Dark Blood (38 page)

Richard closes his eyes.

Father, why have you forsaken me?

Now the only noise is the roar of the wind, the groan and creak of the trees.

Neil sighs. ‘Some time today would be nice, like.’

‘I don’t think I—’

‘Shoot him.’

‘I—’

‘The fucker raped your old man! Do it!’

The barrel presses harder into Richard’s skin.

Neil’s screaming now. ‘KILL HIM!’

Silence.

Then Julie says, ‘Not so easy, is it, Bruce?’

Bruce drags in a huge breath and sobs. ‘I want to…I really want to…but I
can’t.’

The barrel drifts away and Richard falls forward, vomiting into the snow. Oh thank you, thank you merciful God, thank you.

‘You want me to do it, Sweetheart? I can if you like. It’s no problem.’

Richard stares at her, warm bile cooling on his chin as she reaches out and takes the semiautomatic from Bruce’s limp fingers. Takes a step, so she’s standing in front of Richard, the gun barrel a supermassive black hole, sucking everything into it.

‘Any last words, Babe?’

All Richard can think of is, ‘Please…’

She straightens her arm and pulls the trigger.

Logan’s Fiat gave one last almighty bang and died, juddering to a halt on Queen Street. PC Butler pursed her lips, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and pointed through the windscreen. ‘You want to get out and push?’

FHQ loomed black and grey up ahead, all the windows shining bright through the swirling snow, less than two hundred feet away. Almost made it.

Logan shook his head. ‘Never get it up the ramp.’ He climbed out into the road, lurching as the wind buffeted at his back. ‘Shove it to the kerb.’

Between them they managed to push the rusty corpse to the side of the road.

Butler pulled her cap down low over her ears, hunching her shoulders. ‘What now?’

Logan checked his watch – just after four. Still an hour to go before he had to face Finnie. Or he could just avoid it altogether…‘Fancy some overtime?’

He jammed his hands deep into his pockets and crumped through the snow towards FHQ.

‘Alpha Six One, we’ve got a mannie says his neighbour’s killing her husband, Deansloch Crescent, can you attend, over?’

Logan turned down the police radio till it was barely audible over the car’s rumbling diesel engine and the squeal of the windscreen wipers. ‘Still don’t see how you managed this.’

Sitting behind the huge wheel PC Butler grinned. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know.’

The police Land Rover was kitted out in full mountain rescue livery, with ladders, shovels, flares, bull bars, one of those collapsible stretchers, and a set of spotlights strong enough to give polar bears a tan. But
most
importantly: four wheel drive.

Quarter past four on a Wednesday afternoon and the city was at a standstill, nose-to-tail traffic stretching ahead of them, all the way down King Street – taillights and headlights making haloes in the driving snow.

Butler leaned over and thumbed a button. Blue and white flickered from the Land Rover’s roof, then the sirens joined in. The cars in front inched over towards the kerb.

‘That’s more like it.’ The constable sent the Land Rover roaring into the growing gap between the two lanes, the traffic parting before them. Twin streams of slush and snow fountained out from the wheel-arches, spattering the cars on either side of the road.

Logan wasn’t exactly certain this was a ‘lights and music’ kind of trip, but what the hell. He was probably going to get suspended anyway, might as well go out in style.

Click.

Richard sprawls across the frozen ground, screaming, arms wrapped around his head.

And then he realizes he’s still alive. The bullet hasn’t ripped through his skull, spattering the pristine white garden with pink and red and grey like an angry Rorschach ink blot.

Feeling rushes back into his body – fingers and toes burning with cold, legs and arms aching with it, his torso raw. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a squeak.

Julie grins down at him, then looks off towards the knot of people huddled by the patio doors. ‘Oh come
on.’
She waggles the gun at them, then reaches into her pocket and pulls out the magazine clip. Slots it back into place. Racks a round into the chamber. ‘Do you
really
think I was going to give you a loaded gun? Might’ve hurt yourself.’

Richard shivers his way to his hands and knees, shaking so hard he can barely breathe.

Bruce’s head is down, his skin even paler than before, crying.

‘Tony, Neil, why don’t you take Mr Knox back inside and clean him up a bit?’

The two heavies grab an arm each and drag him back into the house. Richard can’t even stand, his legs aren’t working, all he can do is tremble. Teeth clattering in his head.

Oh God, he’s still
alive…

Through the kitchen, down the hall, and into a huge bathroom, all done up in black slate and glistening chrome. They heave him into a big enamel tub, then crank open the taps. Water sputters in, cold at first, then steaming hot. Richard scrabbles back, his pink toes going bright red, the skin throbbing and groaning.

‘Fuckin’ hell.’ Neil grabs the big mixer-showerhead above the shiny taps and thumps his hand down on the chrome button. ‘Don’t be such a bloody poof.’

The showerhead judders, and hot water spurts out. He curls his top lip and holds it over Richard. ‘Stop wriggling! Your own fault for being a filthy little shit, isn’t it?’

Needles, broken glass jammed into his cracking skin…

And slowly the feeling fades, the warm water leaching its heat into his bones. It’s just starting to feel good when Neil twists the taps again, shutting it off. Leaving Richard shivering in the bottom of the tub.

Tony, the quiet one, settles on the toilet lid and stares at Richard’s pink, naked body. ‘We had a deal, Knox.’

Richard doesn’t say anything.

‘We had a deal and you fucked us over.’

‘I didn’t…I wasn’t—’

Neil slaps him, hard across the face. ‘Where’s the money?’

Richard’s mouth tastes of blood, sweet against the bitter tang of vomit. ‘I don’t…I don’t have it. It—’

Another slap.

‘Bad time to get a sense of humour, Knoxy, WHERE’S THE FUCKING MONEY?’

Richard wraps his arms over his head. ‘I don’t have it! Mr Maitland made me split it between his kids before he died…’

This time it’s a punch, right in the stomach. ‘Where’s the money?’

He curls up in the bath, sobbing. ‘I don’t have it, I don’t have it…’

One in the kidneys. ‘Where’s the money?’

‘AAAAGH…
Please,
I don’t have it!’

Then the door opens. ‘Hey, Sweethearts, how’s it going?’

Tony sighs. ‘Says he hasn’t got the cash any more. Mental Mikey willed it to his kids.’

‘That’s a bit of a pain.’ She squats by the side of the bath and looks into Richard’s tear-filled eyes. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Babe. We bought you all that lovely Rohypnol and you used it a day early to disappear on us. You promised to give us Danby – you didn’t. And now you don’t even have the money…You’re no use to me, Darling.’

She stands.

Neil: ‘What you want us to do with him?’

Not the gun again.
Please
not the gun again.

Tony: ‘Sell him.’

They all turn to look at the man sitting on the toilet. ‘Sorry, Sweetheart?’

‘Sell him. They’re all scrabbling to claim Mental Mikey’s empire back home, aren’t they? Cunningham, Dawson, that
violent prick Smithy…Bet any of them would pay good money to get their hands on Knox. ‘Specially if we don’t tell them he’s not got Mikey’s cash any more.’

Oh God, no…Smithy’ll kill him. And not quickly, Richard knows, because he’s seen it.

Julie smiles. ‘Excellent idea. Might even give us a bit of leverage down south. Can’t do it direct though – too risky – but we could go through an intermediary. Someone local.’

‘What about that little weasel you’ve been getting info off?’

‘Who, Polmont?’ She shakes her head. ‘Silly bugger went and got himself killed, didn’t he, Babe? But I might know a man…’

She pulls out her phone and steps out of the bathroom, leaving him alone with Neil and Tony again.

Richard scrubs his hands across his damp, swollen face. ‘Please, you can’t—’

‘Wouldn’t fuckin’ like to be you.’ Neil throws a towel into the bath. ‘Dry yerself.’

‘I can get more money. I can—’

The slap sends him crashing against the black-and-silver tiles. ‘I said, dry yerself!’

Richard keeps his mouth shut and does what he’s told.

Tony sits there on the bog, watching him. ‘Not the luckiest, are you? No cash, no mates, no one to protect you…Know how long Danby held out, before he told us where you were? Five minutes.’

Neil curls his top lip. ‘Didn’t even have to show him the pliers, like.’

‘Can’t believe you thought he’d get you out of the country. How thick are you?’

Julie comes back in, snapping her phone shut. ‘All sorted. Shall we…?’

They drag him, limping, back through to the kitchen.

He stands there, both hands cupping his balls.

Bruce, Ellen, Matt, and Evans are down the other end, by
the fridge, but the only ones who’ll look at him are Ellen and the old man. The other two’s eyes keep slipping away to the floor.

Julie smiles at them. ‘Here’s the deal: we’re going to sell Knox’s scrawny, trembling backside to some
really
nasty Edinburgh gangsters. That way he gets what’s coming to him, and you lovely people get some compensation for what he did to your families. We split it fifty-fifty. Sound fair?’

No one says anything. Well, she’s got that gun, hasn’t she?

Richard sniffs. A tear falls to the tiles at his feet.

Ellen bends down, scoops up the quilt Granny Murray made and flings it at him. ‘Here, you can take your shit with you.’

Richard grabs it, bottom lip trembling, breathing in the smell of the old lady and her house. If they’re going to sell him to Cunningham or Smithy he’d be better off out in the garden with a bullet in his brain. At least that way it’d be quick.

He wraps himself in the quilt. And then Ellen snatches something off the working surface – a tatty Asda carrier bag. ‘All of it.’

Richard catches the bible before it hits him, clutches the crackly plastic to his chest, closes his eyes and thanks God.

Evans steps forward and dumps the old suitcase on the kitchen floor. ‘I didn’t want it to end like this, but you deserve whatever’s coming to you, Knox. I hope you rot in hell.’

Then Neil and Tony march Richard down the corridor, and back out into the snow. They plip open the locks on the big Range Rover, haul the boot open, and shove him inside. They’re back two minutes later with Danby, the bathrobe flapping open in the eddying snow.

After the warmth of the shower, Richard’s hands and feet throb with the cold. Probably got frostbite, or hypothermia, or something like that.

Tony throws the battered leather suitcase in on top of them.
‘Don’t go getting sexy with your roommate, OK?’ And then he slams the boot shut.

Danby still has that tartan thing over his head. His skin’s cold, pale, and pebbled, like a supermarket chicken; his hands cable-tied behind his back. They haven’t bothered to do that to Richard. Don’t think he’ll put up a fight. Don’t care if he sees their faces either. Because they know he won’t live long enough to tell anyone.

And he knows they’re right.

Richard sniffs, wiping a tear away with his sore hand.

The doors clunk open, then closed again. A big petrol roar as the engine fires up, and something cheery burbles from the radio, then fades out so a DJ can say,
‘Wasn’t that great? We’ll be having the news with Lorna Knight in eight minutes, but first here’s a reminder from the Met Office, we’ve got a severe weather warning for the whole North East, so only travel if your journey is completely necessary, OK? In the meantime, curl up somewhere comfy-cosy and grab yourself another mug of hot chocolate. And speaking of Hot Chocolate, here they are with “You Sexy Thing”!’

Richard lies down on the plastic boot liner and wiggles in close behind Danby, pressing chest to back, legs to legs, then wraps an arm around his chest, holding him close. Sharing what little body warmth he has as the car lurches away into the snow.

Logan scrambled down from the Land Rover. Its blue-and-whites barely dented the blizzard, headlights reaching no more than a dozen feet in front of the bumpers.

The house was isolated, a long rectangle of freshly pointed granite with a slate roof. Old-fashioned six-pane windows – that probably cost a fortune to reproduce in double-glazed wood-effect UPVC – glowing pale gold.

He staggered over to the door, clasping his collar around his throat with one hand and tried the doorbell. Then hammered on the door as well. Too cold for dicking about.

PC Butler slithered to a halt beside him. She was dressed in the full Grampian Police outdoor-ninja ensemble: black trousers, black boots, black fleece poking out from under a black waterproof, fluorescent-yellow high-vis waistcoat with ‘P
OLICE
’ across the back, and a black peaked cap jammed on her head. She’d even managed to scrounge up a pair of gloves from somewhere.

‘You want me to try round the back, Sarge?’

Logan nodded, then hammered on the door again as Butler disappeared from view.

It took nearly two minutes for someone to open the door, by which time Logan couldn’t feel his feet.

A woman stood in the doorway: short, heavy-set, bleary eyed. It was
her
– the woman Wendy Leadbetter had picked out from the picture, the one with the ‘D
IE
– K
NOX
– S
CUM
!’ placard. She blinked at him a couple of times. ‘Can I help you?’ Geordie accent.

Logan hauled his warrant card out of his pocket. ‘Police.’

She looked at it, then looked at him. Then sighed. ‘Best come in.’

They were in the lounge. Three men sitting around a roaring gas fire, two in matching armchairs, one on the couch, an open bottle of Lagavulin on the coffee table between them. The peaty whisky smelled like disinfectant in the silent room.

One was the pale man from the crowd photographs – Bruce Lowe, the home owner. One was tall with grey hair and a red handprint on his cheek. And the third was Jimmy Evans.

Logan stared at him. ‘Thought you were on your way down to Sunderland.’

The old man shrugged and took a sip of whisky. ‘Surprise.’

‘So, let me guess,’ Logan turned to the third man, ‘that makes you the son?’

‘Matt Evans.’ He drained his glass, then reached forwards
and topped it up again. The bottle trembled in his hand. ‘Knox raped my uncle.’

‘Where is he?’

The woman slumped into the sofa, next to the old man, helped herself to a whisky. ‘Gone.’

Jimmy Evans ran a hand across his bruised forehead. ‘We were going to hand him over to the police—’

‘Evans!’ Lowe scowled at him. ‘He doesn’t know any—’

The woman waved her hand. ‘Oh shut up,
Bruce.
It’s over, OK?’

A shape lumbered into view through the window: Butler, her black jacket and hat already caked with snow. She rapped on the glass. Logan ignored her. ‘What’s over?’