Dark Blood (7 page)

Out on the landing, Logan did a quick scan of the other rooms. With no walls it didn’t take long. They were alone.

He waved Steel forward.

She marched into the room, drew back her foot, and kicked the ladder. The whole thing shuddered and the singing became a frightened yell. The drill clattered to the chipboard floor and the electrician grabbed at the bare roof joists, swearing as the ladder thumped from side to side. Then he got it stable, looked over his shoulder, teeth bared. ‘Are you fucking
mental?
Jesus…’

His face was a map of old acne scars, nose a pink-veined golf ball. He hauled out his earphones. ‘If you bastards are here about the—’

‘Shut the fuck up.’ Steel jabbed a finger at him. ‘Looking for a sparky.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t do homers.’

‘Steve Polmont.’

‘Not seen him.’

Logan stooped and picked the drill up off the sawdust-covered floor. ‘You McRabbie?’

‘Why?’

Steel grinned up at him. ‘We represent a certain gentleman Mr Polmont has a…business arrangement with.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ Scabby McRabbie sighed. ‘Dogs or horses?’

‘Where is he?’

McRabbie held his hand out. ‘Buggered off and left us in the shite, didn’t he?’

Logan kept the drill just out of reach.

Sigh. ‘He was a dick, OK? Barely sober, aye and that’s when he bothered to turn up. Wouldn’t trust him to change his socks, never mind a plug.’ McRabbie swung his arm around at the semi-skeletal house. ‘Spent half the day rewiring the shite job he did in the first place. Supposed to be on a team bonus, and—’

‘When’d you last see him?’ Steel dragged out her fags and sparked one up, then moved the burning lighter towards the
nearest clump of Rockwool. ‘Be a shame if something happened…’

‘It’s flame retardant.’ McRabbie stuck out his hand again, and Logan passed him the drill.

‘Ta.’ He made the hole he’d been drilling slightly bigger, then rested the drill on its large battery pack and hauled a thick bundle of orange cables through the upright. ‘Used to be you could get away with a couple extra sockets in the living room, now every other bastard wants their whole house done with Cat-Six.’

Logan watched the electrician pick a single strand out of the bundle and mark it with a blue plastic tag, then loop it over a ceiling joist. ‘Where is he?’

‘Fuck knows. Haven’t seen him since…what, Monday? Probably lying drunk in a gutter, or dead in a fucking ditch. Long as the useless bastard don’t come back, I don’t care.’

McRabbie picked up the drill again. ‘You know they make me buy my own kit now? Two-five, one-five, fucking boxes, fronts, light switches, you name it: got to claim it back on expenses. That’s Steve Bloody Polmont’s fault.’

The drill screeched through another upright, sending a shower of sawdust flying. Then McRabbie thumped it back down on the top step of the ladder. ‘You know what…’ He dug a fiver out of his overalls and chucked it at Logan. ‘Here: you catch up with the wanker, you give him a kick in the nads from me!’

Logan picked the note off the floor and pocketed it. ‘Deal.’

Steel stomped down the stairs, with Logan bringing up the rear. Up in the bedroom the singing started again, accompanied by the whine of the drill.

She stopped at the front door, looking out into the rain. ‘Well, that was a waste of sodding time.’

‘Look on the bright side, at least we know he was here Monday.’

‘Fat lot of good it does us.’ She took a long draw on her cigarette, pinching her mouth into a chicken’s-bum pout. ‘Bloody Polmont.’

‘Well, maybe—’

Steel slapped a hand against his chest. ‘Shh…’ She pointed out through the open door, where a small crowd was gathering around a dented white Transit van. The driver’s door creaked open and a huge man in dirty blue overalls stepped out into the rain. ‘Here, isn’t that Wee Hamish’s right-hand thug?’

Reuben.

He was big in all directions – massive fists clenched either side of his straining stomach. His face was twisted with scar tissue, a patchy beard making little islands of dark fur on the swell of his cheeks. Freddy Kruger meets the Michelin Man.

Logan took a step back, making sure he couldn’t be seen. ‘What the hell’s
he
doing here?’

Reuben lumbered round the van’s side door, clunked the handle and hauled it open. Then reached inside and dragged a body out onto the muddy road. The body twitched, tried to roll over. One of its legs bent in three different directions, all at the same time. Face covered in blood. Hands curled up like deformed claws.

Reuben just stood there.

Silence.

Logan flipped his phone open. ‘I’ll call for backup.’

‘You’ll bloody no’!’

‘But he’s—’

‘What do you think Finnie’ll do if he finds out we tried to meet up with a chiz without his approval?’

Logan stared at her. ‘You didn’t clear it with him?’

‘Might have slipped my mind.’ She coughed. ‘Now shut up – can’t hear what’s going on.’

‘Oh that’s just…’

Steel hit him again. ‘Three o’clock.’

A large man emerged from the show home: six-two; arms
held out from his sides, as if he was carrying a couple of beer barrels; jeans, leather jacket, bald head glistening in the rain. Something dark and muscular trotted along beside him. Pointed nose, lolling pink tongue.

The little crowd of joiners and plumbers backed off, giving him room.

He stopped, stared down at the body quivering in the mud, then up at Reuben. ‘Problem?’ Scottish, but not local.

Wee Hamish’s man pointed one huge sausage finger at the battered figure. ‘This yours?’

‘What if it is?’

‘Had a bit of an accident, didn’t it?’

‘Oh yeah?’

Reuben smiled, showing off the hole where a tooth used to be. ‘Accidentally tried to sell his shit in the wrong part of town.’

The bloke with the dog stripped off his leather jacket and handed it to the nearest bystander. No wonder he couldn’t get his arms near his sides: he was a solid slab of muscle, straining at the fabric of a white T-shirt. He cricked his head from side to side. Flexed his shoulders. ‘Think you, me, and Mauser here need to have a wee chat.’

The dog’s ears pricked up, a rumbling growl coming from its throat.

Reuben undid a couple of buttons on his overalls, down by his huge waistband, held one side open.

‘Can’t see.’ Steel shifted, peering. ‘He getting his cock out?’

‘Why would he be…what’s
wrong
with you?’

Big-and-Bald stared at whatever was in Reuben’s overalls, then nodded. Took a step back. ‘Maybe later.’

‘Wee message for your lord and master.’ Reuben waved a huge hand, taking in the part-built houses. ‘Keep it legitimate and we’ll all get on fine. Disrespect,’ he paused to kick the man lying at his feet, ‘well, that’s gonnae land us
all
in a world of shite. We clear?’

Mr Big-and-Bald folded his huge arms across his chest, saying nothing.

Reuben slammed the Transit’s side door. ‘Fair enough.’ Then he clambered back behind the wheel and cranked the engine. The van’s tyres span in the mud before they finally grabbed traction. He drove off, slowly. Not so much as a jaunty wave.

Logan watched him go, staring after the van like everyone else. And then Big-and-Bald nudged the man lying on the ground with his foot.

‘Get this fucker out of here.’ He turned on his heel and strode off towards the site office, shouting, ‘Mauser, heel!’

The huge black dog raised its snout, sniffed, then turned and loped after its master.

DI Steel took the last gasp from her cigarette and ground the butt out against the nearest chunk of pink Rockwool. ‘Think we’d better go pay baldy a visit, don’t you?’ She stepped out into the rain.

The site office was divided into cubicles by chest-high partitions, each one covered with pinned-up spreadsheets. A large architectural plan covered one wall, ‘Camberwick Green’ in all its proposed glory.

The office was tidy: no mounds of grubby paperwork, no piles of half-read tabloids, no Turner-Prize-winning installations of discarded polystyrene cups. Just laptops, graphics tablets, printers, and something classical playing from a portable stereo. All overlaid with the dirty stench of wet dog.

A kettle sat on a wee table opposite the door, curling steam into the tidy room. Someone was making tea – blue jumper on over a shirt and tie, carefully arranged comb-over, ridiculous little beard, as if he’d drawn around his chin with a magic marker.

He looked up as Logan thumped the door closed behind them.

‘Are you here about the drainage?’

Steel sniffed. ‘I look like a fucking plumber?’

Frown. ‘There’s no need to—’

‘Steve Polmont.’

Big-and-Bald stood up from behind one of the partitions, a hands-free headset stuffed in his ear. ‘There a problem here?’ Up close he reeked of aftershave, a cloying musky smell with chemical overtones.

Steel perched on the edge of a desk. ‘Polmont had an arrangement with our employer. But he’s no’ been keeping his end up. Know what I mean?’

Jumper-and-Tie went back to making the tea. ‘Well, I don’t see how that concerns us, Miss…?’

‘We’re talking three big ones here.’

‘Ah…’ He stuck a teaspoon in and swirled the bags around for a bit. ‘You should really be taking this up with Mr…Polmont, was it?’

‘Where is he?’

Milk. Sugar. ‘Andy, do we have a Mr Polmont working for us?’

The big man shook his head. ‘He was that sticky-fingered sparky, did a runner.’

‘Ah, yes…’ Jumper-and-Tie handed a mug to his colleague. ‘There was a problem with missing electrical equipment. Wire, cabling, junction boxes, that kind of thing. Mr Polmont made himself scarce before we could contact the police. Sorry we can’t be of further help.’

The inspector nodded. ‘He got any wages outstanding? Something he could be putting against his debt?’

‘I really think anything outstanding should go to pay for the equipment he stole, don’t you?’

‘Nah, that’s no’ going to—’

‘Think it’s time for you to leave, yeah?’ Big-and-Bald, AKA: Andy, came round the corner, towering over Steel, that huge scary dog trotting behind him, claws making skittering noises on the linoleum floor. ‘Got a buildin’ site to run here.’

She looked up at Andy. Then round at Logan. Raised an eyebrow.

I’m the boss, you’re the hired muscle…

Logan stared at the huge slab of a man. Screw that.

He stuck out his hand for Andy to shake. ‘No hard feelings.’

The big man paused for a second, then took it, his big fingers dwarfing Logan’s,
squeezing,
a vice made of flesh and bone. Logan grabbed the hand with his left, digging his nails in. ‘Woa, easy, Tiger!’

Andy grinned. ‘You have a nice day now, Officer.’

‘You’re a big, sodding, wet, Jessie bastard, you know that, don’t you?’ Steel stomped to a halt at the Fiat’s rusty passenger door. ‘Couldn’t throw your weight around for two bloody minutes!’

‘Did you see the size of him?’ Logan stopped behind her, both hands held up like a surgeon, waiting for a nurse to glove him up. ‘He’d’ve torn my head off and crapped down the stump. Anyway, he
knew
we were police.’

‘You’re such a girl.’ She nodded her head at the car. ‘Well? Unlock the sodding thing; bloody freezing.’

Logan stuck one hip out. ‘Keys are in my front trouser pocket.’

She glanced down. ‘So?’

‘You’re going to have to drive.’

Her top lip curled. ‘Aye, that’ll be shining. Detective
Inspector,
mind? You drive, I…passenge.’

‘Can’t. Did the hostage trick when I shook with Baldy Andy. You need to bag my hands till we get back to the station.’

Steel took another look at his trousers. ‘I’m no’ going digging about in your breeks, what if you get a stiffy?’

‘Just…don’t flatter yourself, OK?’

‘Bloody hell.’ Logan had one last bash at getting a cigarette out of the packet, then gave up. ‘Can you…?’

Steel shifted down and the Fiat whined around the outside of a massive tractor hauling a trailer full of cattle down the dual carriageway. ‘You’re like a wee kid.’ She took the pack from his slippery plastic-bagged hands, tapped one out against the steering wheel, stuck it between her teeth, and lit it with the car’s cigarette lighter. The edges of her scarlet lips cracked out like spider veins as she sooked. Then she held it out – a bright-red print on the filter – so Logan could sit forwards and pluck it from between her fingers with his mouth.

It tasted of burning perfume and Vaseline.

‘Thanks.’

Steel went back to squinting into the rain, windscreen wipers squealing and groaning across the pockmarked glass. ‘Either Polmont’s buggered off, or he’s dead.’

‘And if he was stealing electrical supplies from Malk the Knife, doesn’t matter where he runs to. Sooner or later…’

‘Silly bugger.’

‘You know,’ Logan tried to take the cigarette out of his mouth to tap the ash off, but couldn’t work the clear plastic bags into a position that wouldn’t burn a hole in them, ‘if
you were going to kill someone for nicking your electrical wiring, there’s plenty of places to bury the body on a building site: mechanical diggers, concrete…’

‘Aye.’ Steel reached over and took the fag from Logan’s mouth, flicked the ash out of the open window, took a sneaky puff, then stuck it back between his lips. ‘Get onto Strathclyde when we get back, tell them I want a cadaver dog up here first thing tomorrow morning. And don’t take any crap. Rotten Weegie bastards never want to travel north of Perth. Better get the Time Team organized too: ground-penetrating radar, trowels, beards and silly hats. You know the drill.’

‘Warrants? Budget?’

Steel pulled her mouth into a thin line. ‘You do your bit, I’ll sweet talk Finnie. Worst comes to worst I’ll go rummaging through
his
trouser pockets.’

‘Yeah,’ Logan nodded. ‘That’s the kind of threat that’ll make him cooperate.’

‘Still say this is a bad idea…’

‘Just shut up and keep an eye out.’ DI Steel squatted in front of the dark-blue door and peered in through the letterbox. It was a nondescript tenement building in Northfield, three stories of damp grey granite with six flats arranged either side of a central stairwell.

Logan leant on the balustrade, the plastic bags on his hands crinkling as he peered down from the top floor. ‘We need to get back to the station before the samples deteriorate. And you know what else we need?’

Steel stuck her hand through the letterbox, then her wrist, then as much of her arm as she could, tongue sticking out the side of her mouth. ‘You to shut up?’

‘A
warrant.
We need a warrant.’

They’d got the address on the way back into town, Steel telling Control to do a reverse lookup on the telephone number they’d got from Steve Polmont’s mobile.

‘Come on you wee bugger…’ She had her face flat against the door now, teeth clenched, one eye squinted shut. ‘Shitebags.’ She slumped. ‘Can’t reach.’

Logan nodded. ‘Good, now we can go get a warrant, and come back and do it properly.’

Steel wriggled her arm free. ‘Don’t need a bloody warrant. Polmont could be in there, dying right now.’

‘But—’

She stuck a finger to her lips and shushed him. ‘Did you hear that? Someone crying for help?’

‘God, you are such a cliché.’

Steel stood, took two steps back, then slammed her high-heeled boot into the door, by the lock. She hopped away, swearing and clutching her ankle. The door hadn’t even moved. She crumpled against the wall, wobbling on one leg. ‘Well, don’t just bloody stand there!’

Sigh. Logan squared up to the lock, raised his damp, mud-spattered foot, and kicked. The door juddered. On the second go it flew open in a burst of splintered wood. ‘Happy now?’

Steel limped forward as the front door to the next flat burst open. A man in a tatty blue dressing gown lurched out onto the landing, brandishing a massive monkey wrench. Hair flat on one side, sticking up on the other.

‘Right, you little bastards…’ He staggered to a halt. Stared at Logan and Steel. Then at the kicked-in door. Backed up a step.

The inspector jerked a thumb at Polmont’s flat. ‘When did you last see the guy who lives here?’

He let the arm clutching the wrench fall to his side. ‘I work nights.’ He shuffled backwards until he was inside his own flat. ‘Try to keep the noise down, yeah?’ And closed the door.

‘So much for Neighbourhood Watch.’ She hobbled past Logan into Steve Polmont’s home.

It looked like the kind of place that got rented out fully furnished, which meant a random collection of shabby furniture
and mismatched crockery scrounged up from second-hand shops. No paintings or pictures on the walls. Carpets that hadn’t seen a hoover since the turn of the century. Just about bearable if you were going to be working on a building site for the next year and a bit.

The lounge and kitchen were two halves of the same room, filled with a sharp, rancid smell. Two clothes horses sat in the middle of the carpet, covered in socks and pants, a pair of jeans, and a threadbare checked shirt.

Empty whisky bottles stood guard along the kitchen work surfaces, a regiment of empty Grant’s vodka bottles on the greasy windowsill.

A dirty bowl sat on the little kitchen table with the pale pink husks of shrivelled Rice Crispies clinging to the edge, a half-full bottle of Bell’s sitting next to it.

The breakfast of champions.

Logan fumbled the fridge door open with his plastic-bagged hands. A couple of microwave ready meals, a carton of milk past its sell-by date, a block of cheddar going green and hairy. ‘Polmont’s not here.’

‘Shut up and help me look for clues.’ She limped back down the corridor. The first door opened on a small bathroom thick with the bitter tang of old sick. Next was a bedroom, with an unmade double bed, an overflowing ashtray, a tub of hand cream, and a copy of
Butt-Mania
magazine – a couple of used tissues lying by the side of the bed.

A little boxroom lay behind door number three. And it was actually full of boxes: iPods, hair straighteners, cartons of cigarettes, portable DVD players, drums of electrical cable, strange rectangular things with wires sticking out of them, a couple of fuse boxes…

Steel gave a low, breathy whistle. ‘Must be, what: three, four grands’ worth in here?’

Logan nudged a large brown cardboard box with his foot. It clinked. ‘What about this lot?’

‘I don’t know, do I? Open it.’

He held up his bagged hands. ‘How? You wouldn’t let me go back to the station.’

‘God’s sake, got to do
everything
myself…’ She ripped the top flap back and hauled out a bottle of Grant’s vodka, just like the ones in the kitchen, only full. Another three boxes were stacked underneath the window. Steel checked – more vodka. ‘What do you think, nicked?’

Logan nodded at a dozen multipacks of Durex condoms. ‘That or he was planning one hell of a weekend.’

Steel peered into another box. ‘Journals.’ She dumped one on top of a crate of rolling tobacco and flipped it open. The pages were creased and grubby, covered in a dense web of dark-blue biro. She peered at it, then backed off, and tried again, one eye squinted shut. ‘Bloody handwriting’s appalling.’

Logan looked over her shoulder. ‘Get your eyes tested.’

‘I don’t
need
glasses.’

‘If you say so.’

To be fair, Steve Polmont’s writing
was
appalling. The letters all ran together with lots of crossings out and scribbled annotations. ‘Listen to this: “G and Y went on the rampage today – found out someone’s been helping themselves to the shipments. Saw A give J a kicking for it. Have to lay off for a while.” It’s dated Sunday.’

‘What else?’

‘Something about a telephone conversation…’ The writing grew increasingly erratic, until it was little more than a collection of random scribbles. ‘Must’ve been drinking while he wrote it.’

Steel slapped Logan on the arm. ‘Told you I didn’t need glasses. Who’s “G and Y”?’

‘No idea. “A” might be Andy? The big bald bloke?’ Logan tried, and failed, to turn the page with his bagged hands. ‘Little help?’

‘What did your last slave die of?’ She was rummaging
through another box, pulling out bundles of computer games, still wrapped in shiny plastic. ‘Fancy the new
Resident Evil?’

‘That would be unethical.’

‘You’re quite right, Sergeant, what
was
I thinking?’ She stood and slipped a copy into his jacket pocket, then stuck a couple more in her handbag. ‘Let’s face it, if Polmont’s nicked them off Malk the Knife, Malky’s no’ exactly going to come round the station asking for his gear back, is he? This stuff’ll sit in evidence for six months then get turfed into the police auction. Or chucked through an industrial wood chipper. It’s win-win.’ She snapped her bag shut. ‘Right, back to the station. We’ll get a warrant, then come back and find this stuff officially.’

Logan stood for a moment, looking at all the bottles of vodka, wondering if he shouldn’t take a couple into custody while he was at it.

‘You coming?’

‘Oh…yes.’ He struggled with his jacket pocket, pulling the video game out with his slippery hands, and dumped it back in the box. ‘Already got that one.’

Steel rolled her eyes. ‘You are
such
a goody two-shoes.’

She really had no idea.