‘Two hundred thousand, plus twenty-five grand interest. Only when they tried, the price went up another hundred thousand and they had to hand over the company. Shepherd refused and they killed him.’
Harper narrowed her eyes. ‘Hmm…’
Logan put the phone back in his pocket. ‘And now Milne has to use his containers and ships to shift stuff in and out of the country for Malcolm McLennan – lose them among the other manifests – or the same happens to him and his family.’
She pushed her chair back and stood. ‘Send the audio file to Narveer, Sergeant. We’ll take it from here.’ Harper waved at the door. ‘You can go now.’
You’re sodding welcome.
Steel spread her mouth wide, showing off rows of grey fillings in a jaw-cracking yawn. Then slumped and shuddered. ‘Where the hell have you been? Dropping off the spar, here.’
Logan grabbed his stabproof vest from the corner of the Sergeants’ Office and dragged it on, scritching the Velcro flaps together so the whole thing was tight. ‘I’m leaving now. You’re either in the car, or you’re walking.’ Equipment belt next, complete with the truncheon he could’ve done with when Nicholas Fife was on the rampage.
She stretched. Let him see her fillings again. ‘Pfff… I fancy some chips. Anywhere open for chips?’
‘It’s after ten. No. Now are you coming or not?’
‘All-night bakery?’
He snatched his high-viz jacket from the rack by the door – checked to make sure it actually was his, hauled it on and stormed out. ‘Stay here then.’
‘All right, all right.’ Steel hurried along behind, pulling on her coat. ‘Who poked a burning ferret up your bumhole today?’
Across the corridor and through the door at the top of the stairs. ‘I’ll tell you who – Detective Superintendent Holier-Than-Thou Harper, that’s who.’ Logan’s boots hammered down the steps. ‘Doesn’t matter what I do, that bloody woman treats me like something to be scooped up in a plastic bag and dumped in a park bin. Well, you know what? She can—’
‘Sergeant?’ Narveer appeared at the top of the stairs, mouth stretched out and down as if he was doing a sad frog impersonation. ‘Glad I caught you.’
Logan stopped. ‘Detective Inspector Singh: I’m off duty. And I’m going home.’
A sigh. Then Narveer closed the door and leaned his elbows on the handrail, looking down the stairs at them. ‘I wanted to say, good job. You did well. Milne wouldn’t talk to any of us, and you got him to open up.’
Was that credit?
Dear Lord, wonders would never cease.
He pulled his chin up. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘We’re going to offer Milne a deal. See if we can’t intercept one of Malk the Knife’s shipments.’ A smile widened Narveer’s face. ‘This is the closest we’ve come in years to pinning anything on McLennan.’
Tell that to Detective Superintendent Harper.
Narveer looked away, picking at the handrail with a fingernail. ‘Erm, Sergeant McRae? How did you get him to talk to you?’
No idea. But it wouldn’t do to let DI Singh know that.
Make something up.
‘Harper battered away at him, tried to grind him down. I treated him like a human being.’
‘Right. Good cop to her bad cop. Cool.’ The DI pulled on that big smile again. ‘Anyway, like I said: good job.’ He slipped back through the door, leaving Logan and Steel alone in the stairwell.
She sucked on her teeth, making squeaking noises. ‘Think he fancies you.’
‘Oh shut up.’ Logan turned and marched down the stairs.
‘Ooh, Sergeant McRae, you’re so sexy. Kiss me, Sergeant, kiss me like I’ve never been kissed before. Make a woman of me!’
He hauled the door open and stuck his hat on. Stepped out into the rain.
‘Oh come on, Laz, stop being such a Pouting Percy. You just got a pat on the bum from our new overlord’s sidekick.’ She followed him across the car park to where the Punto sagged under the weight of the drumming rain. ‘Which, on balance, maybe doesn’t sound all that impressive, but it’s better than nothing. And Narveer’s a nice boy: he’d probably take you to dinner before humpity-humpity.’
Logan unlocked the car and slid in behind the wheel. Chucked his cap in the back. ‘Are you coming or not?’
‘Still, going to be a longshot. Hanging about, hoping Malk the Knife will turn up and…’ A frown settled onto her face.
‘What?’
‘Shhh. Thinking.’ She dumped herself into the passenger seat. Then a smile bloomed across her face and she thumped a hand on the dashboard. ‘Of course! Why’d I no’ see it before? It’s obvious!’
‘You know how to get Malcolm McLennan?’
‘That big Asda we passed on the way in – we can get something to eat there!’
Moonlight speared down through the clouds, raking the fields as they slid by the Punto’s windows. Off to the right, the North Sea was a slab of polished granite. The world black-and-white beyond the car’s headlights.
‘Mmmnnnghph mnnnphh?’ Small beige flecks of pastry shone in the dashboard lights as they spiralled out from Steel’s mouth.
‘God, you’re disgusting.’
She swallowed. ‘Oh don’t be such a Jessie.’ Then took another bite of her pasty. Chewing with her mouth open. ‘I said, “Do you want the chicken curry or the steak-and-onion?” you grumpy old sod.’
Oh.
‘Steak-and-onion.’
The road wound along the coast, then headed inland, hiding the sea as Steel struggled with the packaging. ‘Ha!’ She handed it over. She’d even rolled the first inch of plastic down, so he could bite straight into it.
Logan did. Chewing on chilled soft pastry and cold meaty filling. It coated the roof of his mouth with a thin layer of waxy grease. Not exactly three Michelin stars, but better than nothing.
Steel polished her pasty off. Sucked the crumbs from her fingers. ‘When you doing it?’
He talked around a second mouthful. ‘Doing what?’
‘Tomorrow. With Samantha.’
Oh. That.
‘Don’t know. In the morning, probably.’ He puffed out a breath as stones and boulders gathered in his stomach, pulling it down. He cleared his throat. ‘Did you hear about Wee Hamish Mowat?’
She reached across the car and squeezed his leg. Second time that day. ‘You want me to come with you?’
The stones grew heavier. ‘Now he’s dead, we’ve got criminals from all over descending on Aberdeenshire. Looking for a chunk of the pasty.’ He took another bite, but it curdled in his mouth.
‘Give me a call, OK? You phone me when you’re heading over and I’ll dump everything and come sit with you.’ Another squeeze. ‘I mean it.’
He forced the greasy mouthful down. Blinked. Nodded. Then let out a long shuddery breath. ‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ She pointed at the pasty in his hand. ‘Now are you done with that, cos I’m still starving.’
18
Logan pulled up outside a little B-and-B on the northern fringe of Banff. A dozen feet of patchy grass separated the road from the cliffs. A pebbled beach hissed at the base of them, turned into a lunar landscape by the bleaching moonlight. The North Sea a solid slab of clay – glistening and grey.
Steel brushed pastry crumbs off her front and into the footwell. ‘Right. You call me tomorrow. Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘Good boy.’ She climbed out into the night and stood there, peering back into the car while all the heat escaped. ‘I mean it, Laz: no trying to do it on your own. You’ve got family now.’
‘OK, OK, I get it.’
‘Don’t forget.’ She thumped the door shut, then turned and huddled her way over to the B-and-B and let herself in. Paused on the threshold to wave at him.
Logan waved back.
Soon as the door closed, shutting off the light, he bent forward and boi
nked his head off the steering wheel. ‘Great…’
Why was it, sympathy just made things hurt so much more? Indifference, even animosity was fine – could turn that into anger and cope – but sympathy?
He boinked his head off the wheel again. ‘Ungrateful tosser.’
Yeah.
Logan turned the car around and headed back towards the station. Past the silent darkened houses and empty streets.
How was he supposed to investigate her for Napier? If she sat there, holding his hand while he switched Samantha off, what was he supposed to do? Thanks for the support at this difficult time, now do you mind if I screw you over and work for the Ginger Whinger behind your back?
The harbour was full of yachts, berthed up for the winter. A handful of tiny fishing boats tied up closer to the harbour entrance.
But if he didn’t investigate her, Napier would only get someone else in to do the job. And maybe that someone wouldn’t be quite as understanding of Steel’s little foibles. Or her bloody huge character flaws.
Gah.
Maybe it was all just a misunderstanding? A quick poke about in the facts of the case, and bingo: Steel’s exonerated. She’d be delighted that he’d cleared her name… Or she’d kill him for being a disloyal wee sod and investigating her in the first place.
Great. So the whole thing was a lose-lose for him.
He parked outside the Sergeant’s Hoose. Sat there staring out at the bay. All cold and still and dark. The lights of Macduff glimmered on the other side of the water.
And then there was Samantha…
The stones were back, clumping in his stomach.
Come on. Out.
A long, black, sigh huffed out of him. Then he got out and locked the car. Crossed the road.
A couple of women stood outside the Ship Inn, smoking cigarettes and shivering. One looked up and stared at him as he let himself into the Sergeant’s Hoose. Like he was something strange to be studied, in his bright-yellow high-viz jacket – the stripes fluorescing in the streetlight.
Logan thunked the door behind him and locked it.
Sagged.
Tomorrow was going to be … just … terrific.
God.
A soft furry body thumped into his leg, followed by a tiny prooping noise.
Logan let his breath out. ‘Cthulhu. How’s Daddy’s bestest girl?’ He unclipped his equipment belt and hung it on the end of the banister, then stuck his hat on top. Peeled off his stabproof vest and leaned it in the corner. Bent down and ruffled the fur between Cthulhu’s ears. ‘At least you still love me.’
She purred, little white paws treadling on the laminate floor.
A handful of post lay on the mat and he picked it up, flicking through it. Yet another election leaflet from the Lib Dems, one from the SNP, and a brochure about free hearing aids for the over fifties. And last an envelope with no stamp, no postmark, and a black border around the edge. Hand delivered.
Logan turned it over and paused, one finger poised to rip through the flap. Maybe not the best of ideas. Use a knife instead. He marched into the kitchen and dumped everything else on the table. Took a butter knife from the draining board and slit the flap open. Poured the contents out onto the countertop.
No razor blades or needles were taped under the flap, lying in wait for an unwary finger. Instead the envelope contained a gilt-edged rectangle of cardboard engraved in flowery script.
Right. Well there wasn’t much chance of him turning up for Hamish’s funeral, was there.
When he’d just switched Samantha off?
And besides, it probably wasn’t a good idea to be in the same postcode as Reuben, never mind graveyard. No telling what would happen. But it probably wouldn’t be anything good.
He propped the invitation on the windowsill, next to the dying herbs.
Then dug out a squat glass tumbler and poured in a slug of the whisky Hamish Mowat had given him. Toasted the rectangle of card. ‘Sorry, Hamish. But I can’t.’
Took a sip. Warm and fiery and leathery and smooth.
Wait a minute.
He frowned at the tumbler, and the lines of amber crawling down the inside of the glass. There had been a letter, hadn’t there? Wee Hamish had handed it over, then the doctor threw them out and Reuben started throwing his weight around.
Back through to the hall and the collection of coats, jackets, and fleeces.
It was in yesterday’s coat pocket.
The word ‘LOGAN’ was scratched across the front in smudged trembling fountain-pen letters.
He sat at the kitchen table and opened it, while Cthulhu wound herself back and forth between his ankles.
Probably another appeal for him to take over Hamish’s criminal empire, because nothing said ‘Career Police Officer’ like running a stable of drug dealers, prostitutes, and protection rackets. Still, had to admire the man’s tenacity – even when he was dying he didn’t give up.
The contents were almost illegible, written in the same pained hand as the envelope. It must’ve taken Wee Hamish hours to do, given how weak he was at the end.
Wow.
Logan read the letter through again. Put it down on the table.
Took a mouthful of whisky.
Gave it one more read. Then picked Cthulhu up, carried her out into the hall, and closed the kitchen door, shutting her out. He cracked the window open, dug the kitchen matches out of the cupboard, held the letter over the sink, and set fire to it. Turning it back and forth until the flames took hold.
Heat seared the tips of his fingers and he dropped the burning letter into the sink. The gritty cloying smell of burnt paper filled the room.
The letter blackened around the words, then a line of vivid orange washed across it, leaving the sheet white and powdery, but still bearing Wee Hamish’s instructions. He jabbed the ashes with a wooden spoon, beating them into dust. No point taking any risks: the envelope suffered the same fate.
Gah…
Samantha lowered herself down on the couch next to him. ‘What we watching?’
‘Hmm?’ Logan looked up from the tumbler in his hands.
Some vacuous pap cop show lumped its way across the TV screen, about as divorced from the reality of actual policing as Henry the Eighth was from his wives.
Samantha poked him in the shoulder. ‘He didn’t divorce any of them. They were either annulled or beheaded. Well, except for the last one. And the one that died of natural causes. Don’t you ever watch QI?’
Logan had a sip of the whisky. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘Don’t do what?’
‘Don’t jump in when I haven’t said something out loud. Makes me look like a lunatic.’
She turned to the TV, nose in the air.
Onscreen, a man in an SOC suit wandered about a crime scene without wearing goggles or a facemask. Because, on television, no one ever got ripped apart in court for not following proper procedures. No, they could contaminate the scene to their hearts’ content, as long as the halfwit viewing public could see their pretty actory faces.
‘Look at these muppets. Bet none of them would last two minutes in the witness stand against Hissing Sid.’
‘It’s not my fault.’
Another sip. Then he put on a posh Scottish accent, ‘Tell me, Detective Inspector McActor, while you were parading all over the scene of the alleged crime, did you remain on the common approach walkway? No? Did you have the hood of your Tyvek suit up? No? You felt it was more important to show off your magnificent head of flowing hair? I see…’
‘This thing between you and Reuben has been brewing for years.’
‘And were you wearing your goggles and mask, or did you ponce about spewing your own DNA over everything? And did…’ Logan jabbed a hand at the TV, dropping back to his own voice. ‘Oh for God’s sake. Look at it: you don’t pick up a murder weapon with the pen from your pocket! What are you, a moron? How did this idiot get admitted to a crime sce
ne?’
‘You broke his nose. He was never going to forgive you for that.’
‘Who wrote this garbage?’
‘Logan!’ She turned and grabbed his face in both hands. ‘Listen to me: I’m right, Wee Hamish is right – you have to kill Reuben. Have you even got a plan?’
On the TV, DI McActor was snogging one of the Scenes Examination Branch, in the middle of the crime scene, with the body lying at their feet.
Deep breath. Logan lowered his eyes and ran a fingernail along a chip in the rim of his glass. ‘I’m trying not to think about it, OK? I don’t want to kill Reuben. I don’t want to kill anybody.’
‘You have to start planning for it, you know that. Fitting him up isn’t going to do it.’ She let go of Logan’s face and poked him in the chest. ‘Come on: how, when, where, and what do you do with the body afterwards?’
He let his head fall back and stared up at the stippled white ceiling for a moment. ‘Gun. Has to be a gun. And it has to be soon. Somewhere out of the way with no witnesses. And there’s no point burying him, it’d take forever to dig a hole big enough.’ Logan swirled the dregs of his Glenfiddich around the glass, leaving trails up the side of the glass. ‘Fire. Stick the body in a car and set fire to it. Burn off any trace evidence and DNA. When they find the body they’ll think it was one of the rival gangs trying to muscle in.’
She smiled. ‘There you go. I’m proud of you.’
Wonderful.
Assuming he could lure Reuben to somewhere out of the way without anyone else showing up. Assuming he could actually pull the trigger. Assuming Reuben didn’t kill him instead.
And then all he’d have to do was pray that Reuben hadn’t lodged an insurance policy with a solicitor somewhere. In the event of my untimely death, the following letters are to be sent to the media and Professional Standards for the purpose of screwing Sergeant McRae to the wall by his testicles.
Speaking of which.
He pulled out his phone and turned it on again. Scrolled through the call history. And selected a number. Then listened to it ring.
Click. ‘You’ve reached the desk of Chief Superintendent Napier, I’m unavailable at the moment, but you can leave a message after the tone.’
In the Cold Dark Ground Page 17