Blue Vengenance: A Logan Thorne DCI Scottish Detective Thriller Page 20

  The cop opened his eyes and lifted them to the ceiling, as if he might find the answer written there.

  “He got out of the car,” Murray said.

  I leaned forwards and wet my lips, hoping that Murray had gotten a good look at the other driver.

  “He slipped a little on the glass and started to walk towards us, but then something spooked him,” the PC said.

  “What was it?” I asked.

  “Maybe it was Webster,” Murray replied as a tear ran down his cheeks. “He looked horrible. His neck was clearly broken.”

  “And then the driver left?” I asked.

  I wanted to take the cop’s visual away from Webster’s body as gently as I could and have him focus on the stranger.

  Murray nodded and then winced in pain.

  “But I couldn’t see much about his car, sir,” he apologised. “I didn’t want to move my head. It hurt too much when I tried.”

  “You’re doing great,” I reassured him. “Do you remember what colour the car was, anything like that?”

  “I’m sorry…” Murray began to say. “My memory is so cut-up. I’m not sure what was real. I’m sure it was a big car, though, and dark-coloured.”

  The nurse bustled back in, and she stood between us and Murray like a guard dog.

  “That’s enough now,” she barked and shooed us away. “Out, out!”

  I looked back at Murray as we were pushed out from the room. He seemed to be staring down at the thick stockings wrapped around his feet, and I could see another tear start down his cheek.

  “He needs to be watched over,” I told the nurse. “At all times.”

  “He’s perfectly safe,” the nurse replied in a softer voice.

  “There was another man in the car,” I started.

  “You can come back when they’re settled,” she said sharply. “Right now, both patients are off-limits.”

  I wanted to argue more, but Harding recognized that we wouldn’t win the battle and beckoned that we leave. The nurse pointed us back towards the actual exit from the ward, and I felt her eyes on the back of my neck all the way to the door.

  “The glass,” I muttered to Harding as we stopped just outside the door.

  “What about it?” she asked.

  “If the suspect touched some of the broken glass around the window, he might have cut himself,” I explained. “I hope the Holyrod people know that and get it tested.”

  I rubbed my neck anxiously. There were few things I hated more than letting someone else run a crime scene. And based on what little we had witnessed, I wasn’t sure the Holyrod detective was up to the task.

  “I’m sure they do,” Harding soothed. “I’m surprised you haven’t had a call from Clarke yet actually.”

  “Me, too,” I agreed and slipped my phone out. “Oh, right. I have.”

  I had four missed calls. I forgot that I’d put the phone on silent.

  “She knows, then,” the British beauty conceded and then sighed. “We’re in for it now.”

  “Seems like,” I agreed.

  “Well,” she corrected herself. “You are.”

  “Right,” I muttered. “Thank you for that bit of support.”

  “We need to find Madden,” I said as I walked back into the Trauma centre. No one paid any attention to us as I started to walk towards an empty nurse’s station. There was a large board behind the desk with a map of the beds and names of patients occupying them. I examined the board for Madden’s name.

  “Can I help you?” a woman’s voice asked.

  I turned at the thick Italian accent and stared into a nurse’s caramel-brown eyes. Her skin was the colour of glazed biscuits. Harding nudged me.

  “We’re looking for Rory Madden,” I explained. “He was in a car crash and brought by ambulance?”

  The nurse’s face scrunched up in pity.

  “Isn’t anyone updating you?” she asked.

  “Erm, no,” I said. Technically, it wasn’t a lie.

  “I’m so sorry!” the nurse said and reached out a hand as if she was going to touch my wrist but decided not to.

  “We have a family liaison officer who can keep you informed while Mr. Madden is in surgery,” she added.

  “He’s in surgery?” I asked.

  The woman’s large, brown eyes widened.

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s scheduled for five hours, so you’ll have quite a wait, I’m afraid, but we have a room available. I can take you there.”

  “Oh, yes, that would be good,” I agreed as I wondered where the other nurse was at the moment.

  The nurse led us out of the ward and down yet another corridor, past rooms with warnings about the health hazards of x-rays, and a lab filled with glass bottles. The nurse finally stopped outside a small door with a sign that identified it as the Bereavement Room.

  “You can stay in there,” the nurse said. “I’ll let the liaison know you’re here.”

  “Okay,” my partner stammered. “Thank you so much.”

  “Thanks,” I agreed.

  The nurse smiled widely and adjusted her stethoscope.

  “I really hope everything works out for you,” she said as she opened the door for us.

  We filed through the door, and when I looked back, the nurse had gone. I heard her croc shoes as they slapped against the floor, and then it was just the two of us in the egg-yolk-yellow room. It was not the room where you took family members of those expected to survive.

  “Well,” I said as I turned to my brunette partner. “That was unexpectedly helpful. Except now we’re stuck in this room.”

  “This is what happens when you don’t look like a DCI, sir,” Harding smirked. “We get put with the families.”

  “And also when you go in without the backing of your superior,” I added.

  We sat on stiff, straight-backed chairs and stared at the yellow walls. There was no TV and no magazines anywhere. It was not a room that invited hope, or even escape.

  “This place is cheerful,” Harding muttered to me.

  A woman swung the door open and whirled towards us in a cloud of perfume. She wore a pinstriped blazer and trousers, and her short, wispy, brown hair was tucked behind her ears. Her unbuttoned shirt revealed a thin, ropey neck. As she reached out to shake my hand, I noticed her fingernails were flecked with uneven, red polish and were chewed down to the stub. Harding and I both bounced to our feet, and I clasped her outstretched hand in mine.

  “I’m so sorry for your troubles,” she said.

  “Oh, we’re not family,” I told her as I showed her my badge.

  The woman’s face fell, and she impatiently checked her watch.

  “We just wanted an update on Mr. Madden’s condition?” I asked.

  “Right, well, I’m a family liaison, so I’m not really sure what you’re doing in here,” she frowned.

  I held up my hands in surrender.

  “I don’t know, either, we were sort of herded in,” I explained.

  The woman glanced at the door.

  “We’re working on a very important case,” I pressed. “And time is very much of the essence.”

  “Well, seeing as I’m here,” she said, sighed, and checked her notes.

  I glanced at my partner and waggled my eyebrows. Harding shook her head and mouthed the word ‘lucky.’

  “Mr. Madden’s main injuries are internal abdominal bleeding and pneumothorax of the left lung, which was treated with a tube but failed, so he is scheduled for surgery this afternoon,” she read quickly from her notes. “He has other, lesser injuries of a fractured collarbone and a sprained wrist. He is in a critical but stable condition.”

  I stared at the woman. She had delivered the news as if reading from a TV guide.

  “Do you know if the car impacted him directly?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” she said without real remorse.

  “Hang on,” I said. “That’s all the information you have? What if we were family?”

  �
��Well, then,” the woman snapped. “It’s lucky you aren’t.”

  “Do you know when Mr. Madden will be well enough to talk to us?” Harding asked.

  “You’d have to speak to Mr. Madden’s doctor about that,” the liaison checked her watch again.

  “Mr. Madden needs to be protected at all times,” I told the woman.

  “Why?” she asked and cocked her head.

  “I can’t tell you that, but I assure you it’s very important,” I replied.

  She sighed as though disappointed not to hear the gossip.

  “Like I said, you’ll have to speak to Mr. Madden’s doctor about that,” she said again.

  “When could we--” I began to ask.

  “I’m afraid I have to dash off,” she cut in. “It was nice to meet you both, erm, detective.”

  “Thorne,” I offered. “This is DS Harding.”

  “Great!” she declared as she gave us a very fake smile. “Good luck with your investigation.”

  She disappeared in a cloud of stinging perfume, and I could hear her heels tap against the tiles. Harding looked at me and raised both eyebrows.

  “In her defence,” she said. “The NHS is stretched pretty thin.”

  “Christ, this is no good,” I complained as I ran three fingers through my hair. “We need Madden protected as if in a fortress, not a run-down castle.”

  “My guess is that he’ll be transferred to ICU when he’s out of surgery,” DS Harding suggested. “No visitors are allowed in that ward.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “I just do,” she replied.

  She refused to meet my eyes and instead looked at the leaflet with a picture of a calm ocean, and the words ‘Understanding Bereavement’ above it.

  “None of this makes any sense,” I protested. “Webster can’t be the third target. He’s only been on the force for a year.”

  “I know,” Harding said. “I thought that, too. But that means Madden, surely…”

  “You heard that woman,” I cut in. “He’s seriously injured, but he’ll recover. It just doesn't fit the pattern. Nothing about this attack fits the pattern. We’re missing something.”

  The recklessness of the third kill disturbed me. There had been a cautious element to those first two crimes, committed in quiet, or even empty, places, and after a great deal of careful planning. But a noisy car accident on a very public access road during a time of day when there were guaranteed to be people around? I didn’t buy it. And then there was the fact that the man had approached the car and shown himself to Murray. That didn’t sound like the man I was hunting. The killer I stalked wouldn’t reveal himself unless he intended to kill that person.

  “I believe you’re right, sir,” Harding nodded. “But the only thing I can think to do right now, at least before Madden wakes up, and our friends at the station get back to us, is to find the guys in Madden’s photo.”

  I nodded slowly.

  “I’ll sort it,” she said as I reached into my pocket for the pictures.

  She took the photographs gently from my hand and dropped them into an evidence baggy she pulled from her jacket pocket. I opened the door and startled an old woman on the other side. She was accompanied by a younger man, whom I guessed to be her son. They’d clearly both been crying, and other than that first reaction, neither paid any attention to us.

  I stepped into the corridor and then groaned. I had a clear view of the hospital entrance window, and I could see three camera-laden journalists gathered outside, Robert Crinkle among them.

  “Do they have secret trackers on us?” I asked in disbelief.

  “I don’t know how they do it,” she replied and shook her head. “Maybe they’re here for something else?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “I can’t think of a juicier story than three dead cops. Christ, I’ll have to tell Clarke and get the liaison officer over here.”

  I rubbed my forehead in frustration and looked back towards the Trauma centre. I wondered if we could still slip out the way we had come in without being noticed.

  “I’ll deal with it,” my partner said.

  “How?” I frowned.

  “It doesn’t seem too difficult,” she said with a shrug. “I’ve studied a bit of PR before.”

  “I don’t know,” I said and pursed my lips. “One wrong move, and this case could be taken from our hands.”

  “Trust me, sir,” Harding reassured me as she caught my eye. “I can do this.”

  I looked back towards the journalists and saw that Crinkle had started to pester some poor nurse who had stepped outside. She had a packet of cigarettes in her hand, and she looked annoyed that her break time was being interrupted. I glanced the other way, and then I finally looked at my partner. I nodded and stepped back into the doorway for the Bereavement Room.

  My partner strode down the hallway and straight towards the exit. She shrugged off the jacket before she emerged into the day’s glare, and I saw Crinkle smile greedily as she stepped outside. He closed in on the brunette, and the other journalists took their cues from him and crowded around Maddy.

  I couldn’t hear anything, which was irritating, but it wasn’t hard to guess what was going on. The reporters asked questions, and then shoved microphones into DS Harding’s face. All I could see was her back, but she seemed to let the journalists ask a series of questions, and then she held up her hand to ask for quiet. When the reporters finally obeyed, she began to speak. It was only for a few minutes, and then she nodded, held up her hand again, and the journalists all quickly dispersed.

  Harding waited for a moment until they were all out of sight, and then she walked away from the door. I looked around and wondered if I was supposed to follow her. I checked the corridor again and then started to walk towards the exit. Maybe Maddy hoped that she had bought me enough time to slip back to the car.

  I was halfway there when I saw my partner walk back inside and head straight towards the Bereavement Room. She had a stern look on her face, until she saw me, and then it turned into a smug smile.

  “Have you ever thought of applying for a press officer role?” I asked, impressed. “You wouldn’t have to look at dead bodies.”

  “As tempting as that is right now,” she said, “it wouldn’t be real cop work.”

  “You might not have a choice,” I pointed out. “Clarke will probably see that footage and offer it to you.”

  “She’s already offered it to Martina, as you said,” Harding replied.

  “Ah,” I waved a dismissive hand. “You’re better.”

  “Well, obviously,” she said with a smile.

  “What did they say to you?” I asked.

  “They heard about the car accident, and that an officer had died at the scene--,” Harding started to say.

  “Of course, they heard that,” I muttered.

  “And they asked if it was connected to the recent murders,” the brunette said. “I just said that the families have asked for privacy at this time.”

  “Good call,” I smiled.

  “No decent journalist wants to appear as though they’re attacking a grieving family,” my partner said.

  “Well, you’ve made an important distinction there,” I said as I looked out the window again.

  “What’s that?” she wondered.

  “Not all journalists are decent,” I reminded her. “Look.”

  Robert Crinkle had returned. His phone was pressed to his ear, and he looked up at the building. I wondered what he was planning.

  “Well, sir, we’ve got bigger, more dangerous fish to fry,” the brunette declared. “I’ve got your laptop.”

  She pulled the computer from under her arm.

  “How did you get that?” I demanded.

  “Your keys were in your pocket,” she jangled the set from her finger and then threw them to me.

  “Breaking into a car can get you five years in prison, you know,” I joked and placed the keys back in my pocket. “What’s the lapt
op for?”

  “I’m going to upload Madden’s pictures to the database and see if we get a hit,” the chestnut-haired southerner suggested.

  “Good thinking,” I agreed.

  “I’ve already uploaded them to my phone and sent the pictures to you,” she said and then frowned. “I just hope the resolution is clear enough.”

  I directed Harding into a quieter corner next to a vending machine. She plugged in my laptop, and we sat down on the hard, plastic chairs. The vending machine vibrated noisily beside us as my partner pulled up the pictures.

  “Is the picture quality okay?” I asked her.

  My back already felt stiff from the terrible chair, and I stretched my legs out for a moment just to relieve some of the stress.

  “I’m not sure,” Harding said and bit her lip. “But there are other ways to do this. I can trawl through Kennedy’s social media again, but that will take a lot longer.”

  “We don’t really have that much time to spare,” I reminded her in a quiet voice.

  The brunette tilted the laptop screen as people walked past and wheelchairs squeaked by. A security guard frowned at our use of hospital electricity but didn’t say anything.

  The faces on the screen were blurred and pixelated. I watched as the computer flicked through every database in Edinburgh. Then the faces began to take focus, and the features became more pronounced. It was an excruciating wait as the computer noted that it was moving onto the next set of records.

  “Does this mean they have criminal records?” I asked as the computer beeped.

  “Not necessarily,” she replied. “It’s searching every system. They could have skipped school, or had a juvenile offence which has been wiped.”

  I didn’t realise I was holding my breath until their names appeared. Grant Gilbert and Andrew Cooper. We had Kennedy’s friends at last.

  Chapter 11

  “They look so… average,” Harding gasped as we looked into their faces.

  The cursor blinked between Grant Gibson’s small, green eyes, which were the colour of a murky fish tank. The two men had the same flat faces with ordinary features, and I could have walked past them on the street and forgotten their faces in an instant.