The Blood Road. Stuart MacBride

       ‘Two years, living it up on the sunny Costa del Somewhere and DI Bell comes home to dreich old Aberdeenshire? See if it was me? No chance.’

      ‘He had a pick and shovel in the boot of his car.’

       ‘Buried treasure?’

      A tractor rumbled past, going the other way, its massive rear wheels kicking up a mountain of filthy spray.

      Logan stuck on the wipers. ‘My money’s on unburied. You don’t come back from the dead to bury something in the middle of nowhere. You come back to dig it up.’

       ‘Ah: got you. He buries whatever it is, fakes his own death, then sods off to the Med. Two years later he thinks it’s safe to pop over and dig it up again.’

      ‘That or whatever he buried isn’t safe any more and he has to retrieve it before someone else does.’

      ‘Hmm…’ Rennie’s voice went all muffled, then came back again. ‘OK: I’ll have a look for bank jobs, or jewellery heists in the case files. Something expensive and unsolved. Something worth staging your own funeral for.’

      ‘And find out who he was working with. See if we can’t rattle some cages.’

      A knot of TV people had set up outside Divisional Headquarters, all their cameras trained on the small group of protestors marching round and round in the rain. There were only about a dozen of them, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for with enthusiasm – waving placards with ‘JUSTICE FOR ELLIE!’, or ‘SHAME ON THE POLICE!’, or ‘FIND ELLIE NOW!’ on them. Nearly every single board had a photo of Ellie Morton: her grinning moon-shaped face surrounded by blonde curls, big green eyes crinkled up at whatever had tickled her.

      Logan slowed the Audi as he drove by. Someone in a tweed jacket was doing a piece to camera, serious-faced as she probably told the world what a useless bunch of tossers Police Scotland were. Oh why hadn’t they found Ellie Morton yet? What about the poor family? Why did no one care?

      As if.

      The Audi bumped up the lumpy tarmac and into the rear podium car park. Pulled into the slot marked ‘RESERVED FOR PROFESSIONAL STANDARDS’. Some wag had graffitied a Grim Reaper on the wall beneath the sign. And, to be fair, it actually wasn’t a bad likeness of Superintendent Doig. Always nice to be appreciated by your colleagues…

      Logan stuck his hat on his head, climbed out, and hurried across to the double doors, swerving to avoid the puddles. Along a breeze-block corridor and into the stairwell. Taking the steps two at a time.

      A couple of uniformed PCs wandered downwards, chatting and smiling.

      They flattened themselves against the wall as Logan approached, all talk silenced, both smiles turned into a sort of pained rictus.

      The spotty one forced a little wave. ‘Inspector.’

      Logan had made it as far as the third-floor landing when his phone dinged at him. Text message.

      He pulled it out and frowned at the screen.

      The caller ID came up as ‘HORRIBLE STEEL!’ and his shoulders sagged a bit. ‘What do you want, you wrinkly monster?’

      He opened the message:

      Come on, you know you want to.

      Nope. Logan thumbed out a reply as he marched past the lifts:

      Told you – I’m busy. Ask someone else.

      He pushed through the doors and into a bland corridor that came with a faint whiff of paint fumes and Pot Noodle.

      A tiny clump of support officers were sharing a joke, laughing it up.

      Then one of them spotted Logan, prompting nudges and a sudden frightened silence.

      Logan nodded at them as he passed, then knocked on the door with a white plastic plaque on it: ‘DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR STEPHEN HARDIE’.

      A tired voice muffled out from inside. ‘Come.’

      Logan opened the door.

      Hardie’s office was all kitted out for efficiency, organisation, and achievement: six whiteboards covered in notes about various ongoing cases, the same number of filing cabinets, a computer that looked as if it wasn’t designed to run on coal or hamster power. A portrait of the Queen hung on the wall along with a collection of framed citations and a few photos of the man himself shaking hands with various local bigwigs. Everything you needed for investigatory success.

      Sadly, it didn’t seem to be working.

      Hardie was perched on the edge of his desk, feet not quite reaching the ground. A short middle-aged man with little round glasses. Dark hair swept back from a high forehead. A frown on his face as he flipped through a sheaf of paperwork.

      He wasn’t the only occupant, though. A skeletal man with thinning hair was stooped by one of the whiteboards, printing things onto it in smudgy green marker pen.

      And number three was chewing on a biro as she scanned the contents of her clipboard. Her jowls wobbling as she shook her head. ‘Pfff… Already got requests coming in from Radio Scotland and Channel 4 News. How the hell did they get hold of it so quickly?’

      Hardie looked up from his papers and grimaced at Logan. ‘Ah, Inspector McRae. I would say “to what do we owe the pleasure?” but it seldom is.’

      Number Three sniffed. ‘Only positive is they don’t know who our victim was.’

      Number Two held up his pen. ‘Yet, George. They don’t know yet.’

      George sighed. ‘True.’

      Logan leaned against the door frame. ‘I take it Superintendent Doig’s been in touch?’

      ‘Urgh.’ Hardie thumped his paperwork down. ‘You know this is going to be a complete turd tornado. Soon as they find out we’ve got a murdered cop who faked his own death, it won’t just be a couple of TV crews out there. It’ll be all of them.’

      ‘Did you ever hear rumours about DI Bell? Backhanders, evidence going missing, corruption?’

      ‘Ding-Dong? Don’t be daft.’ Hardie folded his arms. ‘Now: we need to coordinate our investigations. PSD and MIT.’

      ‘Honest police officers don’t run off to Spain and lie low while everyone back home thinks they’re dead.’

      ‘You can have a couple of officers to assist with your inquiries.’ Hardie pointed at his jowly sidekick. ‘George will sort that out.’

      She smiled at Logan. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t lump you with the neeps.’

      ‘Should think not. And I could do with a copy of the investigation into DI Bell’s so-called suicide, too.’

      ‘I think Charlie’s got that one.’

      Sidekick number two nodded. ‘I’ll drop it off.’

      Logan wandered over to the whiteboards and stood there, head on one side, running his eyes down all the open cases.

      Hardie was trying on his authoritative voice: ‘My MIT will be focusing on catching whoever stabbed Ding-Dong. You can look into … his disappearance.’

      Logan stayed where he was. ‘You’re running the search for Ellie Morton?’

      ‘I expect you to share any and all findings with my team. You report to me first.’

      Aye, right. ‘And Superintendent Doig agreed to that? Doesn’t sound like him. I’d probably better check, you know: in case there’s been a misunderstanding.’

      A harrumphing noise from Hardie. Busted.

      Logan gave him a smile. ‘Ellie’s been missing for, what: four days?’

      DS