Dark Blood полностью

He was silent for a moment. ‘This you trying to get me to do your bloody paperwork again?’

‘Dildo, I’m hurt.’

‘Yeah, and you didn’t answer the question.’ Sigh. ‘What have you got?’

Logan smiled. ‘MP3 players, hair straighteners, video games, bunch of other stuff. All boxed.’

‘Sod…OK, OK, I’ll come over. But it’s going to have to be Monday: got a bunch of Weights and Measures reports to write up, and I’m bloody well going home tonight before my kids are asleep.’

They set a time and Logan hung up. Then stood and stuck two fingers up at the contents of Steve Polmont’s flat, now officially someone else’s problem. Who said he couldn’t be a team player?

Logan parked outside the fourth address on his list and checked the caller display on his phone, just as it rang through to voicemail: Colin Miller – the Aberdeen Examiner’s star reporter. Logan gave it a minute, then checked his messages. Four from Steel threatening to castrate him; one from Samantha asking if he fancied taking her out to dinner for a change; one from Beattie – had he done anything about that meeting yet?

Logan frowned. What bloody meeting?

And then it was Colin, asking to be called back.

Logan hit reply and three rings later the reporter’s Glasgow burr rattled his eardrums.

‘Laz, my man, how they dangling?’ He didn’t bother waiting for a reply. ‘Great. Listen, I’m free the night, fancy hittin’ the town? Grab a bite to eat and some beers?’

‘Can’t tonight, got a date with a tattooed lady.’

‘Aw, come oan! You got any idea what I had to do to get a free pass? Couple of pints, bit of banter, just like the old days.’

Logan creaked open the car door.

A security light cracked on, bathing the gravel parking area with harsh white light. Twenty past four and the sun was taking its hat off, packing its bags, and sodding off home, leaving the countryside washed in dull pink and cold blue.

‘I’m kinda off the booze for a bit.’

‘You’re kidding me!’

‘Antibiotics.’ As good a lie as any.

‘Shite…’

There were no streetlights out here in the sticks. It was a cluster of converted farm buildings between Dyce and the Bridge of Don. Not all of them had been finished, and an old steading sat off to one side, the roof a ribcage of pale pine joists with a tatty-edged chunk of blue plastic sheeting draped over half of it.

At least the wind and sleet had died down. Still bloody freezing though.

‘Then we’ll grab a curry. You can have a Lambrini, or whatever it is you teetotal homosexuals drink these days.’

‘Colin—’

‘We can moan about work – got this new bloke in charge of the news desk, carrot-top bastard thinks I’m “too sensationalist”. Wanker. You can bang on about that tit Beattie, or your lezzer boss.’ Pause. ‘Bet that wee shite Richard Knox is a nightmare to deal with…?’

Logan slammed the car door. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. ‘Subtle, Colin, real subtle.’

‘What? I just—’

‘I’m not giving you info on an ongoing investigation, you know that. Curry and a pint my arse.’

There was silence for a moment, and when Colin spoke again Logan could hear the grin in his voice. ‘Can’t blame a guy for trying, right? Tell you what, you tell me all about Knox, and I’ll let you in on Monday’s headline.’

‘Bye Colin.’ Logan hung up. Cheeky bugger.

He pulled out the list he’d downloaded from the Police National Computer – people convicted of robberies involving sledgehammers – and read the summary for number four. Damian Atkinson, AKA: Daniel Francis, AKA: Danny Saunders, AKA: Donny Ferrier. Done for burglary, demanding money with menaces, aggravated assault. And most importantly, for holding up a series of all-night petrol stations with a sledgehammer.