Dark Blood. Stuart MacBrideЧитать онлайн книгу.
from Wee Hamish Mowat.
Six months now he’d been doing … favours for Aberdeen’s biggest crime lord. Nothing illegal – he wasn’t getting people off with murder, tampering with evidence, or tipping Wee Hamish off when there was a raid on the way – just acting on information. Arresting rival drug dealers, shutting down someone else’s brothel, a dog fighting ring in Ellon. Taking other players’ pawns off the chess board. Pawns who needed locking up anyway.
And not once had Wee Hamish felt the need to hand over envelopes stuffed with cash. To buy him.
£3,760.
‘Fuck…’ Logan let his head thunk against the kitchen cabinet.
Eighteen months ago he’d been the golden boy of Grampian Police and now look at him: everyone down the station thought he was a foul-tempered, alcoholic tosser; he’d just battered a mob enforcer half to death in the middle of King Street; and Aberdeen’s biggest crime lord thought he should be on the payroll. Woo hoo. Way to go. Fan-fucking-tastic.
A new personal low.
Logan stacked all the notes together into one pile, wrapped it up in kitchen paper, then crept out into the hallway and hid the lot in the airing cupboard, behind the hot water tank.
It wasn’t perfect, but it’d do till he figured something else out.
The black Range Rover winds its way slowly north. Newcastle to Edinburgh is the worst bit: the A1’s a fucking disgrace, isn’t it? 121 miles of twisty tarmac with the occasional crawler lane and tiny patches of dual carriageway. Get stuck behind a caravan on this thing and you’re screwed, like.
Not that it’s a problem at twenty to five on a Saturday morning. Wipers going at a steady creak, keeping the snow confined to the edges of the windscreen. Winter wonderland in Newcastle when they left. Six inches in places.
They’re making good time, even though Tony’s taking it easy – iPod hooked into the huge car’s stereo, dribbling out that jazz stuff Julie likes so much. It’s not too bad, once you get used to it.
She’s asleep in the passenger seat, and Neil’s curled up in the back with a coat draped over him like a blanket, mouth open, snoring in time with the bloke playing the saxophone. It’s funny how even the most violent, dangerous bastards can look like little kids when they’re asleep.
The sat-nav says 102 miles to Aberdeen.
Tony keeps the needle at a steady sixty-five. No speeding. Nothing that would draw attention to them. Playing it cool. Heading north through the snow.
Bringing a whole shit-heap of trouble with him.
‘Lying bastards!’ A porcelain dog hit the faded wallpaper, and became a starburst of pale shards. ‘All of it…’ Richard Knox grabbed a ballerina from the mantelpiece and sent it crashing into the far wall. Face flushed, teeth bared, spittle flying from his lips. ‘Bloody lies!’
‘Jesus, Richard, calm down!’ A large woman – one of Knox’s minders from Sacro – was crouching behind the sofa, popping her head up over the dusty fabric, then ducking down again as a shire horse turned into porcelain shrapnel.
‘They’ve no right!’
Logan froze on the threshold, head pounding. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’
Knox snatched a Scotty dog from the mantelpiece and drew his arm back to send it flying. Logan stepped forward and grabbed it off him.
‘All right, that’s enough!’
Knox span around, eyes wide and shiny. Lips twitching across his gritted teeth. ‘Give it back!’
‘Constable Guthrie?’
Guthrie bumbled into the living room, clutching greasy paper bags from the baker’s they’d stopped at on the way over here, a wodge of flaky pastry in his other hand. ‘What?’
‘Lying…’ Knox’s eyes darted left, then right, then he snatched up a fishing teddy bear and sent that flying instead. ‘BASTARDS!’
The constable dumped his baked goods on the ancient couch and grabbed Knox’s arm, twisting it up behind his back, then slamming him into the wall. ‘Behave yourself!’
Knox struggled, screaming abuse. Guthrie glanced over at Logan, and got the nod. He pulled Knox back a couple of feet, then rammed him forwards again. Making the photos above the mantelpiece rattle.
‘Aaagh … get off us!’
‘You want another one?’
Knox didn’t reply, but he did keep wriggling, so Guthrie introduced him to the wallpaper again.
This time the struggling stopped.
‘You want the handcuffs?’
Silence.
‘OK.’ The constable let go and stepped back.
Knox staggered towards one of the cat-shredded armchairs and collapsed into it, rubbing his wrist and staring at the dead television. ‘Liars…’
The woman crept around from behind the sofa. ‘Thanks.’ There were little flecks of white china in her hair.
Logan pulled out his notebook. ‘Richard Knox, I’m arresting you for assault. You do not have to say anything, but if you fail to mention—’
‘I didn’t assault anyone.’ He kept his eyes on the ghosts in the TV screen.
Logan glanced at the woman, raised his eyebrows.
She shook her head. ‘Didn’t touch me.’
‘Where’s your partner? Thought there was supposed to be two of you.’
Knox shifted in his seat, muttering, ‘Got me rights…’
‘Harry’s stuck in the bog. Had a dodgy chicken chow mein last night. I was going to send him home if he doesn’t get any better.’
Logan looked around at the wreckage, then rubbed at his gritty eyes. ‘You want to tell me what the hell this was about then?’
She pointed at a tattered copy of the Aberdeen Examiner lying against the skirting board. Half the pages were sprawled across the carpet, but the lead story was clearly visible from where Logan stood: ‘SEX-BEAST STRIKES FEAR INTO COMMUNITY’. The photo of Knox was more up to date than the last one the papers used. Someone had been digging.
Logan bent down and picked up the front page, letting the rest of it fall back to the floor.
Exclusive by Colin Miller
Everyone knows a leopard can’t change his spots: once a dangerous animal, always a dangerous animal, but the people of Aberdeenshire are being expected to believe that convicted serial rapist Richard Knox can live amongst them without posing a serious risk to the population. Knox (39), a vicious sexual predator, served eight years in a high-security prison for the brutal abduction and rape of Newcastle grandfather William Brucklay (68)…
It wasn’t exactly the journalist’s best work. Sensationalist, melodramatic, and obviously designed to whip up outrage and panic. Further in it got even worse, with quotes from people in Newcastle, and William Brucklay’s grandchildren: teenagers more than happy to share the family’s anger. Castration’s too good for him, they should bring back hanging. That kind of thing.
And in Richard Knox’s case, they were probably right.
Logan folded the page up, then dumped it on the coffee table.
Knox was clutching his carrier bag again, the thing rustling as he rocked back and forth in his seat, muttering. ‘It’s all lies.’
‘All