In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  A plainclothes officer peered out of it into the corridor. She frowned at them. ‘Sorry, but has anyone seen DS Robertson? Anyone? No?’

  Laughter burst from the canteen as whatever the punchline was arrived.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Never mind.’ Then marched across the hall into the canteen, where all hilarity immediately ceased.

  ‘My station is infested.’ Inspector McGregor glowered at the open door for a moment, then smoothed down her black police-issue T-shirt. ‘Logan, DCI Steel tells me you identified her murder victim and a possible suspect.’

  ‘She did?’ He pulled his chin in, backing away from the subject. ‘That’s a bit out of character. Normally you can’t prise credit out of her with laxatives and a crowbar.’

  Especially given how they’d left things: him ditching her to come back here, her storming off to Whitehills with Rennie. And Steel was giving him credit?

  ‘Apparently your assistance has been invaluable in progressing her investigation.’

  ‘OK, now you’re scaring me.’

  There was a thump and a rattle. Then the door to the tiny gents loo opened and a large bearded man in a baggy suit appeared, hauling his trousers up around his armpits. He pulled the door shut. ‘Sergeant. Ma’am.’ He turned the taps on above the little sink and washed his hands. ‘I’d give it five minutes if I were you.’

  McGregor narrowed her eyes. ‘Infested.’ Then she turned and marched down the corridor. ‘Logan: heel.’

  Logan followed her through the main office with its collection of new people – all bashing away at the phones and laptops – out and round into the stairwell – where a lumpy man in a lumpier suit was blethering away into his mobile – and up the winding wooden steps to the first floor. Where they had to squeeze past two officers womanhandling a desk along the landing.

  McGregor led the way through a blue door that had ‘BANFF & BUCHAN INSPECTOR’ printed out on a laminated sheet of paper on it, mounted beneath a removable brass nameplate: ‘WENDY MCGREGOR ~ INSPECTOR’.

  As soon as Logan was inside, she slammed it shut.

  Just like the Fraserburgh Inspectors’ Office, there were a pair of corkboards mounted on opposite walls. One with a map of B Division, the other a street map of Banff and Macduff. But where Fraserburgh was all beech units and sleek modern lines, this one had the same high ceilings as the rest of the station, fancy cornices, and a moulded ceiling rose. Two windows sat in the corner of the room, the left-hand one giving a rain-streaked view of the street, the one straight ahead overlooking the car park and the bay.

  She stamped across the blue carpet and hurled herself into the seat behind her desk. ‘They’re like … bloody … vermin! They’ve eaten all the Maltesers from the vending machine, we can’t keep milk in the fridge,’ she leaned forwards and jabbed a finger against her mouse mat, ‘and I had a whole malt loaf here yesterday. Now there’s nothing left but the wrapper. There’s not even crumbs; they licked it clean!’

  Logan stood to attention. Kept his mouth shut.

  Probably safest. Just in case she felt like lashing out at someone. Best not to give her an excuse.

  ‘I want them gone, Logan.’ She swivelled left and right in her chair. ‘I want them gone.’

  Waves surged along the darkened beach.

  She hissed out a breath, then spread her hands along the desk. ‘DI Steel has put in a formal request to the Area Commander. She wants you seconded to her Major Investigation Team for the duration.’

  The crafty, conniving, manipulative, old bag. So that’s why Steel was so keen to share the credit for identifying Peter Shepherd and Martin Milne. She wanted Logan running around after her again, solving her cases, doing her job for her. Just like the bad old days.

  That or she wanted to keep him close, so she could torture him.

  ‘Yeah… Erm… About that, Guv, I mean, I’ve got a division to run.’ He held up a hand. ‘I’m not saying Peterhead, Fraserburgh, and Mintlaw can’t look after themselves, but we both know they need a grown-up in charge to make sure they’re not all off eating Plasticine and sticking marbles up their noses.’

  ‘Steel says you’ve proven yourself a valuable resource in progressing the case.’

  ‘And then there’s the dunt.’ He shifted his feet on the standard-issue blue carpet tiles. ‘We need to get set for bashing in Ricky Welsh’s door and—’

  ‘She says your experience and local knowledge is an invaluable asset.’

  ‘It’s simply not possible. I need to be here so we can—’

  ‘I want them gone, Logan.’

  ‘But—’

  McGregor leaned forward. ‘I – want – them – gone!’ Jabbing the desk with every word. ‘As I see it, letting the DCI borrow you means her bunch of noisy, messy, smelly, sticky vermin get out of my station that much sooner.’

  ‘But the division…?’

  McGregor sat back in her seat. ‘Sergeant Stubbs will fill in for you as Duty Sergeant. She’s been moaning about getting more responsibility: let’s see how she likes having to supervise every station from Portsoy to Cruden Bay. That should shut her up for a bit.’

  ‘Great. So my job’s a punishment now?’

  ‘Hopefully. And someone needs to run your team here.’

  Sod standing to attention. Logan slumped into one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘What about Laura and Ricky Welsh?’

  ‘I was thinking Nicholson could act up while you’re away. She’s done her sergeant’s exam, it’ll be a good development opportunity for her.’

  He let his head fall back. There was a dirty big spider, wandering across the ceiling rose. ‘But it was my dunt.’

  ‘A major drugs raid is probably a bit much for Nicholson’s first full day in the role. You’d better hand everything over to Sergeant Ashton when she gets on at three. She can green-shift it.’

  ‘Gagh…’ Logan’s arms dangled at his sides, fingertips brushing the carpet. ‘Please?’

  ‘Oh don’t be such a baby. Get out there, find Martin Milne, and get him banged up. The sooner you do, the sooner my station gets fumigated.’

  Calamity’s eyes widened as she settled into Logan’s seat. She ran her hands along the desk. ‘Really?’

  ‘Don’t get too comfy, it’s only till I can wriggle out of the MIT.’ Logan leaned back against the firearms store door. ‘Sergeant Stubbs is your new Duty Sergeant, she’ll keep you right. And Sergeant Ashton will run the dunt on Sunday night. Other than that: it’s all yours.’

  A nod. ‘Stubby and Beaky, got you.’ Then she curled her lip and sniffed. ‘Has something died in here?’

  Logan narrowed his eyes. ‘Not yet, but it can be arranged.’

  She was right, though: the place did have a whiff of mouldy sausages about it. To be honest, the Sergeants’ Office wasn’t the nicest room in the station. It needed a coat of paint for a start: the magnolia was peeling off around the skirting boards and cornices, and the high ceiling had a suspicious coffee-coloured stain spreading out from one corner. Hopefully not from the male toilets on the floor above.

  Two desks were jammed in, back to back, each with its own manky old computer, in-tray, and phone. A line of body-worn video units blinked away in the holder, lined up like dominos. The station’s only CCTV monitor lurked on its mount in the corner, with views of the empty cellblocks and public areas in ten little windows.

  Not exactly homey.

  ‘If anything happens you can give me a ring. But as of now, you’re acting up.’

  She stroked the desk again and lowered her voice to a hissing whisper, ‘My precioussssssssssss…’

  ‘And make sure you keep an eye on Tufty. He’s not had a complaint against him in four months, let’s keep it that way. And if he starts banging on about time and entropy, you have my permission to kick his—’ Logan’s phone rang and he pulled it out. ‘Hold on.’ Then pressed the button. ‘McRae.’

  ‘Yeah, hi, Mr McRae. It’s John?’


  Took a moment, but then it clicked. John Urquhart. Wee Hamish’s designated driver. ‘Give me a minute.’ He held his hand over the microphone and grimaced at Calamity. ‘Got to take this.’ Then slipped out of the door, through the bedlam of the main office, past the stairwell, down the corridor, and into the old cellblock.

  Pale blue walls, grey-blue floor, an ancient wooden desk/unit thing, and two cells.

  No sign of Steel’s sticky minions.

  Better safe than sorry, though. Logan pulled open the door to cell number two and slipped inside. It was a small magnolia box of a room, with a glass-brick window and grey-painted concrete floor. The blue plastic mattress had been propped up against the wall, one end resting on the ankle-high concrete sleeping platform.

  He closed the cell door and took his hand off the microphone. ‘Mr Urquhart.’

  ‘You heard the news, right? Mr Mowat passed away last night.’ His voice sounded thick and forced, as if someone was choking him. ‘Doctor says it was pretty painless.’ A sniff. ‘He would say that, though. We find out it was anything but, and he’s going home without legs.’

  ‘Yes. I heard. I’m sorry.’ For more than one reason.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’ Urquhart cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, funeral’s at half twelve, Friday, Old Ardoe Kirk. No flowers. Be good to see you there.’

  Logan let the silence grow.

  Urquhart puffed out a breath. ‘And Reuben wants me to pass on a message. He says you’ve got one last chance to get with the team. Which is kinda unique, normally he goes from nought to wrath-of-God like that.’ A clicking noise.

  ‘I’m a police officer.’

  ‘There’s a guy called Stevie Fowler going to be in your neck of the woods next week. You collect a package from him and keep it somewhere safe till Reuben tells you who to hand it over to and where.’

  Even though there’d been no one banged up in the cells for over a decade, the power was still on. There was a radiator hidden inside the ceiling – behind the render – and it belted out heat, making the tips of his ears glow. ‘What’s in the package?’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone you’ve got it, and squirrel it really out of the way. OK?’

  ‘What – is – it?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Logan raised his chin. ‘And if I don’t?’

  Urquhart sighed. ‘Then Reuben sends round the three guys in the Transit van, and you get to feed the pigs.’

  Not much of a choice, was it?

  Become a crooked cop or die.

  Samantha’s voice was warm and soft in his other ear. ‘Or you could kill Reuben. You won’t have to do favours for him if he’s dead.’

  Logan licked his lips. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Mr McRae, you can… Look, it doesn’t have to be like this.’ A deep breath sounded in the speaker. ‘You can still take over from Mr Mowat, like he wanted.’

  ‘Kill him.’ She wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘Get that rifle from the firearms store and blow his big fat head off.’

  ‘If you took over, you could get the guys in the van to go pick Reuben up instead. Turn him into pig food.’

  From Duty Sergeant in B Division to head of Aberdeen’s biggest criminal empire in one easy step.

  Yeah.

  Right.

  Samantha’s lips brushed his ear. ‘One way or the other, he has to die.’

  Logan closed his eyes and leaned forward until his forehead thunked against the cell wall. ‘Steve Fowler. When and where?’

  12

  Rain lashed the window, rattling the glass in its peeling wooden frame. ‘Well I hope you’re happy.’

  The little room was a bit of a hole. Wedged in at the top of the stairs, the walls were close enough to reach out and touch with both hands. And yet, somehow, Steel’s minions had managed to cram a desk and two chairs in, amongst the filing cabinet, a filing cupboard, and the two lockers that usually lived there.

  On the other end of the phone, Steel’s voice was all tinny and echoey – as if she was calling from inside a porta potty. ‘Aye, I’m dancing a jig here, can you no’ hear the band?’ She blew a wet raspberry.

  Whoever had shifted the desk in had piled all the existing boxes of files into the corner, where it made a wobbly tower of grey cardboard and archived crimes.

  ‘Wifie Milne swears blind her husband’s no’ run off. He’s a model husband and father.’

  Logan sat on the edge of the desk. ‘You didn’t show her the photos then?’

  ‘No, but it’s going to come out eventually, Laz. Can’t protect her forever.’

  ‘What about holiday homes, or family and friends?’

  ‘If you were her, would you want the first time you hear about your hubby having threeways and hot man-on-man action with his business partner to be right there, in open court? When the defence try to make out he’d never kill Shepherd because he loved him? Several times a week. Oh, and here’s the photographic evidence.’

  She had a point.

  ‘We need to get posters up at all the ports and stations. Set up a Scotland-wide lookout request.’

  ‘Do we? Wow. I’d no’ have thought of that all by my little old self. Good job we’ve got a big strong man like you on the team to keep us right.’

  Logan scowled at the carpet tiles. Someone had tried to fix a couple of them with duct tape. ‘Are you finished?’

  ‘Becky’s already done it. Now get rid of the PC Plod outfit: I want your scarred backside in a fighting suit and ready to go in ten. You, me, and the boy Rennie are off on a family outing to Peterhead.’ The grin was obvious in her voice. ‘Be just like old times.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

  Rennie peered out of the car windscreen. ‘How do you think you pronounce it? Gayrod? Geeirod? Jerryod?’

  Rain dripped off the big green sign: ‘GEIRRØD ~ CONTAINER MANAGEMENT AND LOGISTICS’ with the same Viking logo Milne and Shepherd had been wearing in the photo. An angry bearded man, in a winged helmet, with a double-headed axe in his hands.

  The sign sat in front of a bland two-storey office block of brick and glass, with a handful of cars parked out front on a stretch of potholed tarmac. A security hut sat to one side, where a fat old man watched the metal barrier that controlled entrance to the container yard. The whole place was wrapped around with chain-link fence, punctuated with warning notices about razor wire and guard dogs patrolling this area.

  Steel reached across from the passenger seat and whacked Rennie on the arm. ‘Yes, because they set up a company, and called it “Gay-Rod”.’

  ‘Ow.’

  ‘Well, don’t be so homophobic. What, two blokes are shagging each other so they’re going to call their company “Gay-Rod”?’

  Sitting in the back, Logan kept his mouth shut.

  She gave Rennie another thump. ‘That’s a “slashed O”, you ignorant spud. It’s pronounced “eau”.’ Steel made a noise like a dying sheep. ‘Now park.’

  He lumped the pool car through the holes and into the spot marked ‘VISITORS’ by the front door. Then sat there, rubbing his arm. ‘Why have you got to be so horrible?’

  ‘I’ll be horrible to your backside with my boot in a minute.’

  Yeah, just like old times.

  Logan unclipped his seatbelt and climbed out of the car.

  Heavy grey clouds covered most of the sky, but at least it had stopped raining. There was even a patch of blue big enough to let shafts of golden light shine through. They set off a glowing rainbow above the power station in the distance.

  GCML’s office and yard sat on the southernmost corner of a small industrial estate. Lots of chunks of machinery and pipes, locked away behind high fences. A place that specialized in refrigerated lorries sat across the road, the sound of shrieking metal coming from a large open-fronted garage.

  Steel slammed her door shut, then had a dig at her bra – jiggling its contents. ‘Right, listen up, children. You will
be on your best behaviour. You will do what you’re told. You,’ she pointed at Rennie as he locked the car, ‘will no’ embarrass me. Are we clear?’

  He stuck his nose in the air. ‘Not going to dignify that with an answer.’

  ‘Right, here’s the plan: I want… Hoy, Laz, where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘To do your job for you.’ Logan marched up the steps and into the building. ‘As usual.’

  Reception was a small room with a row of plastic seats along one wall and a closed hatch in the other. A doorbell sat on the counter, with ‘RING FOR ATTENTION’ on a small plastic plaque.

  He did.

  Steel bustled in behind him. ‘Cheeky sod.’ She peered at the sign next to the bell. Then mashed her thumb down on the button. Holding it there as the sound of ringing droned out somewhere inside the building. ‘SHOP! ANYONE IN? COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP! HELLO? SHOP!’

  Logan slapped her hand away and the ringing stopped. ‘OK, I think they heard you.’

  She raised an eyebrow and stared at him. ‘Where’d you get that suit, Tramps-R-Us?’

  ‘We kick off with the third partner – the financial director. Assuming he’s not disappeared as well.’

  ‘Looks more like a sleeping bag than a suit.’

  ‘Then we split the staff in three, take one third each.’

  ‘Trousers are hanging off you.’

  ‘Anyone seems a bit sketchy, we double up on them.’

  ‘And that’s possibly the ugliest tie I’ve ever seen.’

  He glanced down at it: blue with tiny red dots. ‘Jasmine gave me this for Christmas.’

  ‘She did?’ A frown. ‘For a seven-year-old, she’s got horrible fashion sense.’

  ‘Maybe Martin Milne has an accomplice?’

  ‘She gets that from your side of the family.’ Steel banged her open palm down on the desk. Bang. Bang. Bang. ‘SHOP! HELLO? GET A SHIFT ON!’

  ‘We should get Rennie to run a quick PNC check on all the employees before we start.’

  ‘They never warn you about that when you get your wife up the stick with a turkey baster, do they? Warning: donor sperm may cause your child to buy ugly ties.’