Читать книгу Dark Blood - Stuart MacBride - Страница 9

The Eastern Airways Jetstream 41 was tiny compared to the British Midlands 737 at the next stand. Logan stood in the shelter of a plastic-roofed walkway outside the terminal building, watching as the little blue-and-white plane edged in from the runway, twin propellers roaring in the drizzly rain, navigation lights winking in the gloom.

The sky it had dropped from was the colour of wet clay, a solid blanket of dark grey that stretched from horizon to horizon, thin slivers of pre-dawn light barely visible around the edges.

‘Bang on time.’ DI Steel dragged her hands out of her armpits for long enough to produce a packet of cigarettes, stick one in her mouth, and light up. ‘Mind you, bet we’ll still be farting about—’

‘Hey! You!’ A little man in a high-visibility vest was scurrying down the walkway towards them. ‘You can’t smoke here. The whole airport’s a no smoking zone!’

Steel took the fag out of her mouth and told him to bugger off. ‘Police.’

‘I don’t care if you’re the sodding Pope: no smoking!’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ She took one last defiant drag and dropped the cigarette on the concrete walkway, grinding it out with a scuffed shoe. ‘There, you happy?’

‘Don’t let it happen again.’ He stuck his nose in the air, turned on his heel and stalked off.

Steel stuck two fingers up at his departing back, muttering, ‘Little Hitler dick.’

The Jetstream’s engines gave one last roar and the plane rocked to a halt, windscreen wipers slowly squeaking back and forth across the cockpit windows as the propeller blades whined down. Then men in grubby blue boilersuits and ear protectors hauled luggage out of the hold and stacked it onto a buggy.

There was a clunk and the forward door popped open, hinged on the bottom edge, the steps built into the back. One of the cabin crew stuck her head out into the cold morning and a gust of wind whipped her long brown hair into a headbanger’s halo. Her expression soured, she ducked back inside. Welcome to Aberdeen.

Logan leaned back against the walkway’s cold plastic wall and stifled a yawn.

Steel wrinkled her nose at him. ‘How much you have to drink last night?’

Shrug. ‘Couple glasses of wine.’

‘Aye and the rest. You smell like a tramp’s Y-fronts.’

‘I was on holiday.’ Two blissful days of sleeping in and not having to worry about Aberdeen’s assorted criminal tosspots.

‘On the batter more like.’ She dug in her pocket and came out with a packet of extra strong mints. ‘Eat.’

Logan did what he was told, crunching away as the ground crew finished with the baggage.

A uniformed PC appeared at Logan’s elbow, carrying three big wax-paper cups, the bitter smell of roasted coffee beans mingling with the fading tang of exhaust and hot metal. PC Guthrie puffed out his cheeks and stared at the rain, pale ginger eyebrows almost invisible beneath the peak of his cap. ‘Maybe he’ll take one look at the weather and bugger off back to Newcastle?’ Guthrie grinned. It made him look like a happy potato.

Steel scowled. ‘You took your sodding time.’

‘Nature called.’ The constable handed over the coffees, then dug about in the pocket of his black fleece. ‘Got you a muffin as well…’

‘Then I take it all back: even the stuff about your granny shagging donkeys.’

The three of them drank their coffee and ate their muffins.

A stream of people clumped down the plane’s steps, then huddled along the designated path to the terminal, clutching their laptops to their chests, ties and suit jackets flapping in the wind.

Steel checked her watch. ‘Three days’ time, that’ll be me. Only I’ll be in the Canary Islands, no’ freezing my nipples off in sunny Aberdeen.’

The last of the passengers picked a small red suitcase from the cart, and trundled it through the puddles and away.

Steel stomped her feet, hands wrapped around her steaming paper cup. ‘You sure he was on the plane?’

‘Positive.’

‘Then where the hell is he? It’s no’ like…’ She stopped. A large pink head had appeared in the Jetstream’s doorway: what little hair remained had been cropped to about the same length as the designer stubble beard covering both chins. The face broke into a wide smile of perfect white teeth.

‘Detective Inspector Steel I presume!’ There was no mistaking the Newcastle accent, it boomed out across the drizzly morning, easily competing with the distant roar of the delayed BD0671 clambering its way into the dismal sky.

Steel pulled out the photograph Northumbria Police had emailed up, squinted at it, frowned, then leaned over and whispered at Logan, ‘If that’s Knox, he’s really let himself go.’ She held up a hand and waved.

The large man hobbled down the steps then stopped at the bottom, turned and stared back into the cabin. ‘Well, come on then: this was your idea, remember?’

A thin face peered out: Richard Knox. Pointy nose, pointy chin, and a crooked-teeth overbite that made him look a bit like a partially shaved rat. His hairline was receding, probably trying to get away from his face. ‘Cold.’

The big man closed his eyes for a moment, mouth working silently on something. And then he said, ‘We’ve been over this, Richard, 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?’