Dark Blood полностью

Finnie nodded. ‘Now the first thing I’d be asking myself, Inspector, is where the media got their information from – considering the whole operation’s been on a need-to-know basis. Supposedly under your supervision.’

‘Arsing cock-biscuits…’

‘And the second question I’d be asking is, what’s going on at Thirty-Five Cairnview Terrace right now? What do you think: ticker-tape parade? Bake sale? Auditions for the X Factor?’

Steel scrabbled out of her chair. ‘Laz, get Angus back in the cells, then find us a car: blues and twos. And a couple of Uniform!’ She grabbed her coat and threw it on. ‘Why did no bugger tell me about this?’

‘I’ve been trying to call you for the last five minutes.’

She didn’t even blush. ‘Must be something up with the

phones.’ She paused, then stared at Logan. ‘Well don’t just

stand there, get moving!’

Logan sat in the back with DI Steel, holding his breath and the grab handle above the door every time PC Butler threw the patrol car into another corner. The council gritters must have been out in force overnight, but every now and then the whole car lurched sideways as it flashed across a ridge of dirty slush. Blue lights strobing, freezing snowflakes in mid-fall. The electronic hee-haw of the siren clearing a path through the early-morning traffic.

Steel poked at the newspaper, jabbing her finger into Richard Knox’s face. ‘How the hell did they find out where he’s staying?’ She thrust the newspaper into Logan’s lap. ‘Call him.’

Logan looked down at the photo. ‘What, Knox?’

‘No: that greasy wee journalist mate of yours, Colin Buggering Miller. I want to know who told him where Knox was, and I want whoever it was buggered with a traffic cone!’

PC Guthrie turned around in the passenger seat. ‘I suppose as it’s pointy, they’d have time to get used to—’

‘Are you looking for a slap?’

Guthrie faced front again.

Logan stuck his hand in his pocket, looking for his phone, and finding a handful of circuit board shrapnel instead. ‘Bloody hell…’ He had to borrow Steel’s mobile to dial Colin’s number.

The Glaswegian’s voice was barely audible over the siren. Logan stuck his finger in his ear and tried again. ‘I said, who told you where Knox was staying?’

‘…freezin’, man. Stop…tea or somethin’…’

‘Colin?’

‘…before…in…’

‘Hello?’ Logan slapped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Switch off that bloody siren!’

PC Guthrie did. Now there was just the roar of the engine.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello? You still there?’

‘Who told you?’

‘About Knox? Privileged sources, journalistic integrity, etc. So you going to stop past a bakers or what?’

‘Don’t pull that privileged source crap with me: do you have any idea the kind of shit-storm you’ve started?’

‘Story was in the public interest, Laz. People got a right to know if a rapist moves in next door.’

‘There’ll be bloody riots!’

‘Shoulda thought about that before you dumped him on the poor people of Cornhill, shouldn’t you?’

‘I didn’t dump…’ Logan ran a hand across his forehead, gritted his teeth. ‘Where are you?’

‘Outside Knox’s house, freezin’ my nads off, where do you think? And when you go past the bakers get a couple of teas and a wee steak pie or two.’ There was some muffled conversation. ‘Yeah, and Sandy wants a macaroni pie, or sausage roll.’

‘I’m not going to a bloody bakers!’

‘Might tell you where I got the info…?’

Logan told Butler to stop at the next bakery she saw.

‘Took your time.’ Colin Miller swivelled round in his seat as Logan clambered into the back of the ancient beige Volkswagen and slammed the door. The engine was running, so at least it was warm inside.

The bald man in the driver’s seat turned and frowned. ‘Watch the car, yeah?’

Colin smiled. He was immaculately turned out in brand new designer jeans and a leather jacket that probably cost more than Logan’s Fiat. A muscle-bound action figure with a faint whiff of cologne. ‘Laz, this is Sandy. Don’t let the crappy manners fool you, he’s a photographic wunderkind. Aren’t you Sandy?’

‘Sodding thing’s falling apart as it is. You any idea how much it cost to get it through its MOT?’

‘Then buy a decent bloody car for a change.’ Colin held out his black leather-gloved hands. Some of the finger joints didn’t bend, making them look like deformed claws. ‘So…tea?’

Logan dug into the white plastic bag and produced two wax-paper cups with plastic lids. ‘Milk, no sugar.’ Handed them over, then dug out a pair of paper bags, partially transparent with grease.