In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  Her sidekick groaned. ‘But we’re going to the wake. Little sandwiches, those wee chicken Kiev things, slices of quiche.’

  ‘Bucksburn station, Constable, and step on it.’

  Logan sat forward and tapped Doreen on the shoulder. ‘I don’t want to go to Bucksburn, I want to go to the bus station. I’m going home.’

  ‘Sorry, Laz, orders from on high.’

  Sod that.

  The traffic groaned to a halt at the junction with Great Western Road, a line of cars and articulated lorries halted at the traffic lights in front of them.

  ‘Fine, I’ll get out and walk.’ He unclipped his seatbelt and grabbed the door handle.

  Nothing happened.

  The child locks were on. Of course they were – this was a CID pool car. Couldn’t have suspects letting themselves out whenever they felt like it.

  ‘Doreen, I’m not even on duty, I’ve had a crappy day, and I want to go home.’

  Colour flushed her cheeks. ‘We don’t have any choice, OK? Orders are orders.’ She tried for a smile. It didn’t look very convincing. ‘It’ll only take a moment. I’m sure it’s nothing really, just a quick chat with Professional Standards…’

  Friday the thirteenth strikes again.

  23

  The floral stench of carpet cleaner filled the anonymous waiting room. Probably there to cover the smell of fear, sweated out by previous victims. Posters on the wall extolled the virtues of Police Scotland, each with a posed photo of an officer at some scenic spot. Truth. Reliability. Honesty. Impartiality.

  Traffic droned by outside.

  Logan paced back to the window.

  Snow drifted down in large puffy flakes, thick enough to hide everything beyond a few hundred feet. Cars and buses and lorries, nose-to-tailed each other on either side of the dual carriageway below. Streams of headlights and blood-red tail-lights, moving in a slow-motion shuffle away from here.

  Jammy sods.

  But then they hadn’t been ratted out to Professional Standards by Superintendent Bloody Harper. No, that was a special treat for Logan alone.

  He scowled at the crawling traffic.

  OK, so maybe it had been a mistake to tell her to sod off and hang up on her. And maybe he could’ve diffused the situation instead of making it worse. But…

  Yeah, probably best to leave that thought there.

  Idiot.

  He pulled out his phone and turned it back on again. No more texts from Urquhart, thank God. But there was a voicemail from Calamity. Logan set it playing.

  ‘Sarge? Hi. It’s Janet. … Listen, we heard about Samantha, and we wanted … well, we’re really, really sorry. If there’s anything we can do, you give us a call, OK? All of us.’ There was a long pause. ‘If you want to talk to someone, or, you know, go out and get weaselled, let us know. We’re thinking of you.’

  ‘End of Messages. To Replay The Message, Press One. To—’

  Logan hung up.

  Put his phone away.

  Stared out at the traffic.

  ‘So sorry to keep you waiting.’ A gaunt woman stood in the doorway, wearing standard Police-issue black with an inspector’s pips on the epaulettes. Her fringe was nearly down to her eyebrows, but it didn’t manage to hide the thick wrinkly creases that made valleys across her forehead. ‘We’re ready for you now.’

  Logan followed her out into the corridor, past office after office – all with their doors shut – and into another room.

  They’d made more of an effort in here. Pot plants stood in the corners, historical photographs of Aberdeen hung on the walls, and a couple of windows looked out onto the snow. She waved a hand at one of the comfy chairs arranged around a coffee table with a bowl of individually wrapped mints on it. ‘Now, would you like a tea or a coffee before we start?’

  OK…

  She was obviously down to play Good Cop.

  ‘Thanks. Tea with milk. If that’s all right?’

  ‘Not a problem. Well, take a seat, Sergeant McRae, Chief Superintendent Napier will be with you soon as he’s off the phone.’ She slipped out, closing the door behind her.

  So really he’d just swapped one waiting room for another.

  But at least an inspector was making him tea for a change.

  Logan sank into the comfy chair.

  Nobody expects the Spanish inquisition.

  She was back two minutes later with a mug and a small plate of jammie dodgers. ‘There you go. Won’t be long now.’ And she was gone again.

  Maybe there were hidden cameras in the room, filming his every movement? Maybe Napier and his Minions of Darkness were huddled in an observation suite watching him right now? Waiting for him to incriminate himself.

  Well tough.

  Logan helped himself to a biscuit.

  Wonder what it was this time: telling Superintendent Harpy where to stick her MIT, being at Wee Hamish’s funeral, selling the flat to John Urquhart for way over the valuation… Or perhaps it was about a drug dealer getting beaten to death with a claw hammer?

  Sit still and drink your tea. Don’t fidget. Eat your jammie dodgers.

  Two biscuits later, Chief Superintendent Napier arrived, with a file under one arm and a mug in the other. ‘Sergeant.’ He settled into the chair opposite. Put the mug on the table and opened the file. ‘Now, as you may have guessed, a number of people in the Organised Crime and Counter Terrorism Unit are interested in your attendance at Hamish Mowat’s funeral this afternoon.’ Napier steepled his fingers. ‘Would you care to comment on that?’

  Logan had a sip of tea. ‘I was abducted from my home this morning by three men in a Transit van, forced into a black suit, and driven to a garage somewhere on the outskirts of Aberdeen where I witnessed a man being murdered. I was then driven to the funeral because Hamish Mowat thought of me as a friend and a fitting successor to lead his criminal empire after his death. On the way there I plotted with another individual to kill Mr Mowat’s right-hand man.’

  Napier smiled, then nodded. ‘Well, that’s quite understandable. Now, would you like a pay rise or a knighthood? I’ve been authorized to give you both, if you like?’

  Oh, if only.

  Instead Logan lowered his mug. ‘We’ve been getting reports of various cartels and gangs wanting to move into the area following Hamish Mowat’s death. After discussing this with Chief Inspector Steel, it was decided that I should attend the funeral.’

  Napier raised an eyebrow. ‘You discussed this with DCI Steel?’

  ‘Ask her if you like.’ Logan pulled out his phone and called Steel.

  Two rings, then her voice blared in his ear. ‘Where the hell did you get to? I turned up at lunchtime with a big bag of sausage rolls, all set for tea and sympathy, and you were nowhere to be—’

  ‘Guv, can you brief Chief Superintendent Napier about our plan for me to scope out Wee Hamish Mowat’s funeral today?’ He put his mobile on speakerphone and held it out.

  Silence.

  Napier leaned forward in his seat. ‘Well, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Hold on, got digestive biscuit crumbs all down my cleavage.’

  He curled his top lip and sat back again.

  ‘Aye, right. The funeral. I sent Sergeant McRae down there to scope out the opposition. I got the feeling these thugs from down south would be up for the service, and I wanted someone on-site to see if they could pick up some info. You know, what with Peter Shepherd being all dead in a Malk-the-Knifey way.’

  Had to hand it to her: no one could lie quicker and slicker than Roberta Steel.

  ‘Now is there anything else? Only my boobs are all gritty with biscuit here and I need to get my bra off and give it a good shake.’

  If Napier was trying to hide his grimace, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. ‘I see. Well … we won’t keep you from that.’

  Logan switched the speakerphone off and put the phone back to his ear. ‘Thanks. I’ll debrief you when I ge
t back to Banff.’

  ‘You’re no’ doing anything with my briefs, Sunshine. My pants are off limits. And what the hell was that all about? You better no’ be—’

  He hung up and switched his mobile off again.

  Napier closed the folder. ‘I’m glad we could get that cleared up so quickly.’ Then he stood and stalked across the room to the window and stood there with his hands behind his back, as if he were reviewing the troops. ‘And did you learn anything of import at the funeral, Sergeant?’

  ‘Malcolm McLennan thinks someone’s trying to fit him up.’

  ‘I see. Speaking of “fitting people up”, while we’ve got you here, I’d like to talk about Jack Wallace.’

  Steel’s paedophile.

  Logan drained the last of his tea. ‘What about him?’

  ‘His laptop. Oh, it’s full of child abuse images, that’s not at issue, but Wallace claims his laptop was missing for a couple of days. He’s adamant that someone else took it and put those images on there. That he would never have done it himself.’

  ‘Yes, because real paedophiles always own up to what they’ve done, don’t they? Only the innocent ones say they didn’t do it.’

  ‘Steel had dealings with Wallace before. She investigated him twice on accusations of rape.’

  ‘Children?’

  Napier shook his head. ‘Both times the prosecution fell through. The victims changed their minds and withdrew their complaints. And we all know how well DCI Steel takes failure in cases of sexual assault.’

  Snow was building up along the window ledge, clumps sticking to the glass for a moment, before melting.

  ‘You see, Logan, the laptop worries me. All those images of child abuse are in two distinct blocks. Half were loaded onto the machine one day, and the rest went on the day after. One would expect, if Jack Wallace really were a practising paedophile, the images would have built up gradually over a period of time. But they didn’t, they simply arrived…’ He turned and leaned back against the windowsill. ‘Which is suspicious, don’t you agree? Almost as if someone had placed them there on purpose.’

  Logan fiddled with his empty mug. ‘Were the pictures encrypted? Had he tried to hide them in any way?’

  ‘The folder they were in was password protected: his mother’s maiden name, spelled backwards. All sitting in a subdirectory of his iTunes files.’

  So pretty well hidden then.

  Which did beg the question: how did Steel find them buried away down there?

  Napier flashed his teeth. ‘Ah, I see you’ve finished your tea. Why don’t we go and sort that out?’

  God, a cup of tea from an inspector and a chief superintendent, all in the same day? Well that certainly made up for all the other crap that had happened since breakfast.

  Down the corridor, third on the left. It wasn’t much more than a cupboard with a kettle, a microwave, a toaster, and a wee fridge.

  Napier filled the kettle from a bottle of mineral water, and stuck it on to boil. ‘Would you like to have a look at the laptop? It’s being held here as evidence.’

  ‘Lots of pictures of kids being abused? Not really.’

  ‘I meant the files. You don’t have to browse the actual images.’

  Oh. ‘Would it help?’

  ‘It might help you.’

  He made two mugs of tea, and glopped milk into Logan’s without asking. Then handed it over. ‘No sugar: that’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Er… Thank you.’

  Napier opened a cupboard and took out a bag-for-life that was covered with bees and flowers. He reached inside and produced a round metal biscuit tin. Gave it a shoogle. ‘Ah, good. The Counter Corruption team haven’t got their sticky fingers on them yet.’ He levered the lid off. ‘I’ll pass you on to Karl, our IT whiz, he’ll show you anything you need.’ Then Napier held the open tin out to Logan. It was full of raggedy brown things. ‘Chocolate crispies. I make them with Special K, melted Mars Bars, and crunched-up Maltesers. Not frightfully good for you, but little treats, now and then.’

  ‘Yes. Right.’ Logan blinked at him, then helped himself to one. ‘Lovely.’

  OK, this was getting creepy.

  Napier popped the lid back on and tucked the tin under his arm with the folder, then led the way back out into the corridor. ‘Tell me, Logan, do you enjoy being in uniform again? Feet on the streets, dealing with the public?’

  He followed Napier down towards the far end. ‘It’s…’ A frown. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good man. I miss it myself. Oh, it’s lovely being in a position to influence policy and really achieve things on a broader scale, but there’s a lot to be said for being on the front line.’ He stopped, knocked on one of the office doors, then poked his head inside. ‘Karl? That’s Sergeant McRae here. Show him anything he needs to see, all right?’

  A middle-aged man with a grey cardigan thrown on over his black Police Scotland T-shirt peered out at them from behind a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles. His gaze drifted downwards, then a smile split his round face. ‘Do these ancient eyes deceive me, Nigel, or have you made another batch of your famous fudge-and-raisin brownies? Hmmmm?’

  Napier held the tin out. ‘Chocolate crispies.’

  ‘Ooh, I love those.’ He creaked the tin open and helped himself. ‘Now, Sergeant McRae, let’s get you sorted. Thank you, Nigel, I’ll take good care of him.’

  ‘Well, this is where we part company, Logan.’ Napier shook his hand. ‘I’m afraid I have to deal with a constable who seems to have forgotten that rule number one of using an extendable baton is you do not hit people in the head with them. But if you need anything, give me a call.’ And then the doppelganger pretending to be the Ginger Ninja turned on his heel and marched off to distribute his chocolatey treats.

  ‘Shall we, Sergeant?’ Karl ushered Logan inside and closed the door behind him. Plonked himself on the other side of a workbench covered in bits of electronic equipment. Laptops, desktops, tablets, mobile phones – all tagged and bearing sticky labels. Another, smaller, bench sat against the wall with a laptop on it, a rainbow swirly screensaver dancing away across the display. ‘That’s you over there. All set up and ready.’

  Logan perched on the edge of a bar stool and poked at the keyboard. The screensaver disappeared, replaced by the machine’s desktop. The picture was a line-up of Aberdeen football club players, all done up in their red kit. ‘Karl?’

  ‘By name, Karl by nature.’

  ‘Does Chief Superintendent Napier do a lot of baking things?’

  ‘Every Friday. You really should try Nigel’s brownies. Oh my, yes.’

  Napier baking? Being nice to people? Having a first name? It was official – that last blow to Logan’s head had scrambled his brains. That, or he’d woken up in some alternative mirror-universe this morning.

  Nigel.

  Bizarre.

  Logan moved the mouse arrow over the folder icon and clicked it open. Navigated his way through the computer’s hard drive to the iTunes section of the program files. ‘Any idea where I should be looking?’

  ‘Try “iTunes dot resources”.’

  He did and got a screen full of other folders for his trouble. ‘Then what?’

  ‘“E S underscore M X dot lproj”. Then “printing templates”. You’ll see a printer icon, only it’s not really a printer it’s a password-protected RAR file.’

  It sat at the top of a list of XML files. Logan double-clicked it and when the password prompt came up, turned back to Karl. ‘Do you have…’

  He was holding up a Post-it note with ‘HUTCHESON’ written on it in big black letters. ‘Only backwards. Capital N.’

  Logan picked ‘NOSEHCTUH’ out on the keyboard and hit return. Immediately the screen filled with rows and rows of pretty explicit filenames. Some were clearly ordered into groups, as if they formed part of a different photo set. They all had different modified dates, but when Logan ordered them by created date, they fell into
two distinct chunks just like Napier had said. And the created dates were all after the modified dates as well.

  He leaned back on his seat.

  OK, so that didn’t prove anything, did it? Jack Wallace might have got them from one of the dodgy scumbags in his paedophile ring. Or maybe he copied them off an older machine? Or had them saved onto a DVD or something?

  Didn’t mean Steel broke into his house or car, nicked his laptop, then stuck a bunch of kiddy porn on it. Returned it to the house and accidentally stumbled onto the folder.

  Though let’s face it: the files would be nearly impossible to find, given how buried they were in the file structure. You’d really need to know what you were looking for and where, not to mention what the password was. Steel could barely work her own phone, never mind hack her way through a jungle of folders.

  And what had she said, when he’d asked her about it? Wallace didn’t even try to hide the pictures, as if he was proud of his collection.

  Yeah. This was beginning to look dodgier by the minute.

  ‘Karl?’

  ‘Your wish is my command, oh inquisitive one.’

  Logan pointed at the laptop. ‘These files, all squirrelled away down here in the iTunes folders, that takes some doing, right? Wallace had to be a bit of a computer whizz kid to bury them away there.’

  ‘Oh dearie me, no.’ Karl laughed, big and wobbly, like something off a fairground attraction. ‘Finding the files is difficult. Hiding them, on the other hand, is child’s play. You navigate your way down to the bottom of any folder tree that takes your fancy, and Robert is the sibling of your immediate progenitor. My Yorkshire terrier could do it with one paw tied behind his back.’

  So maybe even a detective chief inspector could manage.

  Steel wouldn’t fit him up for fun, though, there had to be a reason.

  Logan turned around in his seat. ‘Napier said you could show me anything I need to see, right? Well, I need to see everything you’ve got on Jack Wallace.’

  24

  ‘Of course, you know what this is, don’t you?’

  Logan stared at the crumpled lump in the toilet mirror. ‘Shut up.’ He finished washing his hands, then ran them under the howling roar of the air dryer.