Free Dark Blood by Stuart MacBride Page B

arm.
    ‘Maybe we should call for a search team. IB. Pathologist. If Polmont’s—’
    ‘Don’t be so wet.’ She shook herself free and stomped off into the mud.
    Logan swore, then followed her.
    The going was tough, thick clogs of brown-black earth sucking at his shoes, dirty water oozing in through the lace holes, soaking into his socks. And then his foot disappeared into a puddle, right up to the shin. ‘Fuck…’ Cold and wet, the trouser leg sticking to his skin. He limped after Steel, cursing all the way.
    She came to a halt about two hundred yards from the high chainlink fence that surrounded the site, then turned around a few times. The earth here was firmer – still covered in weeds and grass, the vegetation looking pale and unhealthy.
    Logan squelched up beside her. ‘Hope you’re bloody happy, my feet are—’
    ‘Where the hell is he?’ She turned around again, then peered at the sat-nav.
    ‘—socks are sodden and my trousers are all covered in—’
    ‘Will you shut up moaning about your bloody feet! He’s supposed to be here. ’
    Logan snatched the sat-nav from her – the display read, ‘Y OU H AVE R EACHED Y OUR D ESTINATION ’.
    Welcome to the middle of nowhere.
    ‘Well, at least we know he’s not stuck in some shallow grave.’
    Steel grabbed the sat-nav back. ‘Oh yeah, tell me Sherlock, how—’
    ‘Look at the ground. It’s not been disturbed.’ He pointed at the little black rectangle in Steel’s hands. ‘What are those accurate to, ten, fifteen feet? And the GSM’s about a hundred…’
    Logan looked out across the tufts of yellowy grass and dark-green weeds. ‘Give him a ring.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Call him on his mobile.’
    She did, standing there with her phone clamped to her ear. ‘It’s ringing…’
    Logan stood as still as he could, ears straining. A faint metallic warble was coming from somewhere over to his left. He turned and marched towards it, but the sound of his squelching through the waterlogged grass was loud enough to block it out. And then the warbling stopped.
    Steel pointed at the mobile in her hand. ‘Voicemail.’
    ‘Call him again.’
    This time Logan crept across the uneven ground, the ringing getting louder with every careful step.
    ‘Voicemail again.’
    He found it on the third go: a scuffed and battered Nokia lying in a patch of greasy nettles at the edge of a burn. He snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and picked the phone up, just as it stopped ringing. The casing had been broken at one point, then stuck back together with black electrical tape.
    Steel appeared at his shoulder. ‘Is it his?’
    Logan stared at her. ‘It rang when you called it, what do you think?’
    Scowl. ‘I’ll do the sarcasm, thank you very much.’ She stuck out a hand. ‘Gimmie.’
    ‘Gloves.’
    ‘I’ll bloody “gloves” you in a minute. Give me the damn phone.’
    She went stabbing through the phone’s menu with her thumbs. ‘See what he’s got listed as home…It’s an Aberdeen number.’ She pressed another button, and stuck the phone to her ear. Listened for a bit. ‘No answer. So he’s no’ here, and he’s no’ at home.’
    ‘Probably still pissed.’ Logan offered her an evidence bag, but she just stuck the phone in her pocket and marched back towards the building site.
    Logan shook his soggy foot and squelched after her.
    The rain was beginning to pick up, the thin, leeching drizzle giving way to pattering globs of ice-cold water that kicked ripples across the dirty puddles.
    Logan followed Steel down an embryonic street: bare foundations on one side, part-built homes on the other. Wooden skeletons, with blue plastic sheeting stretched between the uprights. A couple were being skinned with pale orange brick, a radio blaring out Northsound One as two teams of brickies built up the next layer.
    Further down, half a dozen looked nearly finished – some even had doors and windows. The one at the far end had a big ‘S HOW H OME ’ sign