In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  Mirror Logan shook his head. ‘You’re only doing this so you don’t have to go home and sit there. In the dark. Getting drunk. Worrying about Reuben.’

  ‘Yes, but this is important, isn’t it?’

  ‘You killed Samantha this morning, remember?’

  ‘So what: you want I should be home brooding instead?’

  ‘Yes!’ A nod. ‘At home, right now, not dicking about in Bucksburn station, helping Napier get Steel up on charges. Should be getting utterly and completely hammered…’

  A shudder rippled its way through him. Hammered wasn’t a term to use today. Not after what happened to Tony Evans.

  Deep breath.

  The whole top floor was strangely quiet. In most police stations the place would be a barely controlled din of phones and voices and printers. People hanging out in the corridor gossiping and passing on info. But this was like visiting a hospital ward, where the cubicles were full of the soon-to-be dearly departed.

  Logan made himself another cup of tea, then headed back to his temporary office. The place was full of photos – a happy woman looking increasingly rounded, finishing off with what must have been a baby shower. He sank behind the desk. Had a sip of too-hot tea, and frowned at the open file.

  Jack Wallace: twenty-nine, blond with a wide nose and big chin. In the attached picture, his eyes were partially hidden by a pair of glasses. Oh, and he’d turned up the collar of his polo shirt, presumably because he wanted to look like a dickhead.

  Mission accomplished, Jack.

  Logan tapped his fingers on the pile of forms and statements.

  Jack, Jack, Jack.

  Nothing in there suggested he was into sexually abusing children. No, Jack the Lad was a ladies’ man, whether they liked it or not. As long as he was bigger and stronger than them. And it wasn’t just the two failed prosecutions for rape – there were about a dozen complaints of sexual harassment and assault. Everything from copping a feel in the lift at work, to ripping off a stranger’s blouse in a nightclub toilet then breaking her nose.

  No denying it: Jack Wallace was a charmer.

  But a paedophile?

  All those pictures, hidden away on his laptop. Hidden away and password protected.

  Hmmm…

  Logan pulled out his phone and flicked through his own photos. There was Samantha, at a beach party in Lossiemouth, grinning like a slice of Edam. Another with her peeling the clingfilm off a new tattoo. One with her lying on her back, on the bed, in her leather corset, grinning up at him.

  ‘And before you say it, I know, OK?’ He put the phone down on the desk. ‘If you were here, you’d agree with the idiot in the mirror. Well, you’re both right. And I don’t care.’

  No reply.

  ‘And don’t look at me like that. What was I supposed to do?’ He shifted in his seat. ‘I tried, OK? I tried to kill him and the gun didn’t work.’

  Samantha’s picture sat there. Not moving. Not saying anything.

  ‘Yes, all right: it was cowardly, I admit it. You happy now? I tried to talk Urquhart into doing my dirty work for me, because I haven’t got the balls to do it myself.’

  Logan scrubbed his hands across his face. ‘I don’t want to kill anyone.’

  Mirror Logan was right, he shouldn’t be here, he should be home getting hammered.

  Hmmm…

  A frown.

  The desktop computer came on with a bleep when Logan wiggled the mouse. Typical – its owner had been away on maternity leave for two months, and no one had thought to switch her computer off. No wonder Police Scotland was having trouble saving money.

  He logged into the system and ran a search for Tony Evans.

  It looked as if Urquhart had been telling the truth. Evans was a small-time drug dealer, never caught with more than nine hundred and ninety quid on him – a tenner shy of getting the lot seized as proceeds of crime. His criminal record was predictably repetitive: possession, possession, possession with intent, aggravated assault, possession, theft from a motor vehicle, possession with intent, theft by opening lockfast places, possession…

  And right now, he was probably working his way, in very small pieces, through the digestive system of a couple dozen pigs. No body. No witnesses.

  Well, yes, OK – there were witnesses, but Smiler, Mr Teeth, and Captain ABBA weren’t going to roll over on Reuben, were they? Not a chance. Urquhart wouldn’t rat either.

  Which left Logan.

  He glanced at the phone. Samantha’s picture had disappeared, replaced by a blank black screen.

  ‘What am I supposed to do, march up to Napier and tell him I watched Reuben batter Tony Evans’s head in? Oh, and by the way, I didn’t stop him. I just stood there like a squeezed pluke.’

  No reply.

  He put on a passable imitation of Napier’s clipped oily tones: ‘And tell me, Sergeant McRae, why exactly did you leave it this long to inform anyone of Reuben’s heinous crime?’

  ‘Well, your Ginger Ninja-iness, that’s a very good question. Makes me look a bit suspect, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘As if I made the whole thing up?’

  ‘Did you, Sergeant?’

  ‘Wonderful…’ Logan sat back in his borrowed seat. ‘Maybe I could tell him I’m suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? What with the horror of killing my girlfriend this morning, then witnessing a murder.’

  Yeah, that would work.

  He poked the phone. ‘Where are you? I sound like a nutter talking to myself like this. At least when you—’

  A knock on the door, then Karl stuck his head into the room. ‘Sorry, thought you had visitors. I come bearing gifts!’ He scuffed in on tartan slippers, then dug into his cardigan pocket and produced a USB stick. ‘Ta-daaaaaaa…’

  Professional Standards definitely had a weirdo-hiring policy.

  Karl leaned over the desk and plugged the stick into a slot on the front of the computer. ‘You’re very welcome.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Ah, an excellent question. For ten points, and a chance to come back next week, who managed to dig out a copy of the last interview DCI Steel did with Jack Wallace?’

  Logan forced on a smile. ‘Would it be you?’

  ‘Bing! Correct, you move on to the next round. Thanks for playing.’ He stuck his hands in his cardigan, stretching it out of shape. ‘I can’t get hold of the earlier one, and, to be perfectly honest, I shouldn’t have been able to get hold of this one either. Still, ask no questions, nudge-nudge, etc.’

  A couple of clicks had the video file playing full screen. It was one of the interview rooms at Aberdeen Divisional Headquarters – number three going by the beige Australia-shaped stain on the wall by the window. Three figures were visible, two sitting with their backs to the camera – one blond spiky haircut and one that looked like a badger who’d been run over by a combine harvester. DS Rennie and DCI Steel. Which meant the man on the other side of the table, facing the camera, had to be Jack Wallace.

  His clothes must have gone off for testing, because he was wearing a white SOC oversuit with the hood thrown back. Not a big man, in any sense of the word. Thin, with a pencilled-in beard and narrow eyes, hair scraped forward in a failed attempt to cover a receding hairline. Long tapered fingers fiddled with the elasticated cuffs of the Tyvek suit. He opened his mouth, but nothing seemed to come out.

  ‘What happened to the sound?’

  Karl poked a button on the keyboard and the computer’s tiny speakers crackled into life.

  ‘…comment.’ Wallace shut his mouth again.

  ‘It was on mute, dear fellow. Mute.’ Karl straightened up and rubbed at the small of his back. ‘Just drop the USB stick off when you’re done with it. Things are like gold dust here.’

  Steel opened the folder in front of her. ‘And do you live at twenty-seven Cattofield Crescent, Kittybrewster, Aberdeen?’

  ‘No comment.’ The
voice was flat and expressionless, as if he couldn’t really be bothered.

  ‘Good luck, contestant.’ A salute, then Karl turned and scuffed out of the room, leaving Logan alone with the computer.

  ‘Did you go to Auchterturra Lights nightclub on Justice Mill Lane, Aberdeen, last Friday night?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you see anyone there you knew?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you approach this woman and offer to buy her a drink?’ Steel pulled out a photograph and slid it across the table. Difficult to make out from here, but it looked like a head-and-shoulders shot of a woman with long blonde hair. ‘Claudia Boroditsky.’

  ‘No comment.’

  Yeah, this interview was going well.

  ‘Did you repeatedly attempt to dance with her?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did she tell you that she wasn’t interested, because she had a boyfriend?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘At eleven forty-five when she left the nightclub, did you follow Claudia Boroditsky?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you make sexually threatening comments to her on Westfield Road?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you attack her on Argyll Place and pull her into Victoria Park?’

  Wallace barely moved the whole time. Just sat there, picking at the sleeves of his white oversuit. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you punch her in the face, breaking her cheekbone?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you repeatedly kick her in the chest and stomach?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you produce a knife and hold it to her throat?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you tell her that if she screamed you’d “gut and skin her like a rabbit, then send the bits to her parents”?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Steel’s hands tightened on the folder, making the edges curl. ‘Did you tear off her skirt and blouse? Did you cut away her underwear with your knife?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you rape her?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you rape Claudia Boroditsky?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did – you – rape – her?’

  Wallace seemed to think about that, his head on one side as he looked down at the photograph on the interview room table. Then he sat back. His face was as lifeless as his voice. ‘No comment.’

  Logan’s breath billowed out in a pale cloud. He stuck his free hand into his trouser pocket and hunched his shoulders. Shuffled his feet. Still didn’t help. The air was so cold, every breath was like being stabbed with frozen knitting needles. ‘Because I wanted to go, OK?’

  DCI Steel snorted down the phone at him. ‘You wanted to go to Wee Hamish Mowat’s funeral? What the hell is wrong with you, Laz, you lost your marble?’

  The snow fell in slow lazy flakes, covering the pavement, piling up on top of the bus shelter. Drifting down between the crawling traffic.

  ‘It’s “marbles”. Plural.’

  ‘You’re no’ in possession of plural marbles. If you had one more screw loose everything would fall apart. No wonder the Ginger Ninja was after you.’

  ‘Yeah, well…’ He peered around the side of the bus shelter, back towards town. Cars and trucks and lorries and, dear Lord, was that the actual bus? The number 35 had finally crawled into view. And only twenty minutes late.

  Which was pretty impressive, given the state of the traffic.

  ‘So where are you?’

  ‘Aberdeen. Waiting for the bus.’

  ‘The bus? Why didn’t you drive, you thick… Actually, I don’t care as long as you’re on your way home. Got plans this evening: curry and beer-ish plans. And maybe whisky-ish too.’

  The number 35 grumbled through the snow. Its heating better be working or there was going to be trouble.

  Standing out here in a cheap funeral suit and shiny shoes. Like an idiot.

  ‘We’ve got sod all out of Martin Milne today, by the way. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but maybe I’ve had other things on my mind today.’ He dug out his money ‘Be back about six. Ish.’

  ‘Did a press briefing with him this morning, so the jackals have dispersed. Don’t see Malk the Knife getting Milne to go smuggling anytime soon, though.’

  ‘Going to have a bath when I get in, so give us an hour, OK?’

  ‘Nah, he’s going to wait till this blows over a bit. Make his move when he thinks we’re no’ looking.’

  The bus hissed to a stop, the doors opening to let out a red-faced woman and a grey-faced man.

  Logan climbed inside and handed over his cash. ‘One to Banff.’

  ‘Bit of a risk though, isn’t it?’

  He took his ticket and worked his way back along the bus to a pair of empty seats. Sat next to the condensation-streaked window. Bucksburn station loomed in the fog.

  ‘I mean, killing Peter Shepherd and leaving his body lying around like that. Course we’re going to investigate.’

  ‘I met him today.’

  ‘What, Peter Shepherd? How’d you manage that, ouija board?’

  ‘Not Peter Shepherd, you idiot, Malcolm McLennan. Says someone’s trying to set him up.’

  ‘Aye, and unicorns poop teacakes.’

  The bus’s engine growled and they nudged out into the traffic, joining the slow-motion exodus out of town.

  ‘Could be though. Or maybe he did it so we’d all focus on Milne and his boats, when McLennan’s really off doing something dodgy somewhere else.’

  ‘Thanks, Laz, that’s sod-all help. Any other parades you’d like to piddle on while you’re at it? No? Cool, in that case I’m going to—’

  The bus inched closer to the roundabout.

  Someone sitting further forward nodded along to the tssssss-tsss-tsssss-tsss-tssss leaking out of their headphones.

  ‘Hello?’

  An old lady embarked on a massive coughing session.

  Logan checked his phone. Steel had hung up.

  Lovely.

  The battery icon was down to its last bar. Probably enough charge to last all the way home. Maybe. He stuck his mobile back in his pocket and stared out of the steamed-up window. Snow. Snow. And more Snow.

  Should have asked her about Jack Wallace. Asked her why the prosecution collapsed before it got anywhere near the court. According to the files, Claudia Boroditsky withdrew her statement and claimed she’d been confused at the time of the assault. That she couldn’t really remember who attacked and raped her. That she’d had consensual sex with Wallace earlier in the evening.

  Why didn’t that sound convincing? Why did it sound more likely that Wallace had tracked Claudia down and ‘persuaded’ her to change her mind?

  No wonder Steel hadn’t been happy about the result.

  But was she unhappy enough about it to do him on a trumped-up charge of possessing indecent photographs of children?

  Logan drew a skull and crossbones on the bus window, sending tears of condensation crying down the glass.

  And who’s to say Jack Wallace didn’t deserve it?

  25

  Logan cleared a porthole in the fogged-up window. A thin sliver of sky was squashed between the heavy grey clouds and the cold white earth; the setting sun made blood-spatters across the fields, lengthening the shadow behind the drystane dykes. Wind rocked the bus, hurling snow in great sweeping curtains.

  The woman sitting in front of him shifted her phone from one ear to the other. ‘Oh, I know. … I know. He’s all right, in general, but in bed? Honestly, he couldn’t find a clitoris with two Sherpas and a sat nav.’ All done at the top of her voice, as if there were nobody else on board.

  The rest of the bus was a mixture of OAPs and youngsters, fiddling with their mobile phones and tablets. Each one off in their own private little fortress. A sp
otty man in a cagoule was actually reading a book. But he had a beard so no one wanted to sit next to him.

  ‘Oh, I know. … Awful. I know size isn’t meant to matter, but it was like being sexually molested by a Chihuahua.’

  Fog reclaimed the porthole, fading the world back to monochrome as the sun disappeared.

  ‘I swear to God, Jane, I thought having an affair would be more exciting. Dancing, champagne, clubs, romantic dinners, kinky hotel-room sex. He just wants to stay in watching boxed sets of Last of the Summer Wine.’

  Logan’s phone burst into song, and he pulled it out. Disappeared from the world like everyone else on the bus. ‘McRae.’ But at least he had the common sense to keep his voice down.

  ‘Mr McRae, I have a call for you from Mr Moir-Farquharson, one moment please.’

  Moir-Farquharson? Oh that was great. An afternoon with the Ginger Ninja, and now a call from Hissing Sid. Today was a gift that just kept on giving. Like syphilis.

  And what kind of dick got their receptionist to make phone calls for them, anyway? It wasn’t the seventies.

  ‘Mr McRae?’ The voice was like a razorblade sliding down an exposed throat. ‘Sandy Moir-Farquharson, I need to talk to you about Mr Mowat’s estate.’

  OK, seriously: enough with the blessings today.

  Logan closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. ‘Now’s really not a good time.’

  ‘The will is going to be read on Monday morning, ten o’clock as per Mr Mowat’s instructions. As you’re the executor, I shall be requiring your attendance.’

  ‘I can’t—’

  ‘Mr McRae, need I remind you that Mr Mowat’s bequests include a sum of six hundred and sixty-six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six pounds, sixty-six pence to be paid to yourself? As such, it might be considered churlish of you to not perform your duties.’

  Oh God… The two-thirds of a million pounds.

  How do you forget something like that?

  By not wanting to think about it, that’s how. By running away from it, scared that anyone would find out.

  Arrrrrrgh…

  ‘Mr McRae? Are you still there?’

  Logan turned his face to the window and lowered his voice even further. ‘I told you I didn’t want his money.’