Dark Blood (22 page)

Colin watched Sandy stomp away into the snow, then helped himself to a steak pie. Talking with his mouth full. ‘So what you doin’ about Knox, now his cover’s blown, and that?’

‘Yeah, and who blew it?’ Logan went back into the plastic bag for a milky coffee and a cheese and onion pasty. ‘Who told you?’

‘Suppose you’ll have to move him. Might be an idea to let him put his side of the story first, you know?’

‘Colin, my boss is sitting in that patrol car over there, thinking up new ways to make my life a living hell, because I talked her into stopping off to get you breakfast. Now who told you where Knox was staying?’

‘And how is Madame Wrinkles the Lesbo Lothario?’

‘Colin!’

‘No one told me.’ Colin took another bite of pie, the hot meaty smell oozing out into the Volkswagen’s interior. ‘See, the thing about bein’ an investigative journalist is you go out and
investigate.
Should try it some time, be amazed what you can turn up, but.’

Smug git.

Logan creaked the plastic lid off his coffee. ‘How about I
tell Isobel where you
really
were two weeks ago? When she thought you were in Dundee interviewing the idiot who got hypothermia trying to steal that statue of Desperate Dan?’

Colin stared at him. ‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Got till I finish my pasty, then I’m calling her.’

‘You are such a…’ Scowl. ‘OK, OK: when I was down in Newcastle I spoke to a neighbour, who put me onto his old English teacher. Creepy auld wifie with too many cats and a face like a skelpt arse. She says every single one of Knox’s “What I did on holiday” essays was about him comin’ up to Aberdeen and stayin’ with his granny and grandad, while his mum went aff on the pull.’

Colin took another bite of pie, taking care not to get any gravy on his gloves. ‘Offered to sell me one of the essays, you believe that? Soon as they charged Knox with raping that old man she went and dug everythin’ she could out of the school records. Knew it would be worth somethin’ some day.’

He shook his head, took a sip of tea. ‘Report cards, notes from his mum, complaints from the gym teacher…Tell you, makes you proud of the education system, doesn’t it? First thing she thinks of is how much cash she can rake in.’

‘And?’

‘Gonnae be in tomorrow’s
Examiner:
“Portrait of the monster as a small boy”, kinda deal. Four-page spread.’

‘No, you idiot, how did you get the address?’

‘School kept next-of-kin details on file. Mrs Euphemia Abercrombie-Murray was down as a second point of contact, in case they couldn’t get hold of Knox’s mum.’

At least that meant Finnie could call off his witch hunt.

Logan looked out through the falling snow. Lights were on in Knox’s house, everyone probably woken hours ago by Colin and his grumpy photographer. That was one good thing about the weather: no journalist was daft enough to camp out on the doorstep.

‘Anything else I should know?’

‘Well—’

The driver’s door creaked open and Sandy stuck his head in, snow clinging to the shoulders of his blue parka and the fringe of hair around of his head. ‘God it’s freezing out—’

‘No’ yet, eh, Sandy?’

‘Oh for…’ He threw his arms wide. ‘It’s my bloody car!’

‘Five minutes, mate.’

‘You know what: it’s my bloody petrol too.’ He yanked the key out of the ignition, then slammed the door again and marched off, hauling the parka’s fur-trimmed hood over his bald patch.

Colin dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘Ever heard of someone called Michael “Mental Mikey” Maitland?’

‘Newcastle mobster. If you’re going to tell me Knox was working for him, save your breath. I know.’

The reporter seemed to deflate a bit. ‘Oh.’

‘Anything else?’

‘You know he died Friday night?’

Pause. ‘So?’

The smile was back on Colin’s face. ‘Welcome to Wednesday’s exclusive: Knox was Mental Mikey’s accountant, right? Not someone you’d trust your grandad with, but cash: genius. Word is Mikey got Knox to squirrel away a bit of rainy-day money.’

‘How much?’

‘Millions.
Two weeks ago Mikey has himself a wee “cardiac incident” and they wheech him into hospital for observation. He has three more, then a bloody huge one on Friday. Mental Mikey, Terror of Tyneside finally passes away in the wee small hours, surrounded by his nearest and dearest.’

‘Who all now want to get their hands on Mikey’s nest egg.’

Colin tapped the side of his head with a stiff, leathered finger. ‘Aye, but our boy Knox is the only one knows where it is and how to get at it.’

Logan watched a robin bob and hop across Knox’s front garden, leaving little CND footprints. ‘The lying bastard…’

‘Eh?’

‘Nothing.’ He clunked open the back door. ‘Anything else comes up – and I mean anything at all – give me a call.’

Colin shrugged. ‘Aye, and what’s in it for me?’

‘Dundee, Desperate Dan: truth. Remember?’

Logan climbed out into the snow, clunking the door shut on the reporter’s reply.

It was almost as cold inside Richard Knox’s house as it was outside, the windows spidered with tendrils of frost. So everyone gathered in the kitchen, listening to the kettle rumbling its way back to the boil again.

Everyone except Richard Knox: he was through in the lounge, kneeling in front of the three-bar electric fire, praying.

Logan nodded towards the door. ‘How’s he doing?’

Mandy from Sacro pulled a face. ‘Not happy. When that Weegie short-arse hammered on the door this morning Knox went off on one. Smashed the rest of the ornaments and broke all the furniture.’

Harry, her partner, stifled a yawn. ‘Only thing he didn’t do was lie down and beat his fists on the floor.’

Steel hauled herself to her feet. ‘Good. Maybe he’ll get so upset he’ll sod off somewhere else.’ She clunked her mug on the tabletop. ‘Anyone wants me, I’m outside having a fag.’

Guthrie worked his way through the cupboards as Steel shouldered the back door and stomped out into the overgrown garden. ‘Any biscuits?’

‘Already?’ Butler shook her head. ‘You just had three pies.’

‘Got a fast metabolism.’

‘Got a bloody tapeworm, more like…’ She trailed off into silence.

Someone was hammering on the front door. Then the letterbox clattered open and a voice shouted in through the gap, ‘MR KNOX? RICHARD? WHAT WOULD YOU SAY TO THE FAMILIES OF YOUR VICTIMS?’

‘Christ, not again.’ Guthrie looked at Butler. ‘Whose turn is it?’

‘I did the last two.’

‘Sod.’ Guthrie grabbed his peaked cap off the kitchen work-surface and jammed it on his head, then marched down the corridor.

‘RICHARD? DON’T YOU DESERVE THE CHANCE TO TELL YOUR SIDE OF THE STORY?’

Logan watched Guthrie haul open the front door – the woman squatting on the other side almost fell on her backside. It took Guthrie nearly two minutes to get rid of her, with a lot of arguing, complaints about freedom of the press, two attempts at bribery, and a veiled threat that Guthrie hadn’t heard the last of this.

She stormed off down the snow-covered garden path, a photographer in tow.

Guthrie closed the front door again. ‘Bloody
Daily Mail.
’

Something thumped against the wood and he sagged. Swore. Then put his hat back on again and wrenched the door open. A second snowball thumped against the wall beside him, sending out a flurry of white.

Logan could just make out the
Daily Mail
reporter ducking down behind Sandy the grumpy photographer’s beige Volkswagen.

Guthrie shouted: ‘Hoy! You!’ then hurried down the path after her.

Logan closed the door.

Richard Knox crossed himself, stood, then wiped a hand across his eyes. The room was even gloomier than usual, curtains drawn, the only light coming from the three-bar electric fire: its middle coil giving off a weak orange glow, the other two dead and dark.

Logan stood on the threshold, looking into the lounge. There wasn’t a single ornament left in one piece, the faded wallpaper pockmarked with the residue of ceramic explosions. The standard lamp lay tipped into the corner, its wooden upright snapped in the middle, brown wires poking out. Broken television on its back. Coffee table on its side, missing two legs. The overturned sofa missing an arm.

The only thing he hadn’t touched was his three-bar votive flame.

Logan hauled one of the armchairs back onto its legs, shoogled it in front of the fire and sat. ‘Like what you’ve done with the place.’

Knox didn’t look around, his voice small and snivelly. ‘How did they find us?’

‘Your old English teacher sold your school records.’

‘She always was a bitch, like.’ He rubbed his eyes again. ‘You ever stop and think, “maybe God doesn’t love us any more”? That he’s doing all this to punish us?’

Knox turned and wandered over to the closed curtains. ‘It’s a test, though, isn’t it? All this? A test of me faith.’

‘We have to move you somewhere else.’

‘Like prison.’ Knox smiled, his face creasing up on one side. ‘It was a test of me faith, and when I passed, God rewarded us. Got the prison shrink help us come to terms with me childhood. Stuff that was confusing us,
subconsciously
and that.’

Logan sat forward. ‘You know, there’s a psychologist in Aberdeen who wants to help you as well.’

‘Like after Grandad Joe died in his sleep. Me mam was downstairs in the kitchen, arguing with Granny Murray – can’t
remember what about, but there was lots of crying…And there was us upstairs, alone in the room with Grandad Joe.’ Knox reached out and stroked the faded velvet curtains. ‘He looked like butter, like he was made out of it, you know? All yellow and greasy, but when I touched his skin it was dry. Dry and cold. I was nine.’

‘His name’s Doctor Goulding. I can set it up an appointment for today, if you like?’

‘His teeth was sitting in a whisky glass beside the bed, and he’s lying there, mouth not quite shut, you know? Like he’s about to say something? So I pulls his mouth open, all the way, and runs me finger round the inside. His skin was cold, but inside he was still warm…’ Knox trailed off into silence, one finger tracing a circle on the dried-blood curtain. The smell of mould getting stronger.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Maybe we should just—’

‘In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.’

‘Richard, we’re going to need to get you out of here.’

‘And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.’

‘Look, we’ve got a contingency plan for—’

‘And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.’ Knox stopped drawing his circle and grabbed the curtains with both hands.

‘Richard, this is important. I need you to—’

‘And God said, “Let there be light”!’ He threw the curtains open and Aberdeen did its best to rise to the occasion. Dawn had finally breached the horizon, colouring the snowbound garden with gold and amber.

Knox turned and smiled at Logan. ‘And there was light.’

And then there really was – blinding white light, shining straight in through the bay window. Logan covered his eyes with a hand, peering out.

Someone shouted, ‘There he is!’

An outside broadcast van sat on the other side of a lopsided
holly bush, TV spotlights trained on the house. A bank of cameras. A group of people, placards jabbing into the cold morning air: ‘
KNOX OUT
!’ ‘
ABERDEEN DOESN’T WANT GEORDIE RAPISTS
!!!’ ‘
PERVART GO HOME
!’

‘Bloody hell.’ Logan creaked out of the armchair. ‘Richard, close the curtains!’

The weaselly little man just stood there, staring out at the people staring back at him.

‘Richard!’ Logan pushed past him, hauled the dusty red curtains shut.

Darkness.

Then the chanting started.
‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

‘But…it’s me
home.
They…’

‘Go. Pack your stuff.’ Logan grabbed him by the sleeve. ‘We have to—’

‘DON’T TOUCH US!’ Knox scrabbled backwards, hands working at his chest like angry spiders. ‘Don’t touch. You’re not allowed to touch!’

‘I’m sorry, OK? Calm down.’ Logan held his hands out. ‘No one’s going to hurt you.’

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

‘Make them stop!’

‘It’s OK, you’re safe. They can’t—’

A loud crash ripped through the musty room, the curtains billowing, the shatter of falling glass, shards spilling out across the carpet.

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

The lounge door clattered open: Mandy from Sacro. ‘What the hell was that?’

Another crash and the curtains humped out again. More glass. A fist-sized lump of rock rolled out into the gloom.

Logan backed away, looked at her. ‘Get him out of here.’

‘Come on, Richard, it’s not safe.’

‘Don’t touch us!’

‘I’m not going to touch you—’

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

Through the lounge door, Logan could see Butler and Guthrie running for the front door, extendible batons at the ready.

More glass, another rock.

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

Logan stood at the upstairs window, looking down at the crowds. They’d grown thicker over the last hour, now the whole street was packed with angry faces, staring up at the house, shouting.

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

Had to be two, maybe three hundred people out there, chanting in the snow, breath steaming into the cold morning air. Waving their placards. Being outraged for the cameras.

And there were a
lot
of cameras: newspapers and TV channels basking in the collective hatred of a community at war with one creepy little man.

At least reinforcements had arrived. Two unformed officers shivered at the front gate, while a reporter with a
Channel 4 News
umbrella did a piece to camera with them in the background. BBC Scotland had done exactly the same thing ten minutes earlier, probably catching the last live slot on
Breakfast News.

A pair of large police vans had parked at the edge of the crowd, one of them slowly filling up with people arrested for public order offences.

The snickt of metal sounded behind him, and Logan turned to see DI Steel sparking up a cigarette. She wiggled the pack at him.

‘Thought Knox didn’t want us smoking in the house?’

She settled onto the room’s single bed. ‘Screw him.’

It was obviously a boy’s bedroom: dusty Airfix model kits of Spitfires, Hurricanes, and other assorted warplanes, sitting
on top of a tatty chest of drawers. A football poster on the wall so faded that the Newcastle United team were a collection of ghosts. Blue wallpaper. A
Thundercats
duvet and pillow set spotted with mildew.

Logan took a cigarette and lit it, then hauled the sash window open, the swollen wood squealing.

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

Steel plumped up one of the pillows and settled back. ‘Think they’d get bored after a while, wouldn’t you? Same thing, over and over.’

‘Every oddball, weirdo, and tosspot in town is going to descend on this place.’

‘Yup.’ She blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.

‘There’s something else.’ Logan told her about Collin Miller’s little revelation. ‘So with Mental Mikey dead…’

Steel didn’t even blink. ‘I know. Danby told me. Why do you think Knox wanted to move up here: our balmy climate and café culture? Nah, knew Mikey was on the way out, needed to be…’ She waved her hand in a circle, the cigarette leaving a trail in the air. ‘…somewhere all those ambitious wee radges couldn’t get their hands on him. With Mikey dead he’s no’ protected any more.’

‘Oh.’ So much for that. Logan turned back to the window, watching the snow settle on the crowd.

‘You get anything out of Polmont’s journals?’

‘Still working on it.’ He’d taken them home again last night and forgot all about them after Samantha came through wearing nothing but her tattoos, stripy hold-ups and a pair of knee-high kinky boots. ‘Why’s Danby so interested?’

‘Who says he’s interested?’

‘Do we have to go through this
again?’

‘Can you imagine lying here every Friday night listening to your granny and grandad humping like horny gerbils?’

‘Fine, keep it secret, like I bloody care.’ He flicked ash out of the window. ‘How are we going to get Knox out of here?’

‘Wonder if she was a moaner, a screamer? Or did she just lie there like a sack of tatties?’

‘Road’s packed. Maybe we can get him out over the back wall?’

‘Looking at her photo, I bet she was a screamer. “Oh, Grandad Joe, you’re so big!”’ Steel lowered her voice for: ‘“Who’s the grandaddy?” “Oh,
you
are! Yes! Yes! Yes—”’

‘Do you have to do that?’

Shrug. ‘Got to take pleasure in the simple things, Laz. Otherwise, what have you got?’ She stuck the cigarette between her teeth and had a scratch at her crotch.

‘Better go see if they’ve got him packed up yet.’

Knox was curled up on his granny’s tatty quilt in the master bedroom, the handles of his plastic bag sticking out like rabbit ears.

‘Come on, Richard, you’re going to have to help.’ Mandy from Sacro stuck her hands on her hips, a white T-shirt clasped in one hand. A battered leather suitcase sat open on the foot of the bed, with a little pile of clothes in it.

‘I’m not going.’

Logan knocked on the door frame. ‘How we doing?’

Mandy glowered at him. ‘How do you think?’

‘I’m not going. This is me house. You can’t make us leave.’

She gritted her teeth, stared at the ceiling for a moment, then marched out, thrusting the T-shirt into Logan’s hands.
‘You
deal with him.’

‘I’m not leaving.’

Logan rolled the T-shirt into a ball and lobbed it into the open suitcase. Five points. ‘Not open for debate.’

Knox wouldn’t look at him. ‘You can’t make us.’

‘Want to bet?’ The curtains were closed in the bedroom. Logan opened them. So much for trying to smuggle Knox out over the back wall and through the neighbour’s garden. There were photographers up stepladders on all three sides,
zoom lenses trained on the house. Silly sods. It had to be minus-four out there.

It looked as if the paparazzi in the garden opposite had broken their vigil at one point to build a small, vaguely obscene snowman.

It didn’t take long before someone spotted Logan at the window, and flashes started flickering. He closed the curtains again.

‘On your feet, we’re leaving.’

‘Told you, I’m not going anywhere.’ Knox stuck his forehead on his knees. ‘Why does no one listen to us?’

‘Right, Richard Knox, I’m arresting you for—’

‘You can’t do that!’

‘There’s a mob out there, and they’ve already attacked the house once. By staying here you’re inflaming the situation – that means I can do you for causing a breach of the peace.’

‘But—’

Logan took out his handcuffs. ‘Look on it as a test from God.’

Silence. Then Knox rolled off the bed and yanked open a drawer in an ancient dresser. Various old clothes went into the suitcase: shirts, socks, Y-fronts.