the wet road, taillights glowering red through a haze of spray.

      DI Steel flicked on the radio, breaking the silence. Annie Lennox – Aberdeen’s favourite local-girl-made-good – singing about walking on broken glass. The song ended, there was some banal chat from a DJ who obviously thought he was a lot funnier than he actually was, another record, and then the news.

       ‘London grinds to a halt as snowstorms grip England. The A96 is closed between Inverurie and Huntly following a five-car pile-up. McLennan Homes announce jobs boost for the beleaguered North East building industry. And a legal challenge is launched today against a proposed expansion to Donald Trump’s golf resort. Hi, I’m Karen MacDonald. Today the Balmedie Dunes Preservation Society confirmed it would be issuing a legal challenge…’

      PC Guthrie snorted. ‘How come every time there’s half a millimetre of snow, England goes tits up? What a bunch of wanky…’ He drifted to a halt, DSI Danby had swivelled round in the passenger seat to stare into the back of the patrol car.

      ‘Er…’ The constable’s cheeks went pink. ‘I mean … it’s…’ He looked at Logan. ‘We…’

      Logan shook his head. ‘No chance: you’re on your own, Sunshine.’

      Idiot.

      ‘Come on then, Constable,’ Danby’s voice rumbled through the confined space, ‘you have something to say: let’s hear it.’

      ‘I just … it … erm…’ Cough. ‘With the snow, and it’s probably, you know, unexpected, and the councils don’t grit the roads…’ He wriggled in his seat. ‘Got nothing against the English. Got lots of mates who’re English…’

      Danby looked at him. ‘How long you been in the force?’

      Guthrie licked his lips. ‘Erm… Seven years?’

      ‘Take a tip, Constable, if you ever want to make sergeant, practise your lying. Cos right now you’re crap. You know what I’m saying?’

       4

      Grampian Police Force Headquarters was a lot busier at five to nine on a Thursday morning than it had any right to be. By now the CID dayshift should have been out there, keeping the city safe from the people who lived in it; instead they were hanging around the station, making the place look untidy. Logan picked his way carefully down the corridor, two coffees and a pair of tinfoil parcels balanced on a manila folder like a wobbly tray.

      DI Steel’s office was the last one before the noisy main CID room. Logan stopped outside her door and carefully rearranged his hands so he could knock without spilling scalding liquid all over himself.

      Only he didn’t get that far.

      Someone coughed behind him, and Logan turned to find Detective Inspector Beattie standing there with his arms folded. ‘Weren’t you supposed to come see me first thing this morning, Sergeant?’

      Sodding hell. DI Beattie: sixteen stone of useless with a beard.

      ‘Had to go pick up Richard Knox.’

      Beattie looked down at the carpet for a moment. ‘We were supposed to go over those counterfeit goods, remember? Handbags, MP3 players, cameras, perfume… What are we doing about them?’

      ‘Have you spoken to Trading Standards yet?’

      ‘No I thought you—’

      ‘I told you to go speak to them. Jesus, George, you’re supposed to be a DI now, remember? I can’t do everything for—’

      Inspector Steel’s office door banged open, and she lurched to a halt on the threshold, mouth hanging open as if she was about to shout something. She took one look at Beattie, then turned to Logan, ‘Where the hell have you been?’

      ‘Had to—’

      ‘Get your arse in here.’ She hauled up her trousers, stood back, waited till Logan was inside, then slammed the door in Beattie’s face.

      Steel’s new office didn’t look anything like the old one: the knobbly ceiling tiles were still white, not coated in a sticky beige film of cigarette tar; the walls didn’t have those greasy Blu-tack acne spots; and the carpet was still a recognizable colour. Logan gave it six weeks, tops.

      Steel slumped back behind her desk and Logan handed her a mug and a tinfoil parcel. She unwrapped the bacon buttie and got stuck in, chewing and talking at the same time: ‘What we got?’

      He pointed at the manila folder, now with an Olympic logo of coffee rings on it. ‘Not a hell of a lot. Far as we can tell, Knox hasn’t been to Aberdeen since he was