Читать книгу The Blood Road - Stuart MacBride - Страница 12

Laughter and voices filled the station canteen as a collection of about two dozen uniforms, plainclothes, and support staff gorged on lunch. They filled all the tables but one. The one Logan sat at, all on his own, Billy Nae Mates in the middle of his own private bubble.

Good job he had a dirty-big plate of macaroni cheese and chips to console him.

He helped himself to a forkful of soft cheesy goodness as the phone in his other hand rang and rang and rang and—

‘This is Lorna Chalmers’ voicemail. Leave a message.’ Curt and to the point.

‘DS Chalmers, it’s Inspector McRae. Again. We had an appointment this afternoon. Please call me back.’ He hung up. ‘Not that you will, because you haven’t the last three bloody times.’

Logan balanced another gobbet of macaroni, on the end of a crisp golden chip. Crunching as he scowled at his phone. ‘Fine, there’s more than one way to skin a snake.’ He picked another name from his contacts and set it ringing.

‘Ahoy-hoy?’ What sounded like rain hissed in the background.

‘Tufty? It’s Logan. I need a favour.’

There was a small pause, then, ‘Aunty Jane, how you doing?’

More macaroni, chewing around the words, ‘Have you fallen on your head again?’

‘No, no. I’m at work, though, so I can’t talk for long.’

‘Steel’s there, isn’t she?’

‘That’s right, the party’s tonight, isn’t it? Don’t know if I can make it though, depends on the case.’

‘Fine.’ Logan shook another dash of vinegar into the puddle of cheese sauce. ‘DS Lorna Chalmers didn’t show for her appointment. You’re on the same team: where is she?’

‘Ah… Don’t really know. I could find out though, if you like?’

Then Steel’s voice blared out in the middle distance. ‘Come on, Tufty, you gimp-flavoured spudhammer, make with the chicken curry pies! I’m starving here.’

‘Text me.’

‘Will do. OK, got to go. It’s—’

‘Aren’t you going to tell your aunty you love her, before you hang up, Tufty? How very rude.’

A groan crawled out of the earpiece. ‘OK, Aunty Jane. Love you. Bye.’

‘Should think so too.’

He ended the call and dug back into his macaroni again. Cheesy vinegary crunchy potatoey goodness.

Over by the canteen counter, the lone figure of DI Kim Fraser peeled away from the till and wandered into the middle of the room. Clearly looking for a seat. But everything was taken, except for Logan’s table. Even then she kept looking.

Logan slid one of the chairs out with his foot. ‘It’s OK, I don’t bite.’

She stood there, staring at him for a beat, then settled into the proffered seat. The heady smell of spices wafted up from her plate – heaped with Friday’s curry special: chicken madras, rice, vegetable pakora, and naan bread, according to the board on the wall.

Logan gave her a wee shrug. ‘After all, no one wants to sit with either of us.’

‘People want to sit with me. Why wouldn’t people want to sit with me?’

‘People look at me, all they see is Professional Standards. People look at you and they see fast-tracked graduate-scheme “tosspot”.’ He held up a hand. ‘Not what I see, it’s what they see. We’ve got guys who’ve been on the job for twenty years and they still haven’t made it as far as sergeant. You’re, what, twenty-six?’

A blush darkened her cheeks. ‘Twenty-nine.’

‘And already a detective inspector. Some people feel threatened by that.’

‘Hmmph…’ Fraser crunched down one of the veggie pakora. ‘I take it you saw Ellie’s mum’s press conference.’

‘How can you eat that when there’s perfectly good macaroni cheese and chips on offer?’

‘How is it our fault? Tell me that!’

‘And if you go near my chips I will stab you with a fork.’

‘She’s the one abandoned her three-year-old daughter in the back garden to nip out for booze and fags! If she’d been a halfway decent parent, Ellie wouldn’t have been snatched.’

Logan put down his fork and looked at her. Silent.

Fraser groaned. ‘All right, all right: I know. But still… That doesn’t make it our fault.’

‘Imagine if you were her. Would you want to admit you were responsible? How would you live with yourself?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ Fraser chewed on her curry for a bit. ‘And I’m not a “tosspot”, thank you very much. I had to do a law degree to get on the fast-track programme. You try it if you think it’s so easy.’

‘Whoever took Ellie, it has to be someone who knows the area, right?’

‘Back garden’s got a path behind it. Anyone walking past would see Ellie’d been left on her own.’

Logan scooped a chip through the cheese sauce. ‘You run a check on sex offenders living nearby?’

‘And not just Tillydrone. We did Hayton, Hilton, Sandilands, Powis, and Ashgrove too. Interviewed the lot of them. Checked alibis. Nothing.’

Over in the corner someone launched into ‘Happy Birthday to You’. One by one the other tables took it up and belted it out. The only ones not joining in were Logan and Fraser.

She dug into her curry again. ‘Of course the smart money is on the stepfather, but he interviews clean.’

‘Alibi?’

‘Playing video games, drinking Special Brew, and smoking dope at a friend’s house.’

‘Sounds like an excellent role model.’

‘Tell you, Inspector, I’ve scraped things off the bottom of my shoe with more—’

The song reached a deafening climax, complete with operatic wobbling harmonies and a hearty round of applause with extra cheering.

Fraser shrugged when it was quiet again. ‘Five to one, when Ellie’s body turns up, her stepdad’s DNA is all over her.’

‘If her body turns up.’

‘Yeah. If.’ She jabbed a pakora with her fork and gesticulated with it. ‘Course, if we can break his alibi it’s a different story. Assuming DS Chalmers has bothered her backside to even try. And before you say anything: I know. I should’ve sent someone else. She’s had enough last chances.’

Logan put his fork down. ‘Why didn’t you come to me sooner?’

‘Because… When you were in CID, would you have shopped one of your team to the Rubber Heelers? Of course not. No one…’ She cleared her throat. Ate her pakora. ‘Bad example. But the rest of us wouldn’t. Not unless there was no other option.’

‘There wasn’t. And I did it for the same reason you are. Sometimes people don’t leave us any choice.’

His phone dinged, a new message filling the screen.

TUFTY:

It is I, SUPERTUFTY! Scourge of naughty people! A tiny birdy tells me the GPS on DS Chalmers’s Airwave puts her at/near Huge Gay Bill’s Bar & Grill, Northfield.

Logan polished off the last glistening tubes of macaroni and stood. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the pub.’

The building was set back from the road – an oversized mock Northeast farmhouse, long and low, with white walls, gable ends, a grey slate roof, and dormer windows. The Scottish vernacular charm was somewhat undermined by the big neon sign towering over the entrance in shades of yellow and green: ‘HUGE GAY BILL’S BAR & GRILL!’ It steamed and fizzed in the drizzle.

Only two vehicles sat in the large car park, a gleaming Land Rover Discovery and a mud-spattered Fiat. Chalmers’ Fiat. Logan parked two spaces down. Clambered out and hurried into the pub.

Inside, the place had a soulless, unloved feel. Like an abandoned Wetherspoons. A soulless mix of polished wood and psychedelic carpet. Lots of small round tables with chairs. Menus everywhere.

Something romantic oozed out of the jukebox.

The only two people in here were slow dancing in front of it – all wrapped up in each other – one a large, white-haired woman, the other a Victoria Wood look-alike. Oblivious to everything else.

Logan went across to the vacant bar and rapped his knuckles on the wood. ‘Shop!’

A grunt preceded a huge, broad-shouldered man who looked like the answer to the question, ‘What do you get if you cross a cage fighter with a gorilla?’ The lump of gristle clinging onto the middle of his face barely qualified as a nose. Somehow, the pristine-white shirt and dark-blue tie made him seem even more dangerous. He nodded at Logan. ‘Inspector.’

‘Bill. How’s Josh?’

Bill bared his teeth – teeny, like Tic Tacs. ‘Joshua is a scum-sucking arsehole.’ He grabbed a bottle of Bell’s whisky and shoved it into an empty optics slot, gripping the thing so tight his knuckles were white. ‘Why do I have to keep giving my heart to arseholes?’ Trembling, face darkening. ‘Tell me that. Go on!’

‘Don’t look at me, my track record’s not much better.’ Logan counted them off on his fingers. ‘One emotionally distant pathologist with intimacy issues; one PC with violent tendencies; a self-harming, Identification Bureau tech, tattoo addict in a coma; and a Trading Standards officer.’

Bill folded his massive arms. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

Good question.

Logan shrugged. ‘Don’t know yet. Early days.’ He pulled a photo from his police fleece and placed it on the bar. Lorna Chalmers. ‘Her car’s parked outside.’

‘The scabby Fiat?’ Bill picked up the photo and squinted at it. ‘This your Trading Standards woman?’

‘No: colleague. I’m worried about her.’

‘Hmph… Well, suppose someone should be. State of her.’ He dumped the photo back down again and jerked his head to the side. ‘Ladies.’

‘Thanks.’ Logan had to detour around the slow dancers in front of the jukebox; they didn’t even look up.

Bill’s voice boomed out after him. ‘And take it from me, the crazy ones might be great in bed, but they’ll screw you over every time! Every – single – time.’

He had a point.

Logan pushed through the grey door marked ‘POUR FEMME’ and into something off of a film set. Dark grey slate tiles, a plush red chaise longue against one wall, individual mirrors in heavy gilt frames above the marble sinks.

A lone figure was hunched over one of the sinks – DS Chalmers. She held her mass of auburn curls back with one hand as she spat something frothy and pink into the marble bowl. Her other hand clutched at her ribs. Holding them in as she washed her face. Grunting and groaning.

Logan settled onto the chaise longue. ‘Having fun?’

She flinched, whipping around with a strangled scream, fists up. Ready.

He held his hands in the air. ‘Whoa. Calm.’

Chalmers lowered her fists, voice all muffled and lispy. ‘Inspector McRae. Oh joy.’ Either she’d fallen under a bus, or someone had given her a serious going-over. Scrapes darkened her cheeks, chin, and forehead. The first flush of bruises beginning to spread around them. Face damp where she’d washed the blood off. Or most of it anyway.

Logan pointed. ‘Want to tell me who did that?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘You were out breaking Russell Morton’s alibi, so it was either him or his mates.’

‘I said it’s nothing. Leave it.’

The awkward silence grew. Then Chalmers turned her back on him and splashed another handful of water on her battered face. Winced. Prodded at her gums.

A tooth clattered into the marble sink.

‘You’ve been married, what, three years? If it wasn’t Russell Morton…?’

She froze. ‘Leave Brian out of this.’

‘There are people out there you can talk to. Domestic abuse isn’t—’

‘Christ, you don’t listen, do you? It wasn’t Brian. It wasn’t anyone.’

‘Ah…’ Logan nodded. ‘The first rule of Fight Club.’

More silence.

Chalmers dabbed at the scrape beneath her right eye. ‘And you shouldn’t be here.’

‘Huge Gay Bill’s? Bill and I go way back. One of his ex-boyfriends broke into his mum’s house while she was in hospital and cleaned her out. Bill got his hands on him. Was going to rip the guy’s arms and legs off, till I talked him down. He’s always had terrible taste in men.’

She limped over to the driers and patted at her face, ignoring him as they roared at her.

Logan stretched out on the chaise longue, making himself comfortable. ‘You’ve been avoiding me.’

She tucked in her torn shirt. ‘Are they firing me?’

‘I’m not your enemy, Lorna.’

‘Could’ve fooled me.’

‘I’m here to help. We can—’

‘Then keep them off my back, OK?’ She limped back to the mirror and took out a small make-up kit. ‘Tell them everything’s fine. I’ve apologised and promise to be a good little girl from now on.’

Logan sighed. ‘It doesn’t work like that. You’ve been disappearing when you’re meant to be on the job. Ducking assignments. Not doing what DI Fraser tells you.’

‘DI Fraser’s an idiot.’

‘No she isn’t. And you know what? Even if she was, right now she’s your superior idiot and if she tells you to go interview someone you actually have to go interview them.’

A wodge of foundation got slathered on, covering up the scrapes and bruises. Wincing as she did her best to blend it in. You could still tell, though.

Eventually she stood back and stared at the result. Grimaced. ‘It’ll do.’ Her make-up clattered into the bag again. ‘Russell Morton’s alibi’s sound. He was where he said he was, when he said he was. I spoke to the guy who delivered one fourteen-inch four seasons with extra anchovies, one mushroom feast, a spicy American, two garlic breads, and three six-packs of Peroni.’

‘A lot of food.’

‘Morton paid him from a big roll of cash. Ten-quid tip, too.’

‘Flashy.’

‘Especially for someone on the dole.’ She examined herself in the mirror again. ‘So you can tell DI Kim Fraser I’ve been doing my job. Did it yesterday before she even asked. Just because I’m not grubbing around her feet, begging for titbits like those idiot sidekicks of hers, doesn’t mean I’m slacking.’

‘No one’s asking you to grub about, Lorna, but this is the police. You have to follow procedure. The chain of command’s there for a reason!’

She stared at him from the mirror, face blank. ‘Are we done, Inspector?’

‘Have you forgotten what happened with the Agnes Garfield case? You could’ve died. You very nearly got me and PC Sim killed! All because you couldn’t stand the thought of sharing the glory.’ Logan stood. ‘Police Scotland doesn’t need lone wolves, Lorna. That’s not how this works!’

Nothing back. Not even a flicker.

Then, ‘If it’s all right with you, I’d like to have a wee now. Or do you want to follow me in there as well?’ She turned and barged into one of the cubicles. Slammed the door. Clacked the latch.

Logan knocked on the cubicle door. ‘They’re going to suspend you. Is that what you want?’

The sound of piddling hissed out from inside. Accompanied by what might have been muffled sobs…

Great. That went well.

Bill shook his head. ‘…so Shoogly Dave says, “Wasnae me, it was like that when I found it.” And he’s staggering about the stock room surrounded by two thousand…’ Bill pointed over Logan’s shoulder. ‘Your friend’s back.’

Logan turned and there was Chalmers, coming out of the ladies. Grimacing as she saw them.

He went back to his cappuccino, watching her in the mirror behind the bar as she marched over.

She stopped right behind him. Put on what was probably meant to be a reasonable voice. ‘You can’t let them take this away from me. Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed for this job? Not just the hours: I barely see Brian. I’ve put everything on hold for this. Everything.’

‘We all make sacrifices, it’s part of—’

‘Oh that’s easy for you to say, isn’t it? You didn’t even have to have your own kids, did you? You farmed them out to someone else!’

‘That’s not—’

‘If you really want to help, keep Fraser off my back for a couple of days.’ A frown. ‘Better make it three.’

Funny.

He took a sip of warm milky coffee. ‘Twenty-four hours.’

She gave him a pained smile in the mirror. ‘No, it has to be seventy-two. I need—’

‘It’s not an offer, it’s the cliché.’ Putting on an American accent for, ‘“Ya gotta give me twenty-four hours to crack the case, Lieutenant.”’ Then back to normal again. ‘And no. If you’ve got information that might save Ellie Morton, you tell me or you tell DI Fraser. You do not keep it secret so you can grab the glory. A wee girl’s life is at stake!’

‘I know what’s at stake!’

Logan thumped his mug down. ‘Then grow up and stop playing Sam Sodding Spade!’

She glared at his reflection in the mirror. Turned. And marched out the front door.

Logan shouted after her. ‘I mean it, Lorna, this isn’t a game!’

The door slammed shut.

Bill stared at it. ‘Told you – great in the sack, but they’ll screw you over every time.’