The Blood Road. Stuart MacBride
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‘Carlos Guerrero y Prieto’s real name is Duncan Bell, AKA: Ding-Dong, late Detective Inspector of this parish.’
Logan stared.
The hairy hands dangling at the end of those bear-like arms. The rounded shoulders. The heavy eyebrows. Take off the beard. Add a bit more hair. Put him in an ill-fitting suit?
‘But … he’s dead. And I don’t mean “just now” dead – we buried him two years ago.’
Doreen nodded, radiating smugness. ‘And that’s why we called you.’
The duty undertakers lifted their shiny grey coffin, slipping and sliding in the damp grass. Two of the scene examiners broke off from collecting samples and grabbed a handle each, helping them carry it away from the crashed Ford.
Logan unzipped his suit a bit, letting the trapped heat out, and shifted his grip on his phone. ‘We’ll need a DNA match to be a hundred percent, but they’ve done the live scan on his fingerprints five times now and it always comes up as DI Bell.’
‘I see…’ Superintendent Doig made sooking noises for a bit. When he came back, his voice was gentle, a tad indulgent. ‘But, you see, it can’t be him, Logan. We buried him. I was at his funeral. I gave a speech. People were very moved.’
‘You tripped over the podium and knocked one of the floral displays flying.’
‘Yes, well. … I don’t think we need to dwell on every little aspect of the service.’
‘If it is DI Bell, he’s been lying low somewhere sunny. Going by the tan and new name, maybe Spain?’
‘Why would Ding-Dong fake his own death?’
‘And having faked his own death, why come back two years later? Why now?’
One of the examiners wandered up and pulled down her facemask, revealing a mouthful of squint teeth framed with soft pink lipstick. ‘Inspector McRae? You might wanna come see this.’
‘Hold on a sec, Boss, something’s come up.’ Logan pressed the phone against his chest and followed the crinkly-white oversuited figure to the crashed Ford’s boot.
A shovel and a pickaxe lay partially unwrapped from their black plastic bin-bag parcels – metal blades clean and glittering in the dull light.
She nodded at them. ‘Bit suspicious, right? Why’s he carting a pick and shovel about?’
Logan inched forwards, sniffing. There was a strange toilety scent – like green urinal cakes undercut by something darker. ‘Can you smell that?’
‘Smell what?’
‘Air freshener.’
She leaned in too, sniffing. ‘Oh… Yeah, I’m getting it now. Sort of pine and lavender? I love those wee plug-in—’
‘Get the pick and shovel tested. He’s been digging something up, or burying it, I want to know what and where.’
The other scene examiner sauntered over, hands in his pockets, glancing up at the hill. ‘Aye, aye. We’ve got an audience.’
A scruffy Fiat hatchback lurked at the side of the road above, not far from where the crashed car’s tyres scored their way down the mud and grass. Someone stood next to it peering through a pair of binoculars. Auburn curls made a halo around her head, tucked out of the way behind her ears. A linen suit that looked as if she’d slept in it. But she wasn’t looking at them, she was following the duty undertakers and the coffin.
‘Bloody press.’ The examiner with the pink lipstick, howked, then spat. ‘It’ll be telephoto lenses in a minute.’
Logan went back to his phone. ‘Boss? DCI Hardie’s running the MIT, any chance you can have a word? Think we need to be involved on this one.’
‘Urgh… More paperwork, just what we need. All right, I’ll see what I can do.’
He hung up before Doig launched into his ‘bye, bye’ routine and stood there. Watching the figure up on the road. Frowned. Then turned away and poked at the screen of his phone, scrolling through his list of contacts. Set it ringing.
The woman with the curly hair pulled out her phone, juggling it and the binoculars, then a wary voice – laced with that Inverness Monarch-of-the-Glen twang – sounded in Logan’s ear. ‘Hello?’
‘Detective Sergeant Chalmers? It’s Inspector McRae. Hi. Just checking that you’re remembering our appointment this lunchtime: twelve noon.’
‘What? Yes. Definitely remembering it. Couldn’t be more excited.’
Yeah, bet she was.
‘Only you’ve missed the last three appointments and I’m beginning to think you’re avoiding me.’
‘Nooo. Definitely not. Well, I’d better get back to it, got lots of door-to-doors to do. So—’
‘You’re on the Ellie Morton investigation, aren’t you?’
The woman was still following the duty undertakers with her binoculars. They struggled up the hill with the coffin, fighting against the slope and wet grass. One missed step and they’d be presiding over a deeply embarrassing and unprofessional toboggan run.
‘Yup. Like I said, we’re—’
‘Any leads? Three-year-old girl goes missing, her parents must be frantic.’
‘We’re working our way through Tillydrone as I speak. Nothing so far.’
‘Tillydrone?’
‘Yup, going to be here all morning… Ah, damn it. Actually, now I think about it, I’ll probably be stuck here all afternoon too. Sorry. Can we reschedule our thing for later in the week?’
‘You’re in Tillydrone?’
‘Yup.’
‘That’s odd… Because I’m standing in a field a couple of miles West of Inverurie, and I could swear I’m looking right at you.’ He waved up the hill at her. ‘Can you see me waving?’
‘Shite…’ Chalmers ducked behind her car. ‘No, definitely in Tillydrone. Must be someone else. Er… I’ve got to go. The DI needs me. Bye.’
The line went dead. She’d hung up on him.
Those auburn curls appeared for a brief moment as she scrambled into her car, then the engine burst into life and the hatchback roared away. Disappeared around the corner.
Subtle. Really subtle.
Logan shook his head. ‘Unbelievable.’
Something rocky thumped out of the Audi’s speakers as it wound its way back down the road towards Aberdeen. Past fields of brown-grey soil, and fields of drooping grass, and fields of miserable sheep, and fields flooded with thick pewter lochans. On a good day, the view would have been lovely, but under the ashen sky and never-ending rain?
This was why people emigrated.
The music died, replaced by the car’s default ringtone.
Logan pressed the button and picked up. ‘Hello?’
‘Guv? It’s me.’ Me: AKA Detective Sergeant Simon Occasionally-Useful-When-Not-Being-A-Pain-In-The-Backside Rennie. Sounding as if he was in the middle of chewing a toffee or something. ‘I’ve been down to records and picked up all of DI Bell’s old case files. Where do you want me to start?’
‘How about the investigation into his suicide?’
‘Ah. No. One of DCI