Dark Blood. Stuart MacBrideЧитать онлайн книгу.
knees ache, but that’s all right. A little pain never did anyone any harm. Sometimes it did them a lot of good. And after all those years kneeling on the concrete floor of his cell, the tatty old rug’s something of a luxury.
But all that time spent on his knees really paid off, you know? Not like some of them dirty bastards in Frankland Prison; the time they spent on their knees was for a different reason. Not that Richard had anything to do with that, thank you very much.
No.
Well … only once, and it wasn’t like he had any option, was it? Not with a length of sharpened pipe waiting for him. They soon learned though, didn’t they? Felt the wrath of God. No one bothered him after that.
He sneaks another look at his two minders from Sacro. Harry and Mandy. A right pair of do-gooders. ‘Oh aren’t we so special, volunteering to look after rapists and paedos?’ How stupid can they be?
Richard can’t keep the smile off his face. They have no idea what’s coming their way.
DC Rennie scowled. ‘Is it me, or did the weather just get even crappier?’
Logan watched the windscreen wipers clunk and squeal across the glass. Rain drummed on the roof of the CID pool car, made spreading puddles on the uneven pavements, shivered the branches of a tall leylandii hedge. The little cul-de-sac was quiet, just a few kids being bustled into cars for the last-minute school run. ‘You got the warrant?’
Rennie dug it out of his jacket pocket. His short blond hair stuck up in all directions, as if he’d just fallen out of bed, and his face had the kind of unnaturally orange fake-tan glow any D-list celebrity would be proud of. ‘Thought nightshift were supposed to deal with this.’
Logan scanned the paperwork – all duly noted and authorized. ‘You ready?’
‘No.’
‘Tough.’ He opened the car door and hurried up the path to the semi-detached house, hop-skip-stepping to avoid the deepest puddles, Detective Constable Rennie sploshing along behind him.
They huddled under the little porch while Rennie thumbed the doorbell. ‘Argh … it’s trickling down the back of my neck!’
‘Better watch it doesn’t wash your tan off. You’ll go all streaky.’
‘Hey, at least I…’
The front door opened. A young man peered out at them: black eye, bruised cheek, and swollen lip, one arm encased in plaster from elbow to palm. The Police National Computer check said he was eighteen, he looked a lot younger. ‘Yeah?’
‘Mr Walker? Douglas Walker?’
He flinched, one hand coming up to shield his bruised face. ‘Don’t hit me!’
Logan held up his warrant card. ‘Police.’
Walker sagged. Sighed, then turned and limped back into the building. ‘Close the door behind you, yeah?’
Inside, it was a study in chintz. Walker levered himself down onto a floral sofa complete with lacy antimacassars. A gas fire hissed away to itself, the mantelpiece littered with glass ornaments, sparkling in the light of a standard lamp. Oil paintings covered the walls – scenes of Aberdeen in OTT gilt frames. Walker grimaced. ‘This about that car?’
‘What do you think?’
The young man stared at the swirly beige carpet. ‘I didn’t know, OK? I thought the cash was legit.’
‘Let me guess,’ Logan edged in front of the fire, letting his trousers steam, ‘soon as you found out there was a problem, you were in such a hurry to give Kevin Middleton his car back, you fell down the stairs a couple of times?’
Walker sniffed. ‘I’m not pressing charges. And you can’t make me.’
Logan let the silence drag out for a while, but Walker kept his face towards the floor.
‘You want to tell me where you got four and a half grand in dodgy twenties?’
He shook his head.
‘OK.’ Logan pulled out the warrant. ‘Douglas Walker, it is an offence to pass counterfeit moneys under section fifteen of the Forgery and Counterfeiting Act 1981, punishable by up to ten years in prison.’
At that, Walker did look up. His face pale, mouth working up and down. ‘But… I…’
‘I have a warrant here for your arrest. On your feet.’
‘You can’t…’
‘Stand up, Mr Walker.’
‘Oh Jesus…’ He struggled upright, trying not to use his broken right arm. ‘I didn’t know, really I didn’t!’
Logan slipped the papers back in his pocket. ‘Do you want to come with us voluntarily, or shall we do it the hard way?’
Walker bit his bottom lip, setting it bleeding again.
Rennie took out his handcuffs and the young man whimpered.
‘Voluntarily, I’ll come voluntarily.’
‘Good move.’ Logan scribbled that down in his notebook, then got Walker to sign it. He pointed the eighteen-year-old towards the door. ‘Anything I should know about before I get a team in here to tear the place apart?’
‘My mum and dad are in Corfu…’ He wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘They’ll kill me.’
Rennie grinned. ‘If I was you, I’d be more worried about my new cellmate.’ He made an obscene, pokey-pokey hand gesture.
Logan scowled at him. Then turned back to Walker. ‘You got any more counterfeit money on the premises?’
Walker stared at the carpet again, snivelling. He took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘There’s another three grand in a holdall in my wardrobe.’
He led them upstairs to a medium-sized bedroom at the front of the house, overlooking the surrounding homes and south towards the River Dee, barely visible through the rain. An easel sat in front of the window, with a landscape of Bennachie sketched out in rough charcoal strokes. The whole place smelled of linseed oil and turpentine.
Walker pointed at the wardrobe sitting next to an unmade single bed. ‘In there.’
Rennie snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and went rummaging.
Logan examined the canvas. ‘Those paintings downstairs yours?’
‘Yeah…’ The young man sniffed. Rubbed at his eyes again. ‘Doing a degree at Gray’s School of Art.’
‘They’re good.’
He shrugged, a blush creeping up his cheeks. ‘I was trying to capture the—’
‘Got it!’ Rennie dragged a black holdall from the mass of shoes and trainers, holding the handles wide apart so Logan could see inside. Lots of little folded bundles made of crisp twenty pound notes.
Logan told him to zip it up again. Then turned back to Walker. ‘You sure you don’t want to just fess up now? Save us all the legwork?’
‘I … erm…’ He sniffed. Looked out of the window at the rain-drenched landscape. ‘Think I should speak to a lawyer.’
Logan slumped back in the visitor’s chair and rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Like interviewing a bloody cardboard cut-out.’
DI Steel picked one of the clear plastic evidence pouches from the pile on her desk and peered at the stack of notes inside. ‘There’s no’ another couple of grand knocking about you forgot to sign into evidence, is there?’
Logan looked