Blue Vengenance: A Logan Thorne DCI Scottish Detective Thriller Read online

  “Aye, just what I need,” I muttered. “Someone starting a rumour that I was drinking at the scene.”

  I did a quick survey of the area, but there were too many eyes looking in my direction. I made a mental note to toss the flask in the boot when I could, then pushed it under the seat where at least it was out of sight. I found my badge under a hoodie, and then I stepped out into the chill. I blew on my hands as I looked at all the gathered police and then joined my partner and her expanding layer of clothing.

  “Christ, it’s cold,” Harding said by way of greeting.

  “And it’s only the tip, Harding,” I noted with a bit of glee.

  “Great,” she sniffed as she rolled her eyes. “Oh, I got you this. It might be lukewarm by now, though. I’ve been using it as a hot water bottle.”

  She handed me a take-away coffee with her gloved hand. I took a sip, but the taste mingled badly with the residue of minty mouthwash. I scowled, sniffed the coffee, and then risked another sip. I felt the caffeine jolt my tired mind, and I quickly downed a large gulp.

  “Double shot?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she acknowledged.

  “So where’s the car?” I asked when only half the cup was left.

  “Just this way,” Harding replied as she started to walk away.

  I followed my partner as she somehow found a path through the heavy police presence. The average abandoned car would never warrant this much attention, but this was The Boss. I had no doubt that word had come down that no expense was to be spared despite the recent belt-tightening.

  It also seemed as though the unprecedented situation had left the officers directionless. A perimeter hadn’t been set up yet, and I couldn’t work out who was in charge. ACC Clarke wasn’t there, even though she was Brown’s deputy. I seemed to be the highest rank on the scene, a situation that deserved the sigh that escaped my lips.

  “Yeah, sorry, sir,” the DS said. “They’ve been waiting for you to arrive. In more ways than one.”

  “Have they now?” I snickered. I took another long gulp of the coffee and then looked for a place to toss the empty cup.

  “Well, you know,” the rosy-cheeked Southerner replied. “People talk.”

  “And do you listen?” I asked.

  “Course not,” she said as she shook her head. “People love to bring down those they admire.”

  I scratched my cheeks as I studied the scene again. I did need to shave, I decided.

  “Well, you know what they say,” I noted. “It's worse to be talked about than not.”

  Harding frowned and then smiled slyly.

  “Oscar Wilde, sir?” She asked.

  “Just checking you hadn’t completely forgotten your degree,” I chuckled.

  We’d arrived at the edge of the scene by then. Brown’s car, a ten-year old Ford sedan in silver, was parked next to a pile of scaffolding poles. I spotted the strawberry shaped air freshener that dangled from the rearview mirror, and knew that the copper who had run the registration had been correct. Not that I had expected him to be wrong, really, but part of me had hoped.

  The air freshener had been a small gift from the Boss’ wife, a joke really, after he complained that his car always seemed to smell like a to-go order from McDonald’s. The scent was long gone and the red color faded to pink, but Brown still held onto the little bit of cardboard.

  I sighed and approached the two officers who seemed to be on guard duty. They watched us draw near but quickly moved aside when we flashed our badges.

  “Charming place,” I said as I breathed in the scent of oil and cold metal.

  “Doesn't really seem the CC’s style,” Harding replied.

  “It’s not,” I agreed.

  CC Brown lived in a New Town terraced house, spent Sunday mornings at church, and attended operas at least once a month. So what would bring the Boss all the way to Lochend?

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Harding said as she pointed towards a nearby security camera.

  “Wouldn’t count on it,” I replied. “Most of those are for show.”

  “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to track down the owner,” Harding replied. “And I can check some of the other businesses. See if there’s any video that shows someone following the CC.”

  I nodded, but I knew there wouldn’t be any video. None of the businesses around here could afford a functioning camera.

  “Anyone checked inside yet?” I asked.

  “Just the first on scene,” the chestnut-haired Southerner replied. “Just to confirm he wasn’t inside.”

  “Let’s have a look, then,” I said.

  Harding tossed a pair of latex gloves in my direction, and I caught them one-handed. I pulled them on, even though they were a bit small for my hands, and then opened the car door as gently as I could. Harding hovered at the window and stared in, but she made no move to open the other door. She knew, as I did, that the fewer people who touched the car, the cleaner the evidence would be.

  A strange scent wafted out of the car, and I frowned as I tried to place it. I leaned in closer and took a deep breath before the chill air carried it away. The scent was bitter, and when I focused closely, sweet, too. There was a nutty aroma there as well. Something tickled at the back of my brain, but I couldn’t come up with the information.

  I turned my attention to the rest of the car then and studied the interior for any signs of a struggle. The gearstick hadn’t been kicked back and there were no visible blood spills, although forensics would test that more thoroughly.

  “Looks normal, sir, don’t you think?” Harding asked.

  “Seems it,” I agreed. “But do you remember what I told you about that?”

  “It’s not enough just to look at a scene, we have to observe it?” Harding repeated.

  “Correct,” I replied as I took another look at the inside of the car.

  Something felt off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Hair prickled on the back of my neck, and I hunched over the seat to study the floor.

  “You know, sir,” Harding commented, “if you filled a notebook with all of these lessons, I could study them rather than have to remember.”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw that my pupil was grinning.

  “The lessons will never end, Harding,” I replied solemnly.

  I heard her laugh, and then sneeze.

  “Shall I call in the SOCOs?” she asked. “We should widen the search.”

  “Just give me a minute,” I said as I turned back to the floors.

  I could feel her stare boring into my back, and I was on the verge of telling her to call the SOCOs over, just so I could examine the car in peace. That’s when I saw what had felt out of place. A small bit of ash, slightly damp as if it had been recently wiped by someone who wanted to make it disappear. I clasped my hands behind my back so I wouldn’t be tempted to touch it, and then stepped away from the car.

  “What is it?” Harding pressed when she saw my expression.

  “Ash,” I said.

  “Ash?” she repeated. “Like a burn?”

  “Like cigarette ash.”

  I heard the slam of car doors and other sirens wailing in the distance. More reinforcements were being sent which meant our time at the scene might be limited.

  “Okay,” Harding mused. “Cigarette ash. So?”

  “The thing is, Brown quit smoking years ago,” I explained. “It’s not his. And it looks like someone tried to clean it with something wet.”

  Harding’s wide eyes met mine.

  “So, then--” Harding stuttered.

  “So this isn’t just an abandoned car, and I don’t think CC Brown broke down and went in search of a tow,” I said. “Someone else was in the car with him, and that person is probably the reason he’s disappeared.”

  Chapter 2

  I stepped back away from the car and stumbled on an old copper pipe. I kicked it away and watched the pipe spin across the ground. I could still see the ash as clearly as if it were in front of
my eyes.

  “Sir?” DS Harding asked worriedly.

  I glanced up at the sky. It was a steely-grey afternoon and the high wind carried the clouds quickly across the sky. I pictured our police helicopters spiralling up into the atmosphere, and knew I had to make the call. Their thermal imaging technology could look for Brown out in the denser parts of the woods where it was nearly impossible to search by foot.

  That was a good start. We needed to call in the eyes in the sky. I remembered that I was the senior officer on-site, and thankfully, my instincts kicked in. Every minute counted from then on.

  “Right, okay.” My voice shook as I spoke. I cleared my throat and beckoned Harding over.

  “Tell Dispatch it's suspicious,” I instructed. “Brown should be treated as a missing person. Get SOCO in here and tell them to log everything and send the car back to the lab. Like, yesterday. It should be a priority.”

  “Got it,” Harding replied as she started to dial.

  “And those eejit’s--” I pointed at the officers behind us with my thumb. “They need to set up a wide search. Wide as the city. We need a lot more bodies here, a hell of a lot more. Get the dogs in, too. Anything with legs.”

  “What if they want to know why we need so many people?” she asked nervously.

  “What do you mean?” I replied.

  “Well, what if they’re concerned this huge search is all because of cigarette ash?” Harding pressed as she looked everywhere but at me. “Couldn’t Brown have just been smoking it himself?”

  I swallowed my temper and remembered the English DS wasn’t aware of Brown’s history, not like I was. I shook my head gently.

  “Trust me,” I said. “He never touched the fags again after quitting. His father died of lung cancer. It was a long and nasty illness, and Brown couldn’t face smoking again.”

  “Still...” Harding murmured.

  “I’m telling you, something is very wrong here,” I replied.

  I looked around at the officers congregated around the wire gates and spotted a civilian as he approached the group. The man had his phone in one hand and a tray with four coffees in the other. A brief conversation followed, and then the officers accepted the coffee cups. He held out a fistful of sugar packets and smiled knowingly.

  I frowned as I realised the area still hadn’t been cordoned off, and no one seemed inclined to take care of that task. Yet another order I would have to give, though someone should have had enough sense to take care of that already. And then the man turned around, and I groaned.

  “Won’t be long before the journalists catch wind,” Harding commented. “Not with this many police around.”

  “Seems they already are,” I replied with a nod.

  “How did he arrive here so quickly?” Harding asked as she studied the man.

  “You don’t want to know,” I replied as I shook my head.

  The man was Robert Crinkle, crime correspondent for the Herald. Crinkle always brought coffees to a scene so the cops loved him, right up until the moment he wrote how terrible they were, and those words then circulated around Edinburgh. I didn’t question how Crinkle had received the tip so quickly. The station was a leaky ship where many of the officers liked to gossip about the job with anyone who would listen. And journalists were always a willing, eager audience, who knew how to make the cops feel important.

  Not all cops, though. The first time I met Harding, I had walked over to see her batting away a local journalist. She was polite but firm, even as the newsman tried to block her into a corner, so I liked her immediately.

  “You want me to clear him out?” Harding asked.

  I sighed and considered my options. The press could be helpful, especially when we wanted to ask the public for help or keep the victim’s face visible, so I couldn’t alienate them entirely. And I didn’t really have a problem with those who wanted to develop trusting, professional relationships.

  But Crinkle was a different breed. He’d hammered my team in his articles, sometimes with flat out lies I didn’t waste my energy on refuting. I could never trust a person whose job depended on selling information, truth or not, and I knew how quickly our words could be twisted until we appeared as incompetent fools.

  Harding was right. The press would crawl over this case like insects. A missing Chief Constable didn’t happen every day, and I dreaded to think what I would find at the end of the road. I would have to close down the case to necessary officers only. Fighting away journalists’ questions at all hours would make my job so much harder. I could already picture the press crowding outside the station, how their cameras would train on us like eyes.

  We couldn’t falter on a single step.

  Crinkle eyed me and took a hopeful step forward. He always wanted to interview me for an exclusive quote or at least convey a meaningful nod, but he always came up empty-handed. He was huddled in a group with three officers clutching polystyrene cups, and I felt a swell of anger, both at Crinkle for keeping the officers from their jobs, and at the officers for failing to do their jobs . I walked towards them in long, quick strides, and the little group broke apart as I approached. Crinkle swivelled his phone towards me, and his lips parted in a greedy sneer.

  “Inspector, is it true you’re looking at Chief Constable Brown as a missing person?” Crinkle asked.

  I shot an angry glance to the sheepish-looking officers. They adjusted their hats nervously, and suddenly found something interesting to stare at in the distance.

  “We’re not prepared to comment on the case at this time,” I said as I narrowed my eyes at Crinkle.

  His tie was stained brown as though he had spilled the coffee on himself, and a thin layer of mud coated the hem of his pants. I always thought him unprofessional, but not just because of his shoddy attire.

  “And you’re contaminating a crime scene,” I added for good measure.

  The officers began to fidget and shift their weight. Crinkle looked down at his feet and widened his eyes in faux-concern.

  “This pavement right here is a crime scene?” Crinkle asked in disbelief. “But there’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “Luckily, that’s not your decision,” I said. “But it is mine, and I say get out.”

  His fingers twitched as if his hands were already on his keyboard, and I wondered if he was composing his next lie about me. I leaned over him, and I saw a flash of fear in his eyes. He glanced around for help, but nobody rushed to his side. Crinkle shrank from me and held up his hands in mock surrender. He shot a look at the officers he was talking to.

  “You’re welcome for the coffee,” he muttered.

  The trio glanced guiltily at their half empty cups, but they remained silent. I noticed that one of the bright young things who had recently joined the force had found a roll of yellow tape and had started to unspool it well behind Crinkle’s back. I folded my arms and stared at Crinkle until he slithered behind the police tape.

  The journalist found a spot out of the wind where he could congregate with some of the other reporters as they arrived. He hung his head like a kicked dog and ignored the questions, though I saw him pull out his phone and start typing.

  I couldn’t stop him from reporting, but I could try and prevent him from gaining any leads before us. I wondered if our exchange would be in his article. No doubt he would try to write me as villainously as possible, the enemy of free speech. I snorted. Let him. Not many people read his paper anymore.

  I turned to face the officers and gave them my best angry glare. The men shifted uncomfortably, but at least they had the grace to look at me. I let the silence hang in the air for the moment, until the men finally drew themselves up.

  “Anyone crossing that tape again who shouldn’t, arrest them,” I snapped. “And you know better than to accept gifts from Robert Crinkle.”

  I nodded to the coffee cups each man still had in their hands. One of the officers pulled his buttoned-up shirt away from his neck as if suddenly warm.

  The DI who
had nodded at me earlier appeared at my side and started to shepherd the officers into a large group to coordinate the search. He turned to smile at me, and I was surprised to see it was a real smile that actually reached his eyes. I didn’t get a lot of those from co-workers.

  I wondered what exactly people thought about me and Brown. I hadn’t told anyone about our past, and Brown had even less reason to gossip about it. Or maybe, this detective had a previous run-in with Crinkle, too, and was happy to see him humiliated. It wasn’t an unlikely possibility. Crinkle had pissed off all the hard-working detectives in Edinburgh.

  “Everyone is on the way here,” Harding announced as she joined me.

  Her brown eyes were as hard and glassy as the layers of ice on the road, a sure sign that she was focused on the matter at hand. We all had to be. One wrong move and CC Brown’s life could be jeopardized.

  I saw Harding’s eyes scan the growing crowd of civilians on the other side of the tape, and she snickered when she saw Crinkle’s forlorn figure.

  Crinkle tried to talk to some of the other arriving officers, but was ignored by everyone. He finally gave up and started to walk away.

  “You got rid of him, then?” she asked.

  “For now,” I replied grimly. “It’ll only get worse as this drags on, though, and he’ll be back soon enough.”

  The men inside the garages had regained their interest after our flurry of activity. They leaned against the walls and watched us intently while a broken down car dripped oil next to their feet. They smirked meanly at Harding, and muttered under their breath about the size of her tits.

  “We need to clear this area, too,” I remarked. “Tell the uniform to get them out.”