In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  The cabinet on the other side had a huge remote control in it, along with a box of tissues and some lubricant in the top drawer. So no prizes for guessing what normally played on the huge wall-mounted TV opposite the bed. Next drawer down: more socks and some aftershave. Bottom drawer: more underwear.

  Logan settled onto the edge of the duvet and picked up the remote. It was about three times bigger than it had any right being, with a corresponding number of extra buttons. He pressed the one with the power icon on it. There was a pause, then the TV played a three-note tune and displayed the manufacturer’s logo.

  Instead of defaulting to BBC One, the screen displayed a series of folders and icons under the title ‘MEDIA HUB’. He picked a folder marked ‘CHILE 13’ and a slideshow popped into life: photos of alpaca and mountains and two men backpacking through stunning scenery, accompanied by a soundtrack of something bland played on the panpipes. Lots of photos of Peter Shepherd grinning and posing for the camera.

  Logan tried another one. ‘SHETLAND 09’: a much younger Shepherd, tootling about in an open-top sports car with a woman in rock-chick chic. This time it had some sort of Jimmy Shand accordion soundtrack.

  ‘DUBAI 14’: Shepherd and two men in denim shirts and chinos, wheeching about through sand dunes in a four-by-four, riding camels, buying things in a souk, drinking cocktails on a rooftop terrace with a dirty big skyscraper in the background. Middle Eastern music.

  ‘STUFF&THANGS’: …

  OK, that was … different.

  Tufty appeared in the doorway with a mug. Then froze, staring at the TV. ‘Oh.’

  On the screen, three people were caught in a very intimate tableau – a middle-aged woman with long blonde hair, Peter Shepherd, and Martin Milne. She was on all fours, on the bed in this very room, with Milne at the back – doggy style – and Shepherd in her mouth. A classic spit roast. All done to a backing track of classical music. The image was high-res, not taken on a phone, or a webcam. Probably an expensive SLR digital camera, on a tripod going by the shadows on the bedroom carpet.

  Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Don’t think we should be watching porn in a dead guy’s house, Sarge.’

  The next image was the same three people, only this time Milne was in the middle.

  ‘Ooh…’ Tufty flinched. ‘Yeah, definitely shouldn’t be watching it.’

  This time it was just the two gents. Which explained the dedication in the book.

  Pink rushed up Tufty’s face. ‘I’ll be downstairs.’

  ‘Bloody hammering it down.’ Steel barged past Logan into the hallway, with Becky hot on her heels. Steel gave a little shake, like a terrier, and ran both hands through her wet hair, smoothing it down to her head. Then flicked the water off onto the tiles. ‘This better no’ be a wild goose chase, Laz, or I’m going to forget I’m a lady and do things to your bumhole that’d make Genghis Khan blush.’

  Becky closed the door on the downpour, brown curls plastered to her forehead. ‘Urgh… Need water wings just to walk here from the car. Don’t you teuchters do proper weather, or are you too busy shagging sheep?’

  ‘DS McKenzie: stop mocking the afflicted. It’s no’ their fault they’re all inbred.’ Steel shoogled out of her coat and handed it to her sidekick, then turned and thumped Logan on the chest. ‘Come on then, Mr Mysterious, make with the ID.’

  He took a sip of tea. ‘Have they taken the bag off your victim’s head yet?’

  Steel checked her watch. ‘PM’s no’ till ten. You’ve got five minutes to astound me.’

  ‘Peter Shepherd.’ Then he turned and marched up the stairs.

  ‘Who the hell is Peter Shepherd when he’s at home?’

  ‘He was Martin Milne’s partner.’

  Steel hurried after him, boots clunking on the steps. ‘Business or sex?’

  ‘Bit of both. And he’s got a narwhal tattoo on his upper left arm.’

  In the bedroom, Logan pointed the remote at the TV and got the slideshow rolling again. This time, the classical soundtrack was accompanied by Milne and Shepherd having a threesome with a redhead in stripy holdups and a Zorro mask.

  ‘Kinky.’ Steel pursed her lips. ‘Course, she’s a bit chunky for me, but I’d no’ mind with the lights off. Just gives you more to hold onto.’ She grinned over her shoulder at Becky. ‘How about you?’

  DS McKenzie shuddered. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Logan hit pause and peered at the remote. Then pressed the button marked ‘ZOOM’, fiddling with the direction arrows until Shepherd’s tattoo filled the screen. It was a detailed illustration of a horned whale’s head emerging from the sea, contained in a ring of rope, with scallop shells around the outside, and the motto ‘CORNEUM CETE SUNT OPTIMUS’ underneath. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

  ‘Don’t speak Latin.’ Steel dug into her jacket pocket and came out with an e-cigarette. Popped it in her mouth. ‘There more porn on this thing?’

  ‘It means Peter Shepherd disappeared at some point over the weekend, only no one notices because he’s supposed to be away down to Chesterfield to speak to a supplier this week. Martin Milne goes missing Sunday night. Shepherd’s body turns up three days later.’

  She snatched the remote from Logan’s hand and pressed play, setting the slideshow rolling again. Sank onto the edge of the bed, e-cigarette sticking out of her mouth as if it was on Viagra. ‘Aye, very good, Miss Marple. Only problem is, if it’s Shepherd who’s dead – and I’m no’ saying it is – but if it is, then how come it looks like he got bumped off by an Edinburgh gangster?’

  On the screen, Milne, Shepherd, and their anonymous friend switched one contorted position for another one. As if they were going for some sort of record.

  Logan picked up the book and dumped it in Steel’s lap. ‘Page one-fifty-two.’

  ‘Ooh…’ She didn’t look at the book. She tilted her head to one side and gaped at the TV instead. ‘How did he get his leg all the way over there? Surely that’s no’ physically possible.’

  ‘God’s sake.’ Logan grabbed the book back and flicked through to the right page, then held it out, poking the photo with a finger. ‘Look. There’s a complete description there too. Milne and Shepherd get into some sort of fight. It gets out of hand. Milne panics, he has to ditch the body. And right there, sitting on the bedside cabinet, he’s got a blueprint of how to do it and make the whole thing look like a mob hit.’

  Steel stared, open-mouthed at the screen.

  Becky sighed. ‘Lot of trouble to go to if you’re only wanting rid of your humpbuddy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Phwoar… Look at the size of that strap-on! Could beat a horse to death with that. Surely she’s not going to stick that up his… Ooooh yes she is. That’s gotta—’

  ‘Give me that.’ Logan took the remote back and switched off the TV.

  ‘Hoy! I was watching—’

  ‘Milne killed Shepherd and staged the body so we’d think it was Malcolm McLennan. You’re supposed to be running the investigation, so stop watching porn and go investigate.’

  ‘I’m no’ “watching porn”, I’m reviewing evidence.’ Steel reclined on the bed, resting on her elbows. Nodded at her sidekick. ‘Becky, let’s imagine for a wee moment that our body was Mr Flexible up there.’ She pointed at the blank screen. ‘Does that mean Martin Miller is our killer.’

  ‘No, Guv.’

  ‘It’s Milne. Martin Milne. And he’s disappeared. Vanished. Run away. Skipped out on his family, Sunday night.’

  ‘Yeah…’ Steel bared her teeth. ‘Still. Looks more like a gangland killing than a lovers’ tiff.’

  He shook The Blood-Red Line at her. ‘Because of the book! It’s right there – a how-to guide. Milne set it up.’ Logan chucked it down on the bed. ‘It’s obvious.’

  ‘It’s a wild stab in the dark is what it is.’ She picked up the remote and set the slideshow playing again. ‘Seconds out, round two.’

 
He stepped between her and the TV, blocking her view. ‘What is wrong with you?’

  Becky sighed. ‘Come on, McRae, even you’ve got to see this is a stretch. We still don’t know if our body’s Peter Shepherd. Could be anyone.’

  ‘Of course it’s Shepherd!’

  Steel stared at him for a bit. Then took another puff on her fake cigarette. Hissed out a thin line of steam. ‘You used to be a lot more fun.’ A sniff. ‘Actually, scratch that, you’ve always been a misery-guts.’

  ‘Yeah? Well this misery-guts has had enough of your—’ His phone blared out its anonymous ringtone. ‘God’s sake.’ He yanked it out. ‘What?’

  There was a brief pause, then a thick dark voice oozed into his ear like evil treacle. ‘Good morning, Sergeant McRae. “Long time, no speak”, as I believe the expression goes. Which isn’t normal for you and I, is it?’

  Logan ran a hand over his eyes. Gritted his teeth. Then forced a smile as he turned and walked from the room. ‘Chief Superintendent Napier.’

  ‘Have you been behaving yourself, Sergeant? Or have you just been very good at getting away with it?’

  Through into the floral-print bedroom with its kitsch pillows and crocheted bedspread. ‘I hear you’re retiring soon.’

  ‘Ah yes, but not to worry: there’s still time for a final hurrah. And speaking of rumours, a little birdie tells me that you’re working with DCI Steel again.’

  Then silence from the other end of the phone.

  Rain hammered the window.

  More silence.

  Fine, two could play at that. If Napier thought Logan was going to leap in and fill the gap with something incriminating he could wait till his ears dropped off.

  Classical music seeped through from the other room.

  ‘And tell me, Sergeant McRae, how are you getting on with the Detective Chief Inspector?’

  Like an orphanage on fire.

  Logan raised his chin. ‘We’re making progress.’

  ‘I see, I see.’ Another pause. ‘You two have a good working relationship, don’t you, Sergeant? She confides in you. She trusts you.’

  Here we go.

  ‘Tell me, has she ever mentioned a Mr Jack Wallace to you? Possibly in connection with a case she investigated last year?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Really… Hmm. Interesting. Well, if she does mention him, do think of me and our little chat. Till then, take care.’ Napier ended the call.

  What the hell was that about?

  Logan put his phone away and stepped out onto the landing. Stood there, listening to the violins and cellos.

  Then there was a dinging, buzzing sound. Followed by, ‘You wee beauty!’

  Whatever had happened on Shepherd’s porn slideshow, she could keep it to herself. He was out of here. Had better things to do.

  He’d got halfway down the stairs when the music died and Steel charged out of the bedroom, phone held high like the Olympic torch.

  She pointed at him. ‘Hoy, where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Banff. Got a dunt to organize.’

  ‘Time for that later. Look.’ She shoved her phone at him. On the screen was a photo of a bruised face, ringed with black plastic. The features were swollen, and the skin between the blue and purple stains was the colour of rancid butter, but it was definitely Peter Shepherd. ‘After careful consideration, I have decided to give you, your grumpy man-panties, and your half-baked theory a second chance. Get in the car: we’re off to see this Martin Milne’s wife. If the wee sod’s done a runner, I want to know where.’

  ‘Told you: I’m busy.’ Logan started back down the stairs, then stopped. Frowned up at her. ‘Who’s Jack Wallace?’

  Steel’s eyes narrowed, deepening the wrinkles. ‘On second thoughts, you can sod off back to Banff.’ She took a deep breath. ‘BECKY! ARSE IN GEAR, WE’RE LEAVING.’

  11

  Calamity handed the mug to Logan, then nudged the door shut. ‘Sorry, Sarge, MIT’s had all the milk.’

  Logan peered into the depths of his dark-brown tea. Still, it was better than nothing. Then he had a sip… Actually, no it wasn’t. A tiny shudder, and he put the mug down on the windowsill. ‘It’s the thought that counts.’

  Even with the door closed, the sounds of a busy station seeped into the Constables’ Office. Banging doors. Heavy booted feet. Ringing telephones. Shouting.

  Calamity settled into her chair. ‘It’s like a football match out there. Never seen so many people in the station at one time. And the stench!’

  Isla bared her teeth. ‘Locker room smells like a tramp’s sock dipped in Lynx deodorant. It’s seeping along the landing like sarin gas.’ She thumped a can of diet Irn-Bru down on the worktop, setting loose a curl of ginger froth. ‘But do you know what really grips my shit? Someone’s done kippers in the canteen microwave. Kippers!’

  ‘Ooh, watch out,’ Calamity pulled her chin in, ‘the Ginger Mist is rising.’

  ‘Damn right it is.’ She jabbed a finger at the closed door. ‘What kind of antisocial, thoughtless—’

  ‘All right, that’s enough whingeing about the Moronic Idiot Team. Tufty?’

  No reply. The wee sod was sitting with his back to the room, hunched over doodling something on a notepad.

  ‘Constable Quirrel!’

  He swivelled around and grimaced, mobile phone clamped to his ear. ‘Right. Thanks, Lizzy, I owe you one.’ He hung up. ‘Social Services, Sarge. Apparently Ethan Milne’s had a fair number of bruises and scrapes. The broken arm’s the worst of it, but he’s been to the doctors and A-and-E so many times he’s got a frequent flier card. Lizzy says the kid’s probably eighty percent TCP by now.’

  Logan picked up his mug again. ‘Suspicious?’

  ‘Don’t know. According to the teachers he’s about the clumsiest thing they’ve ever seen. Forever falling over in the playground and walking into doors and things.’

  ‘Right. Well, you can get on with the briefing then.’

  ‘Sarge.’ Tufty clicked the mouse and a pair of ID photos appeared on his computer monitor: Ricky Welsh with his shoulder-length hair, bloody nose, and split lip. He’d grown an elaborate Vandyke with twiddly handlebars on the moustache. What looked like a chunk of the Declaration of Arbroath wrapped around his throat in dark-blue tattooed letters. Laura Welsh was bigger; tougher; thickset; one green eye, one black; and an off-blonde perm. Bruises swelled across her left cheek like a tropical storm. Because, ‘It’s a fair cop, I’ll come quietly’ just wasn’t in Laura or Ricky’s vocabulary. They were more of a, ‘You’ll never take me alive, copper!’ kind of family.

  Tufty checked his notes. ‘Inspector Fettes has got us the Operational Support Unit, a dog unit, and four bodies from Elgin to help dunt in the Welshes’ door. Watch yourselves, though: one of the Elgin lot’s a Chief Inspector doing his “in touch with the common folk” thing.’

  Isla groaned. ‘Not again.’

  Calamity covered her eyes with her hands. ‘Why us?’

  ‘You know fine well, why.’ Logan risked another sip of tea. Nope: still horrible. ‘Keep going, Tufty.’

  ‘ETD – that’s Estimated Time of Dunt – will be twenty-three hundred hours. Though with assorted dicking about, probably closer to midnight. I’ve called Fraserburgh and asked them to reserve two of their finest en suite rooms for Mr and Mrs Welsh. Something with a view and a roll-top bath.’

  ‘Hmm…’ Calamity dug into her fleece and came out with a tartan wallet. ‘Anyone want a fiver on how many people end up in hospital?’

  Isla sucked her teeth. ‘Just our lot, or all in?’

  ‘Ours. I’ll kick off with two.’

  A five-pound note was produced. ‘Three. Tufty?’

  ‘Fiver on …’ he squinted one eye, ‘four. Sarge?’

  ‘Can we get on with the briefing, please? Some of us have jobs to do.’

  Calamity collected the bets. ‘Let us know if you change
your mind.’

  Tufty went back to the PowerPoint presentation, bringing up an aerial shot of Macduff ripped off Google Earth. A crude red arrow with ‘Raid Here!!!’ sat on top of the image, pointing at Ricky and Laura Welsh’s place.

  Click, and it was replaced with a front-view of the house: a whitewashed cottage, sandwiched a third of the way down a terrace of identikit Scottish homes. The slate roof boasted a pair of dormer windows, which – along with the two downstairs windows and red-painted door – gave the place a slightly startled appearance. As if it didn’t approve of the things going on inside it.

  Isla scanned the briefing notes, a wee crease forming between her eyebrows. ‘If Jessica “Ma” Campbell is the one supplying the drugs, are we expecting her or one of her minions to be there protecting their investment? If we are, I want to up my hospital number.’

  ‘It’s possible, but I’d be more worried about the Welshes’ dog.’ Click. A massive Saint Bernard replaced the house photo. ‘Looks cuddly, but we’re talking full-on Cujo here.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Logan pointed at the three of them. ‘So anyone not carrying Bite Back deserves all they get. Are we—’

  A knock at the door, and Inspector McGregor peered into the room. ‘Ah, there you are.’ She pulled on a smile. It didn’t look very convincing. ‘Logan, have you got a minute? We need to chat.’

  OK, well that didn’t sound ominous at all.

  ‘Guv.’ He gave Tufty a nod. ‘Finish up the briefing, then I want the Method of Entry paperwork sorted. And no spelling mistakes this time. Let’s be ready to rock first thing Sunday night.’ Then Logan followed the Inspector out into the corridor.

  The smell of smoked fish hung in the air like a manky perfume.

  Voices boomed out of the open canteen door – someone telling a joke about two nuns, a druggy, and a greengrocer.

  This bit of the corridor was lined with street maps of Banff and Macduff, with all the sketchy houses marked in red. Then there was the tiny alcove lined with high-viz jackets on one side and a little sink on the other. The door to the gents lurked beyond the coats, the sounds of whistling coming from within. Past the alcove was the canteen, where, apparently, one of the nuns was doing something sacrilegious with a cucumber. Then the door through to the main office.