In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan stared at her. ‘Are you finished?’

  A grin. ‘Any other skeletons lurking in your family cupboard I should know about? Any history of mental abnormality?’ Steel went back to hoiking at her underwear. ‘Mind you, I’ve met your mum, she’s about as normal as morris dancing. What about your dad, was he a nutter too? Suppose he must’ve been to marry your mum.’

  ‘Can we get back to the case, please?’

  The hatch rattled open, revealing an orange-skinned bottle-blonde in a polo shirt and fleece – both of which had the Geirrød logo on them. She smiled and fluttered her eyelashes, playing the coy young thing. Which, given the fact that she had to be pushing fifty, was a bit of a stretch.

  Steel sniffed. ‘Beginning to think you didn’t exist.’

  The smile slipped a little, leaving its wrinkles behind. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Aye: your financial director about?’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Chapman is very busy. Do you have an appointment?’

  Steel pulled out her warrant card. Held it under the woman’s nose. ‘And while you’re at it, I’ll have a coffee. Milk and two.’

  ‘I don’t know, all right? I don’t know.’ Brian Chapman paced back and forth, in front of his office window. The room sat on the first floor, looking down on the rows of containers laid out in the yard. Chapman ran a hand through what was left of his hair, pausing to tweak the big brown mole growing just above his right eyebrow. As if he were trying to tune his head in. Dark stains lurked in the armpit of his denim shirt. A smudge of dirt on the backside of his tan chinos. He got to the line of filing cabinets and started back again. ‘If I knew where he was, I’d tell you. Believe me.’ His other hand clenched into a fist, then spread out, then clenched, then spread. Like a throbbing pulse.

  Steel slouched in her seat, dunking a chocolate biscuit in a mug of coffee. ‘What about Shepherd, you been in touch with him?’

  Chapman stopped pacing and glared at the mound of paperwork on his desk. ‘Oh, I’ve tried. If I get my hands on him, he’s dead. I’ll bloody kill him.’ Then Chapman must have remembered who he was talking to, because he licked his lips, then went back to pacing again. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Logan tilted his head to one side. ‘Why don’t you explain it to us?’

  ‘Do you know what I got yesterday? Do you know what came in the post?’ He dug into the pile and pulled out a letter. Waved it at them. ‘What the hell were they thinking?’

  Steel clicked her fingers and Chapman handed the letter over. She squinted at it for a bit, then held it out to Logan. ‘Do the honours.’

  The Royal Bank of Scotland logo sat in the top corner. ‘It’s from the bank. A final demand on a loan of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, plus interest.’

  ‘First I’d heard of it was when it landed on my desk. I’m supposed to be the financial director. How can I financially direct if I haven’t got a clue what’s going on?’

  A shrug from Steel. ‘So pay it off.’

  ‘How? What with?’ He held his arms out, exposing the stains again. ‘Magic fairy-dust and wishes? We’re skint!’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ve managed to keep us afloat this long, but the downturn in the oil price is killing us. No one wants to pay for anything any more. I had to lay three people off last week. Do you have any idea what that feels like?’ He reached across the desk and snatched the letter from Logan. ‘So I phoned the bank and told them it had to be a mistake. We hadn’t borrowed any money. And do you know what I found out?’ Chapman scrunched the letter into a ball and hurled it at the wall. ‘I found out that this isn’t the only loan. There’s another one for seventy-five thousand that’s due in three weeks.’ Spittle flew from his lips. ‘THREE WEEKS!’

  His face had taken on an unhealthy redness, his whole body trembled. ‘I’ll bloody kill the pair of them.’

  ‘Aye, well, we can save you the trouble there, Brian.’ Steel licked the melted chocolate off her bit of biscuit then dunked it again. ‘We found Peter Shepherd’s body, dumped in the woods, yesterday morning.’

  Chapman froze. ‘Peter’s dead?’ He sank into his office chair and blinked at them, mouth hanging open. ‘I can’t… He’s really dead?’

  Logan pointed at the letter, lying crumpled on the floor. ‘Who took the loans out?’

  ‘Peter and Martin. They countersigned for each other, with the business as guarantee. Two hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds we don’t have.’ His hand crept up and twiddled the mole again. ‘I’m going to have to call in the liquidators.’

  ‘What did they use the money for?’

  ‘I’ll lose everything. We put our houses up as collateral when we started the business. Oh God…’

  ‘Did they buy equipment, or supplies?’

  ‘It never even touched the company bank account.’ His eyes shone, the tip of his nose reddened. ‘They had the money paid into a different account then emptied it. What am I supposed to tell Linda?’

  Steel polished off the last of her biscuit. ‘How come you didn’t call us soon as you got the letter, Brian? You know we’re looking for Martin Milne.’

  ‘Why didn’t…? I’ve been trying to save the company, that’s why!’ The tears broke free, dribbling down his flushed cheeks. ‘I’ve been trying to save everyone’s jobs. I’ve been too busy finding out how screwed I am.’ He scrubbed a hand across his face. ‘They took the money, they lumbered me with the debt, and then they disappeared. Martin and Peter can burn in hell for all I care.’

  Steel blew a lopsided cloud of steam into the drizzle. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Nope.’ Rennie checked his phone. ‘Most we’ve got is a couple of outstanding parking tickets, and one guy not allowed within two hundred yards of his ex-wife.’

  ‘Can’t say we haven’t got a motive now.’ Logan stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. Say what you like about Police-Scotland-issue itchy-trousers-stabproof-vest-and-high-viz-jacket combination, at least it kept you warm.

  The container yard was full of large metal boxes, all painted blue with a big angry-Viking logo on the side. Some were just about big enough to park Logan’s Fiat Punto in, others could’ve fitted a full-sized minibus. Some with external refrigeration units, others with fancy sliding doors. Like the one they were standing in, sheltering from the thin misty rain.

  ‘What about the death message? Those lazy Weegie sods delivered it yet?’

  Rennie nodded. ‘Becky says Greater Glasgow Division tracked down Shepherd’s next of kin half an hour ago.’

  ‘Cool. Tell the Media Office I want a slot on the evening news. Appeal for witnesses, heinous crime, blah, blah, blah.’

  Logan checked his watch. ‘Better head back to Banff. Shift ends in forty minutes.’

  ‘You’re no’ in the Bunnet Brigade today, Laz, you’re in the Magnificent Intellectual Team. We don’t do shifts. Shifts are for the weak, remember?’

  He closed his eyes and thunked the back of his head off the container’s metal wall, getting a ringing bonggggg in return.

  ‘Rennie, how many of these GCML monkeys we got left?’

  ‘Erm… Just the receptionist.’

  ‘Right, you trot off like a good wee boy and have a word with her. And try no’ to fall for her wrinkly sunbed charm, we all know how you like an older woman. Pervert.’

  Rennie sloped off into the rain.

  Steel waited till he’d disappeared back into the office building. Then took a long drag on her e-cigarette. ‘Who told you about Jack Wallace?’

  ‘Who is he?’

  She shrugged. ‘A paedo. Caught him with a big wodge of kiddy porn on his laptop.’ Another drag. ‘It was Napier, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Wanted me to keep an eye on you. See if you mentioned Wallace.’

  ‘Gah.’ She worked a finger down into her cleavage and had a rummage. ‘Told you, didn’t I? Napier’s hit his thirty years and they’re chucking him o
ut to pasture. Slimy wee sod’s been holding on by his fingernails since the re-org.’ Dig, rummage, fiddle. ‘How do you think it plays back home when we’ve got one Chief Superintendent in charge of the whole division, and there’s Napier, same rank, spodding about in Professional Standards? Big Tony Campbell’s been trying to get shot of him for ages.’

  ‘So why’s he interested in Wallace?’

  ‘He’s just on the sniff. Doesn’t want to slump off into obscurity without first screwing over one more poor sod.’

  Logan stepped in front of her. ‘So there’s nothing dodgy going on?’

  ‘Sod, and indeed, all. Forget about it.’ More rummaging. ‘You know what I think?’

  Logan waited.

  Dig. Fiddle. Hoik. ‘I think this is Susan’s bra.’

  13

  Steel put the cap back on her marker pen. ‘Any questions?’

  There weren’t as many people in the Major Incident Room as there had been for the morning meeting – about half of them were away doing things – but that still left a dozen plainclothes officers. They sat around the conference table, chairs all turned towards the whiteboard. Behind them, Logan leaned back against the wall, stifling a yawn.

  Should’ve been home by now.

  DS McKenzie put her hand up. ‘So are we treating this as a crime of passion, Guv? Or is it all about the cash?’

  ‘Crime of passion?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe Milne finds out Shepherd isn’t as faithful as he thought? Maybe he’s shagging someone else behind his back? Or maybe the bag over his head’s a kind of autoerotic asphyxiation thing?’

  Steel stared at her. ‘Bit extreme for a stranglewank, isn’t it, Becky? Don’t know about your love life, but when I’m doing your mum I tend to draw the line at duct-taping a bin-bag over her head.’

  Becky folded her arms across her chest, chin in the air. ‘So it’s money.’

  ‘Two hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds of it.’ She turned and underlined the figure on the board. It sat between a photo of Shepherd and one of Milne. One titled ‘VICTIM’ the other, ‘SUSPECT #1’.

  A huge DC in an ill-fitting suit stopped doodling penguins on his notepad. It was Rennie’s friend from yesterday, the one with the awful teeth. ‘What about this gangland angle? We ignoring that now?’

  Steel stuck her nose in the air. ‘We are ignoring nothing, Owen. We’re focusing our resources. And just for that, you’re searching Shepherd’s place again. You, Donna, and Spaver. Fine-toothed comb this time.’

  His shoulders slumped. ‘Guv.’

  ‘Robertson?’

  A whippet-thin man with horrible sideburns nodded. ‘Guv?’

  She chucked a flash drive across the table to him. ‘Homemade porn from Shepherd’s house. Between wanks, I want you IDing everyone on there. Background checks and interviews.’

  ‘Guv.’

  Then Steel held her arms out, as if she was about to bless everyone in the room. ‘Now get your sharny backsides out there and find me Martin Milne.’

  Chairs were scraped back, and, one by one, the team shuffled out of the room.

  Logan didn’t bother to hide the yawn this time as Steel shut the door behind them.

  ‘No’ boring you, are we?’ She dug out her phone and poked at the screen for a moment, then put it against her ear. ‘Make yourself useful and grab us a coffee will you? And some cake. Or biscuits. Crisps will do at a—’ She held up a hand and turned away from him. ‘Super? Yeah, it’s Roberta. Just wanted you to know we’ve got a suspect and a motive for the Shepherd murder. I’ve got a slot booked on the news, so if— … No. … Yeah, I know they think it’s the same MO, but listen, we— … No, sir. … Yes, sir. But we—’ Steel marched over to one of the room’s two windows and stood there, glaring out at the rain. ‘I understand that, sir, but we’re making progress here. I’m making progress. And— … No. OK. … Bye.’

  Steel lowered her phone. Then swore at it.

  ‘Good news?’

  She turned and glared at him instead. ‘Sodding Superintendent Sodding Young says we’re getting a sodding babysitter.’ Steel jammed her e-cigarette in her mouth and chewed on the end. ‘Some arsebag Central-Belt bumwarden from Forth Valley Division. Apparently she’s an expert on Malk the Knife. Apparently she’s very efficient and good at her job. Apparently she’s already on her way.’

  Logan tried not to smile, he really did. ‘Not nice when someone waltzes in and takes over your case, is it?’

  ‘Oh ha, ha.’ Steel thumped herself down on the windowsill, rattling the blinds. ‘Any chance we can catch Milne and beat a confession out of him in the next,’ she checked her watch, ‘hour?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Well, look at you, all booted and suited.’ Sergeant Ashton leaned back in her chair and gave him the once-over. She’d had her hair done again, blonde highlights and brown lowlights giving her head the look of a humbug that’d fallen down the back of the sofa and got all fuzzy. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’

  Piles of boxes littered the Sergeants’ Office, all of them tagged and sealed. Some used to contain crisps, some frozen peas. Some had willies drawn on the outside.

  Logan settled into the seat opposite. ‘Aye, aye, Beaky. Foos yer doos, the day then?’

  ‘You’re getting better. But for maximum teuchterness it should be “i’ day”, not “the day”.’

  He nodded at the boxes. ‘Has Mum been to Iceland?’

  ‘Confiscated them from a van in Macduff. Counterfeit handbags.’ She pointed. ‘Might have something that’ll go with your outfit, but you’ll need nicer shoes.’

  ‘Did Inspector McGregor speak to you about my dunt?’

  She grinned. ‘It’s my dunt now, Laz. I’ll be getting all the credit.’

  ‘You remembering it’s Ricky and Laura Welsh?’

  ‘There is that.’ Beaky pulled her lips in and chewed on them for a bit. ‘I’ve got a fiver on no one gets hospitalized, which is about as likely as Scotland winning the next World Cup. But what can you do? Got to at least pretend it’ll all go to plan.’

  ‘Keep me in the loop though, eh?’

  ‘Anything else I should know about?’

  ‘Tufty’s got one shift to go till he’s a proper police officer. Try and keep him out of trouble on Sunday night.’

  ‘They grow up so fast, don’t they?’

  ‘Oh, and can you and your hired thugs do me a favour? Keep an eye on Portsoy tonight. Some wee sod’s been setting fire to people’s wheelie bins. Be nice to catch him before he graduates to houses.’

  ‘Think I can manage that. We’ve got—’

  A knock on the door, then it opened. One of Beaky’s PCs loomed on the threshold, his shoulders hunched and his face in need of a shave. ‘Sorry, Sarge, but Sergeant McRae’s got a visitor.’

  Beaky wafted a hand at him. ‘Tell whoever it is to park their bum. We’re doing important handovery stuff here.’

  ‘Yeah…’ He grimaced. ‘No offence, but Sergeant McRae’s visitor is way above my pay grade.’ The constable held a hand six inches over his own head. ‘Like way above.’

  Logan raised an eyebrow. That would be Steel’s babysitter, the Superintendent, arrived from C Division ahead of schedule and itching to take over. Probably wanted to debrief him in person, after all, he was the one who ID’d the victim and the killer. ‘Ah well.’ He stood, stretched.

  Sergeant Ashton tucked her hands into her fleece pockets. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of your team while you’re off playing cops and robbers.’

  ‘Thanks, Beaky, yir a fine quine.’

  ‘You’re a knapdarloch yourself, Laz.’

  Whatever that meant.

  The PC flattened himself against the doorframe, and pointed past the photocopier, at the corridor. ‘He’s in the canteen.’

  He? Didn’t Steel say it was a she?

  Still, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d got that wrong.
/>   Logan crossed the corridor and into the canteen.

  A table stuck into the middle of the room like a breakfast bar, with three chairs on either side and what looked like an empty box from the baker’s on top. Doughnuts, going by the crime-scene trail of blood-red jam on the black tabletop and the trails of castor sugar.

  His visitor was in the corner, with his back to the room, pouring boiling water into a mug. Full Police Scotland black outfit – the shoes, the trousers, the fleece – but instead of the expected three pips on the epaulettes, there was one pip and a crown. His red hair was swept back, not quite covering the expanding bald patch at the back.

  Not Steel’s babysitter after all. Something far worse.

  Sod.

  He was humming a wee tune to himself, away in his own happy little world.

  It wasn’t too late. Could back away right now and sneak off. Get in a car and…

  Chief Superintendent Napier turned around and raised his mug. ‘Ah, Sergeant McRae, the very man I wanted to see.’ His long thin nose twitched. ‘Do you have any milk?’

  Logan cleared his throat. ‘Milk. Right.’ He crossed to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out the big four-litre plastic container of semi-skimmed. Gave it a shoogle. Empty. ‘Sorry, sir, the MIT must have drunk it.’

  ‘Oh now, that is disappointing.’ He poured the contents of the mug down the sink. ‘I think, in that case, we should go for a walk, don’t you? That might lift our spirits on a cold February afternoon. We could buy the station some more milk.’

  ‘Milk. Right.’

  Napier’s smile wouldn’t have been out of place on a serial killer. ‘You said that already.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Oh bloody hell.

  He pointed a long thin finger at the windowsill, where a piggybank sat next to a white concrete gnome. Someone had painted angry black eyebrows on the gnome and stuck a little paper dagger in his hand. ‘Shall I put thirty pence in the bank, or do you think buying the milk will cover it?’

  Logan licked his lips. ‘I’ll get my coat.’

  Wind growled along Banff Bay, whipping the water into lines of white peaks. Bringing with it the smell of seaweed and death.