Dark Blood полностью

‘Good man, yersel!’ Colin peeked into the paper bags, then passed one to the driver. ‘Your lucky day, Sandy: macaroni pie and a sausage roll. Say thank you to the nice police officer.’

Sandy grunted and took a bite of his sausage roll. Flakes of pastry tumbled down the front of his baggy green jumper.

Colin gave him one of the teas. ‘Go make yourself scarce for a couple minutes.’

Sandy stopped chewing, looked out at the street with his mouth hanging open. ‘It’s snowing.’

Cairnview Terrace was a winter wonderland. Big fat flakes drifted down from a gunmetal sky, flaring as they passed through the streetlights’ glow, blanketing everything. Predawn light painted the street in shades of blue, making it look even colder.

The photographer’s Volkswagen was parked directly in front of Knox’s house, the patrol car two doors down, behind a blue Volvo estate with ‘BBC SCOTLAND’ down the side, across the road from a Transit Van bearing the SKY NEWS logo, exhaust fumes clouding out into the cold morning.

No signs of a lynch mob waving pitchforks and burning torches. Maybe they were having a long lie?

Colin reached over from the passenger’s side and fumbled with the driver’s door handle. Popped it open. ‘Take your tea for a walk; enjoy the taste of your pie in the great outdoors; bum a fag from the Sky lot.’

Sandy grumbled for a bit. Stuffed his sausage roll in his mouth, grabbed his greasy paper bag and his tea, them clambered out into the early morning and slammed the door even harder than Logan had. But at least he’d left the engine running.

Colin watched Sandy stomp away into the snow, then helped himself to a steak pie. Talking with his mouth full. ‘So what you doin’ about Knox, now his cover’s blown, and that?’

‘Yeah, and who blew it?’ Logan went back into the plastic bag for a milky coffee and a cheese and onion pasty. ‘Who told you?’

‘Suppose you’ll have to move him. Might be an idea to let him put his side of the story first, you know?’

‘Colin, my boss is sitting in that patrol car over there, thinking up new ways to make my life a living hell, because I talked her into stopping off to get you breakfast. Now who told you where Knox was staying?’

‘And how is Madame Wrinkles the Lesbo Lothario?’

‘Colin!’

‘No one told me.’ Colin took another bite of pie, the hot meaty smell oozing out into the Volkswagen’s interior. ‘See, the thing about bein’ an investigative journalist is you go out and investigate. Should try it some time, be amazed what you can turn up, but.’

Smug git.

Logan creaked the plastic lid off his coffee. ‘How about I tell Isobel where you really were two weeks ago? When she thought you were in Dundee interviewing the idiot who got hypothermia trying to steal that statue of Desperate Dan?’

Colin stared at him. ‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Got till I finish my pasty, then I’m calling her.’

‘You are such a…’ Scowl. ‘OK, OK: when I was down in Newcastle I spoke to a neighbour, who put me onto his old English teacher. Creepy auld wifie with too many cats and a face like a skelpt arse. She says every single one of Knox’s “What I did on holiday” essays was about him comin’ up to Aberdeen and stayin’ with his granny and grandad, while his mum went aff on the pull.’

Colin took another bite of pie, taking care not to get any gravy on his gloves. ‘Offered to sell me one of the essays, you believe that? Soon as they charged Knox with raping that old man she went and dug everythin’ she could out of the school records. Knew it would be worth somethin’ some day.’

He shook his head, took a sip of tea. ‘Report cards, notes from his mum, complaints from the gym teacher…Tell you, makes you proud of the education system, doesn’t it? First thing she thinks of is how much cash she can rake in.’

‘And?’

‘Gonnae be in tomorrow’s Examiner: “Portrait of the monster as a small boy”, kinda deal. Four-page spread.’

‘No, you idiot, how did you get the address?’

‘School kept next-of-kin details on file. Mrs Euphemia Abercrombie-Murray was down as a second point of contact, in case they couldn’t get hold of Knox’s mum.’

At least that meant Finnie could call off his witch hunt.

Logan looked out through the falling snow. Lights were on in Knox’s house, everyone probably woken hours ago by Colin and his grumpy photographer. That was one good thing about the weather: no journalist was daft enough to camp out on the doorstep.

‘Anything else I should know?’

‘Well—’

The driver’s door creaked open and Sandy stuck his head in, snow clinging to the shoulders of his blue parka and the fringe of hair around of his head. ‘God it’s freezing out—’

‘No’ yet, eh, Sandy?’

‘Oh for…’ He threw his arms wide. ‘It’s my bloody car!’

‘Five minutes, mate.’

‘You know what: it’s my bloody petrol too.’ He yanked the key out of the ignition, then slammed the door again and marched off, hauling the parka’s fur-trimmed hood over his bald patch.

Colin dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘Ever heard of someone called Michael “Mental Mikey” Maitland?’