‘I don’t—’
‘Sooner or later we’re going to catch you bringing in a boatload of drugs – or counterfeit goods, or weapons, or illegal immigrants – and we’re going to arrest you and put you away for sixteen to twenty years. And Malcolm McLennan isn’t going to be very pleased about losing a shipment, is he? He’ll be even less pleased when you try to cut a deal to get out of prison before you’re fifty.’
Milne bit his bottom lip and stared down at his hands.
‘Or maybe you’ll refuse to smuggle anything for him, because you know we’re watching you. He won’t like that either; all that money you owe. What do you think the chances are of you being found in the not too distant, battered to death, naked, with a bag over your head?’
Milne’s voice was barely audible. ‘Why can’t you just leave me alone?’
Steel shook her head. ‘Never going to happen, Martyboy. That ship sailed soon as you fessed up in the cells. You help us, or you’re screwed.’ She gave him a big grin. ‘Now, any chance of a cuppa? I’m parched.’
The little boy sat at the kitchen table, wearing thick socks and fleecy pyjamas with dinosaurs on them. A graze sat on his left cheek, about the size of a walnut, the skin scabby and brown as it healed. His face was creased with sleep and his blond hair stood out at all angles, so the resemblance was uncanny when Steel sat down next to him and pushed a piece of jam-smeared toast and a big glass of milk in front of him.
‘There you go, Ethan. You eat that up like a good wee boy.’
He turned his head to the door.
Muffled shouting filtered through from the living room. Not clear enough to make out actual words, but the tone obvious. Katie Milne wasn’t pleased about her husband’s extramarital activities.
Logan tucked his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he rinsed out his mug and placed it on the draining board. ‘We’ve got descriptions of three I-C-One males, two in their late twenties, one early forties. Couple of distinguishing features we can run past the National Crime Agency, see if we can’t get a match.’
‘Good.’ Rustling came from the speaker, as if Harper was rummaging through a pile of paper. ‘What about names?’
‘No luck. Milne says they always referred to each other by number: One, Two, and Three. “One” was the older guy.’
‘Hmmmm… So definitely organized. How did Milne take the article in the paper?’
The sound of something smashing against the wall made Ethan flinch, toast halfway to his mouth.
‘He and his wife are discussing it now.’
‘Logan?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I appreciate you keeping our relationship professional at work – I know a lot of people would have a problem with taking orders from their little sister – but when we’re off duty you can call me Niamh. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Good. Right. Well, get cracking with the IDs and we’ll see if your theory pans out.’ The line went dead.
His little sister. Yeah, that still sounded weird.
He put his phone away. ‘Time to head.’
Steel held up a finger. ‘Just a minute.’ Then she scooted around in her chair, until she was facing the wee boy. ‘Ethan? Can you tell your Aunty Roberta what happened to your face?’ She pointed at her own cheek, mirroring the scabby patch.
The little boy shrugged, then stared at his toast. ‘Fell down.’ His voice was tiny, barely more than a whisper.
‘Where did you fall down?’
‘Outside.’ He picked at his toast. ‘Some boys pushed me.’
‘Wee shites.’ Steel sighed, then popped a couple of pills from a blister pack, washing them down with a scoof of Ethan’s milk. She levered herself to her feet. ‘Right, wee man, we’re off. Make sure you look after your mum. Can you do that for your Aunty Roberta?’
The six-year-old lowered his eyebrows, pursed his lips and nodded.
‘Good boy.’
Out in the corridor, the sound of fighting was much clearer.
‘HOW COULD YOU? YOU FILTHY, DIRTY, PERVERTED—’
‘Now you just sound homophobic.’
‘HOMOPHOBIC? I’LL GIVE YOU HOMOPHOBIC, YOU CHEATING BASTARD!’
‘OW! Don’t—’
Something smashed.
Logan nodded at the living room door. ‘Think we should break it up?’
‘Nah.’ Steel hoiked up her suit trousers. ‘Do them good to let off a bit of steam before she chucks him out of the house. Besides, I’m starving – time for second breakfast.’
‘I HATE YOU!’
They slipped out and shut the front door behind them.
‘Ooh, bleeding hell.’ Steel wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. Then narrowed her eyes.
A patrol car had pulled up at the back of the press pack. Two faces blinked out through the windscreen, one with curly brown hair, the other grey. DS McKenzie and DC Owen.
Steel produced her phone. Listened to it ring with a big smile plastered across her face.
In the patrol car, McKenzie flinched, then took out her own mobile.
‘Becky. Sweetheart. Can you guess what I’m thinking?… That’s right. … No, I don’t think so. I think I’ll aim for right up to the knee. … That’s right.’
McKenzie’s face drooped.
‘Aye, you better believe it. But as all these lovely members of the press are watching, I’m going to give your lazy wee bumhole a temporary reprieve. Milne’s getting chucked out of the family home and you’re sticking to him like sick on a ballgown. … Because I don’t want Milne disappearing, suitcase in hand, that’s why. Probably going to crash at a friend’s house, but in case he fancies hopping a flight to Rio, you’re watching him.’
In the car, McKenzie folded forward and rested her head on the dashboard.
‘And while you’re at it, get onto DS Robertson – tell him to get his comedy-sideburn-wearing arse down here and babysit the wife and kid. Now did you get all that, or do I have to tattoo it on your lower intestine with my size nines?… Good girl.’ Steel hung up. ‘Right, where’s the Boy Blunder?’
Logan pointed.
The media encampment didn’t look too happy. A lot of them stood about with faces like a spanked backside, glowering as Rennie squatted down beside an ancient Volvo estate and poked at its tyres.
Steel made a loudhailer from her hands. ‘HOY! CAPTAIN KWIK-FIT, WE’RE LEAVING!’
‘What hacks me off is how she lied all those years.’ Logan leaned forward, poking his head between the front seats. ‘How could anyone be so self-centred, so awful a human being, that they thought it was OK to make two wee boys think their dad was dead?’
Snow drifted down, melting as it hit the pool car’s windscreen.
Steel tucked her hands into her armpits. ‘What’s keeping Rennie? Can he no’ see I’m wasting away here?’
An old man hobbled out of the Tesco humping two hessian bags in one hand, working a walking stick with the other.
‘Thirty-four years and not so much as a word.’
‘Bet he comes back with the wrong grub.’
‘There was a headstone and everything! Right there in the graveyard with his name, date of birth and death carved on it. How sick would you have to be to get a headstone made?’
‘Should’ve sent you instead. Rennie’ll be back with a pair of tights, a grapefruit, and a pack of ice lollies.’
‘Then drag your two kids to lay flowers in front of it every year? She faked his grave!’
Steel puffed out her cheeks. ‘Yes, your mother’s a heartless, vindictive, nasty, complete-and-total swivel-eyed loony, we get it. Now where’s my pies?’
‘Thanks. Your support means a lot to me. I’ve just found out the father I thought was dead since I was five wasn’t. Oh and he had another family that apparently was nice enough not to abandon. And while we’re at it, he died two months ago.’
‘You lost a dad you thought was dead
anyway, and gained a sister. By my reckoning, you’re ahead on the deal.’
‘Ahead? What’s wrong with you?’
She shrugged. ‘Might be the pills. Or, it might be you being a whiny little bitch. How many years have you been on the job? All you had to do was look your dad up on the system. You didn’t bother.’
‘I thought he was dead. Why would I look him up?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Because he was your dad?’
Logan sat back, folded his arms and stared out of the window. ‘You’re a lot of help.’
A sigh. ‘Laz, it’s no’ my fault you’ve got a pineapple wedged up your bum. This thing with Samantha, it was only two days ago. That takes some getting over. You need some time off. Go away for a bit.’
‘And who’s supposed to catch Peter Shepherd’s killer?’
Steel stared at the ceiling. ‘Such a martyr.’
‘I am not a martyr.’
‘Yeah, because the whole MIT, the entire might of B and A Divisions – they can’t solve a murder. Only the great Sergeant Logan McRae can do that.’
Outside, the snow fell.
A couple walked past, arm in arm. Couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old. Young and in love. They’d learn soon enough.
Steel took out her fake cigarette and popped it in her mouth. ‘Take some time off.’
‘I went to see Jack Wallace yesterday.’
She blew a puff of steam at the windscreen, turning it opaque. ‘Oh aye?’
‘Sends his love.’
‘Good. Hope he’s getting lots of love himself. Aye, from some big hairy bloke giving him fourteen-inches of non-consensual prison-issue-sausage after lights out.’ Another puff. ‘Couldn’t happen to a more deserving arsehole.’
Rennie bustled out of the Tesco clutching an armful of something.
‘About time.’ One more puff, then Steel put her e-cigarette away. She kept her voice light and neutral. ‘Any reason you felt the need to go see our friendly neighbourhood kiddy-fiddler, Laz?’
Rennie hurried across the street, high-stepping through the snow.
‘Believe it or not, I was looking out for you.’
Her voice didn’t change. ‘Were you now?’
The driver’s door opened and Rennie climbed in behind the wheel. ‘Holy Mother of the Sainted Aardvark, it’s cold out there.’ He handed his armful to Steel, then stuck the keys in the ignition. The engine roared into life, heaters howling lukewarm air into the space, spreading the crackling scent of hot pastry. ‘Brrrrrr…’
‘’Ello, ’ello, ’ello, what’s all this then?’ She pulled a package from the bag. ‘Hot Cornish pasties? Well, DS Rennie, looks like you just became my favourite sergeanty type. Sorry, Laz. No hard feelings.’
Yeah, right.
‘OK, thanks anyway.’ Logan hung up the desk phone and frowned at the computer screen. Then hit print.
The Sergeants’ Office seemed to have become the dumping ground for a collection of blue plastic crates that smelled vaguely of fish.
Logan picked up his empty mug and headed out into the main office.
No one there. The blinds were open: snow drifted down from a coal-coloured sky, the waters of the bay had receded, leaving a dark curve of wet sand behind.
A grinding whirring noise burst from the big photocopier/printer and two dozen sheets of A4 clicked and whined into the tray. He left them there and went to make a cup of tea.
The TV was on with the sound turned down to a murmur. A balding Italian chef smeared fillets of white fish with a snot-coloured paste then wrapped them in ham.
Logan chucked a teabag in his mug and stuck the kettle on.
Someone had obviously decided that the station’s resident gnome wasn’t classy enough and given him a bright-blue bowtie. They’d replaced his paper dagger with a magic wand and—
‘Can I not get two minutes peace?’ Logan pulled out his ringing phone. ‘McRae?’
‘Is this Sergeant Logan McRae?’
Why did nobody ever listen? ‘Can I help you?’
‘It’s Detective Inspector Bell.’
A smile cracked its way across Logan’s face. ‘Ding-Dong, it’s been years. How’s CID treating you?’
‘You own a static caravan, don’t you: 23 Persley Park Caravan Park, Aberdeen?’
Oh God. The smile died. They’d found Eddy Knowles’s body.
Barbed wire wrapped itself around Logan’s chest, tightening and tightening until there was barely any breath left.
He was screwed.
‘Logan? Are you there?’
He cleared his throat. Stood up straight. ‘That’s my caravan.’
Here it came.
Hand yourself in to the nearest police station where you’ll be detained on charges of murder and attempting to pervert the course of justice by illegally disposing of a body.
‘I’ve got some bad news, the fire brigade did what they could, but by the time they got there… I’m sorry.’
‘Fire brigade?’ The barbed wire snapped and air rushed into his lungs.
‘The fire investigation team are looking through what’s left, but it’s pretty much burned to the ground. At least no one was hurt, right?’
‘Was it… Did someone…?’
‘Officially, I can’t say – ongoing investigation – but off the record? Apparently there’s traces of an accelerant. Looks like it was torched on purpose.’
‘Christ.’
So that was that. His whole life with Samantha had been consumed by flames. First his flat, now her caravan. There was nothing left but her body.
‘You know I’ve got to ask this: can you confirm your whereabouts last night, Sergeant McRae?’
Logan blinked at the TV, a wee bloke with curly hair was turning a little bird in a frying pan. ‘Home. I was at home. In Banff.’
‘And can anyone corroborate that?’
‘Three police constables and a detective superintendent. We had beer and sausages.’
‘Yeah, as alibis go that’s a pretty good one. I’ll let you know if anything comes up this end, but in the meantime I’ll text you the crime number and you can get on to your insurers.’
Logan puffed out a breath. ‘Yes. Thanks, Ding-Dong.’
He hung up.
They hadn’t found Eddy’s body. Urquhart hadn’t screwed him over.
Thank Christ.
‘Any chance of a coffee?’ Inspector Mhor sidled into the room, hands in the pockets of his black police-issue trousers. The canteen lights sparkled off the big polished dome of his head. With the two small ears, small mouth, button nose, and hairy eyebrows, he looked a bit like a surprised egg.
Logan swallowed. Nodded. ‘Guv.’
‘You OK?’
‘Sorry. One of those days.’ He pulled another mug from the cupboard.
Mhor leaned against the wall. ‘How’s preparation for the dunt coming?’
‘Good, thanks: we’re going in at half-eleven tonight. As long as everyone turns up on time.’
‘Have you told Beaky she doesn’t have to come in early?’
‘Next on my list, Guv.’ She wasn’t going to be pleased, but tough. At least she’d get a lie-in. ‘Soon as I’ve spoken to Detective Superintendent Harper.’
The kettle juddered and rattled, then fell silent.
‘Logan, I want you leading from the rear on this one, understand? You look like someone tied you to a washing machine then threw you down an escalator. Battered police officers don’t fill the public with confidence.’
‘Guv.’ Coffee, sugar, hot water. He handed the mug over.
‘Cheers. And for God’s sake do something about the Response Level warning, will you? Someone’s changed it to “Dalek Attack Imminent.” Nightshift are a law unto themselves.’ Mhor took a sip, grimaced, shuddered, then turned and sidled off. ‘Urgh. Like licking the underside of a broken-down bus…’
34
Logan swapped the warning of Dalek attack for a more traditional, ‘NORMAL’, then headed upstairs with his pile of printouts.
DS Weatherford bustled past on the landing, clutching a file box, grey fringe stuck to her shiny forehead. ‘I’m doing it, I’m doing it.’
He watched her go. ‘I didn’t say anything!’
‘Aaaargh…’
A happy workforce was a productive workforce.
Harper was on the top floor with her sidekick, the pair of them sitting side-by-side at the conference room table poking away at laptop computers.
‘Sir?’
She looked up. ‘Sergeant McRae.’ Her voice had all the warmth of a mortuary cadaver. ‘What have you got for us?’
Fine. If that was the way she wanted to play it – he could do cold and professional too.
Logan held up the printouts. ‘No direct matches, sir, but they’ve sent me every near miss in the whole UK. I’ll get Milne to go through the photos, see if he recognizes anyone.’
Narveer held out his hand. ‘Let’s have a squint then.’
He passed them over and the Inspector flicked through them.
‘I understand you’re organizing a drugs raid for tonight, Sergeant.’
Logan nodded. ‘Ricky and Laura Welsh. Word on the street is they’re acting as agents for Jessica “Ma” Campbell. She’s trying to move in on Hamish Mowat’s old territory. If we can get our hands on one of Campbell’s representatives it might help with the Shepherd case.’ Well, assuming it wasn’t the guy Reuben sent back to Glasgow with his hands in a Jiffy bag.
Narveer poked a finger at a picture of a young man on the printout. ‘Big Willie Brodie. I did him for assault and possession with intent, what: eight years ago? God, doesn’t time fly?’
‘And you didn’t tell me about this in advance, because…?’
‘Didn’t I?’ Logan hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘The operation’s been planned since Wednesday. We were going in long before we knew there was any connection with Peter Shepherd’s murder and—’
‘Possible connection.’
‘Has to be worth a go, doesn’t it?’
Narveer laughed and poked another picture. ‘Crowbar Gibson! Thought he was dead.’
In the Cold Dark Ground Page 31