Harper pursed her lips and frowned at Logan. ‘I think it’s probably best if Detective Inspector Singh and I accompany you on this raid.’
Sod.
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Now is there anything else?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Sergeant?’ Narveer pulled his chin in, then held up the last sheet of the pile. ‘Before you head off, are we really worried about Daleks attacking Banff?’
Inspector Mhor was right, the nightshift had a lot to answer for.
‘You scheming, underhand, lowlife, son of a rancid—’
‘Oh come off it, Beaky, it was never your dunt in the first place.’ Logan slipped in behind the wheel of his rusty Punto. It was like sitting down in a fridge. ‘Tell you what, you want it? You can have it.’ He turned the key and whacked the heater up to full.
‘Really?’ Suspicion dripped from her voice. ‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’
‘Nothing. It’s all yours.’
‘Laz, I’m warning you.’
A sliver of clear glass appeared at the bottom of the windshield, creeping upwards with glacial slowness.
‘There’s nothing wrong. Oh, and good news: Detective Superintendent Harper will be tagging along, and so will her sidekick DI Singh. Kick-off’s at half eleven. Make sure you wear warm socks.’
‘Seriously? I’ve got to do a dunt with a superintendent and a DI breathing down my neck?’
‘Don’t forget the Chief Inspector from Elgin doing his “down with the common man” thing.’
‘Gah… It’ll be a cluster-hump of credit-stealing egomaniacs, all pulling rank on each other. You know what? I’ve changed my mind. You can keep it.’ She hung up.
‘Thanks a heap.’
The blowers were still churning away at the fog and ice. Going to take a while.
Of course what he should be doing was sorting out the insurance on the caravan. He let his head fall back against the rest and glowered up at the Punto’s ceiling. Yes, because that wasn’t going to look suspicious, was it?
Oh, Mr McRae, I see you became the legal owner of the static caravan when you switched off your girlfriend’s life support. And two days later you’re making an insurance claim because it’s burned to the ground. Hmm…
No doubt about it, this was turning out to be a spectacular year.
Hadn’t even got the damn thing on the market before someone torched the place.
The question was: who set the fire? Which one of Reuben’s minions?
Well he didn’t need a team of fire investigators to find out. Logan poked John Urquhart’s number into his phone and waited for him to pick up.
‘Yello?’
‘Who burned down my caravan?’
‘Mr McRae? Dude. How you feeling today?’
‘Which one of Reuben’s little helpers did it? I want a name.’
‘That was a serious bash on the head you got.’
‘Give me a sodding name!’
Silence from the other end of the phone.
The clear glass inched higher.
‘It wasn’t Reuben who did it, it was me.’
‘It was you? What the bloody hell did you—’
‘Thought you’d be pleased! The caravan was spattered with blood: yours and Eddy’s. DNA everywhere, signs of a struggle… Now there’s no forensic evidence tying you to anything. You said all that stuff was going to the charity shop or the tip anyway, so I torched the lot.’
‘Ah.’
‘Doesn’t matter how hard they look, no one can put you and Eddy together in the same place. He’s gone, the snowglobe’s gone, the crime scene’s gone. You’re in the clear.’
If only it was that easy.
Wind rattled the hotel room window, hurling clumps of sleet against the glass.
Martin Milne sat on the end of the single bed with his head in his hands.
A small, drab hotel room in a small, drab hotel, with views out over the churning sea. Just the place if you wanted to gear yourself up for a suicide attempt. Which, going by the state of Milne, was a distinct possibility.
His voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. ‘She threw me out.’
Now there was a shock.
Logan pulled the printouts from his jacket pocket. ‘I need you to look at some faces for me, Martin. See if any of them are the men you spoke to about the loan.’
‘Said I was poisonous.’ Milne took the photos. Frowned.
‘We need to find these people, Martin. It’s important.’
‘I’ll never get to see Ethan again. He’s my world…’
Yeah right. If Milne was that concerned about his son he wouldn’t have been running away to Dubai with Peter Shepherd. Abandoning the poor wee sod to grow up without a father. Made you sick.
Logan folded his arms. ‘Martin? Where were you? After they killed Peter Shepherd, where did you go?’
He moved on to the next photograph. ‘Where did I go?’
‘You went missing for four days. Everyone was worried about you. Katie was worried about you.’
‘She’s never going take me back, is she?’
Of course she wasn’t.
‘Give her time.’
A nod. ‘After…’ He bit his lip. Sniffed. ‘I hid in the woods the first night. Too scared to sleep in case they came back. Next day it poured rain, I walked and walked and walked.’ Milne frowned. ‘An old man gave me a lift to Turriff in his van. Got myself a B-and-B and stayed in my room with the curtains shut.’ His chin came up. ‘And then I realized how selfish I was being. I had to go home and protect my family. Protect my son.’ The chin dropped again. ‘How am I supposed to protect him if she won’t let me in the house?’
Logan put a hand on his shoulder. Tried for a consoling smile. ‘Katie’s angry. Probably feels betrayed, lied to, used. It’ll take her a while to get past that.’
A nod.
‘You want to keep Ethan safe, don’t you?’
Another nod.
‘So look at the pictures and see if you recognize the men you and Peter spoke to.’
Milne took the printouts and frowned at the faces. Took his time.
Muffled voices came through the wall from the room next door, followed by the jingly sound of a cartoon on the TV.
Out in the corridor, someone marched past.
Milne pointed at one of the pictures. ‘This kind of looks like the guy they called Three.’
‘Anyone else?’
He shook his head. ‘Wasn’t really paying attention when I met them.’ A small laugh burst free, strangled and ragged. ‘Pete and me had been talking all morning about running off to Dubai together. They’re not keen on … you know, men being together, but Pete said we could make it work. If we were discreet. And the money was great.’
Logan stared at him. ‘And what about Ethan? While you’re off earning heaps of cash in Dubai, what happens to your son?’
Milne picked at the bedspread, keeping his eyes on his fingers. ‘We were going to take him with us.’
Aye, right.
‘There were only two visas, Martin.’
‘I got a ninety-day one for him online. See if he liked living with us in Dubai before making it permanent…’ A shrug. ‘Don’t suppose it matters now.’
Logan took the printouts back and drew a number three on the photo Milne had chosen. The man in the picture had swept-back brown hair and a proper soup-strainer moustache. As if he were channelling an Eighties porn-star.
Milne wiped at his eyes. ‘Don’t suppose anything matters now.’
Becky was waiting for Logan as he stepped back into the corridor. ‘McRae.’
He closed the door to Milne’s hotel room. ‘DS McKenzie.’
She jerked her chin towards the exit. ‘She out there, is she?’
‘What, Steel? No.’ He tucked the folder of mugshots under his arm. ‘Look, whatever the pair of you are fighting about, it’s got nothing t
o do with me. I just go where I’m told.’
‘Scrotum-faced old cow.’ Becky folded her arms. ‘All she does is shout and whinge and make sarcastic comments.’
‘Yup.’
‘You know she screwed up the overtime log for January? The whole month. Again. How am I supposed to put two kids through university and pay the bloody mortgage if she keeps screwing up the overtime?’
Logan held a hand up. ‘Preaching to the choir. You want some advice?’
‘No.’
‘Fine.’ He turned and walked to the exit. Got as far as the door before Becky thundered down the corridor after him.
She grabbed him by the arm. ‘OK, what?’
‘Steel can’t be arsed doing the paperwork, so she makes a mess of it till someone steps in and does it for her. You want your overtime paid? You’re going to have to take one for the team, or talk someone else into it.’
Becky’s face crumpled. ‘But it’s her job!’
‘I did it for nine years. Tell me about it.’ He pushed through into the hotel reception, a bland beige space with dying pot plants and an ugly carpet.
‘I hate being a police officer!’
Join the club.
Sleet spattered the windscreen. A couple of people hurried by the car, heads down, shoulders up, teeth bared. They didn’t look at the funeral home.
Logan propped the printout up against the steering wheel. ‘According to the National Crime Agency, it’s one Adrian Brown, AKA: Brian Jones, AKA: Tim Donovan.’
‘Hold on.’ Harper made rustling noises down the phone. ‘Right, got him. Adrian Brown; thirty-two; five nine; form for assault, assault, theft, more assault, and to keep things interesting – assault.’
A light came on inside Beaton and Macbeth.
‘Sounds lovely, doesn’t he?’
‘He’s meant to be with the Manchester Goon Squad, what’s he doing all the way up here?’
‘Might not be. Milne said it “kind of looked like” Number Three, so not a hundred percent on the ID.’
‘Hmmm… And how is our sacrificial goat?’
‘Milne? Wallowing in a great big tub of self-pity.’
‘Serves him right.’
She had a point. Milne was all set to abandon his wife and run off with someone else to a land faraway. And there was no way Katie would have let him take Ethan. No, that was probably going to be a midnight flit to the airport and off to Dubai before she woke up.
Still, at least Ethan would’ve had a father, growing up.
Yeah. Well.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘Anything else, sir?’
‘Did you make it clear what would happen to him if he didn’t cooperate? If Malk the Knife, or Ma Campbell gets in touch and he doesn’t tell us, I’ll make damn sure he goes down for a long time.’
‘He’s already cracking under the pressure. Push him too far and he’ll break.’
‘Don’t try to teach your little sister how to suck eggs, Sergeant. This isn’t my first organized crime op. I need results, not excuses.’
‘Sir.’
And she was gone.
Were sisters always this much of a pain in the backside?
He folded the printouts and stuffed them in his pocket, along with his mobile phone, then dug into the glove compartment for the Jiffy bag. Took a deep breath, scrambled out of the car, and made a run for the funeral home.
Andy was waiting for him with the front door open. ‘Mr McRae.’ His black suit was immaculate, the shirt so white you could have used it in a washing powder advert. He stuck his hand out and Logan shook it.
‘Thanks for opening up, Andy. I appreciate it.’
A small shake of the head. ‘Nonsense. It’s no trouble at all.’ As if he usually wore a suit on a Sunday, on the off chance. ‘If you’d like to follow me?’ He led the way through the reception area to a gloomy room with a single spotlight.
It glowed down on an open casket – polished black wood with a red silk lining.
Something lodged in Logan’s throat, as if he’d tried to swallow a stone.
Samantha was laid out, on her back, hands folded over her stomach. They’d dressed her in all her finery, the leather corset, the skirt, the gloves.
He stepped closer.
Her head looked strange. Unfamiliar. As if… He reached out and stroked her forehead, where the dent should have been. ‘You fixed it.’
‘We wanted to do you proud, Mr McRae.’
‘She’s beautiful.’ Just like she was in the photo from Rennie’s wedding. Make-up perfect: warpaint and piercings. They’d even managed to make her skin look like living flesh again. Samantha’s tattoos stood out bright and clear, as if they were brand new.
‘Would you like a moment?’
‘Please.’
‘I’ll be right outside if you need anything.’ Andy turned and glided from the room, as if he was mounted on silent castors.
Logan pulled on a smile. ‘Alone at last.’
No reply.
He held up the Jiffy bag. ‘Present for you.’ He dug out the hardback copy of Stephen King’s The Stand and tucked it into the coffin beside her. ‘Got it online. It’s signed.’
He stood there. Shuffled his feet. Put a hand on her bare shoulder, then flinched that hand away. Samantha’s skin was cold to the touch.
Well of course it was. She might look like she was asleep, but that didn’t mean Andy hadn’t taken her body from the mortuary fridge while Logan was on the phone in the car park outside.
Not sleeping, just dead.
‘Sarge?’
Logan looked up from his computer. Blinked a couple of times. ‘Rennie.’
Rennie crept into the Sergeants’ Office, carrying two mugs of tea and a manila folder. ‘Tea.’ He put the mugs down on the desk, then checked over his shoulder before handing Logan the folder. As if they were spies meeting up in a car park to swap state secrets.
OK.
‘You don’t have to call me “Sarge”, we’re the same rank.’
‘Force of habit.’ Rennie settled into the seat opposite. Grinned. ‘Go on then, open it.’
Logan did. Inside were a wodge of printouts and a gold-and-red packet about the size of an old-fashioned video cassette. He raised an eyebrow. ‘That what I think it is?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Close the door.’
While Rennie was hiding them from the prying eyes of the outside world, Logan ripped his way into the Tunnock’s tasty caramel wafers. Tossed one onto the other side of the desk and helped himself to another. ‘To what do we owe the honour?’
‘She Who Must Be Feared And Obeyed. Says when we’re done with tea and treats we’re to sod off and grab some snooze-time.’ Rennie unwrapped his chocolate wafer and took a big bite, getting little flecks of brown all down his chin. ‘Make sure we’re all rested and ready for tonight.’
The wafer turned to blotting paper in Logan’s mouth. ‘Tonight?’
‘The drugs raid?’
‘Oh God.’ Logan curled forward and thunked his forehead on the desk.
‘What?’
Perfect, because having Harper and her sidekick tag along wasn’t bad enough.
Thunk.
‘What’s, “Oh God”?’
He left his head against the cool wooden surface. ‘You and Steel want in on my drugs raid.’
‘Yeah, well, you know. If it proves important to the investigation into Peter Shepherd’s death, Steel wants—’
‘To muscle in on any credit going.’
‘I wouldn’t exactly put it that—’
‘She’s out of luck. You can inform Her Royal Scruffiness that I’ve already got Detective Superintendent Harper, Detective Inspector Singh, and a Chief Inspector from Elgin on board. There’s going to be more top brass on this dunt than actual police officers.’ He straightened up. ‘I should’ve let Beaky have it.’ Logan frowned. ‘Wonder if it’s too late?’
Rennie tore another chunk off his wafer. ‘It’ll be like old times. You, me, and the Holy Wrinkled Terror – on the path of truth and justice. Kicking in doors and taking names.’
Thunk.
‘What? Why are you banging your head off the desk?’
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
35
‘…after the news. But first it’s nine o’clock and things are hotting up on Britain’s Next Big Star as Jacinta and Benjamin face sudden death—’
Logan killed the telly and swigged back the last dregs of his tea. ‘Right, you little monster – Daddy has to go dunt in someone’s door.’ He scooped Cthulhu off the sofa and turned her upside down. Gave her a kiss on her soft white tummy. ‘Whose daddy loves her? Is it you? Yes it is, your daddy loves— Not again.’
Cthulhu wriggled free as his phone blared out its anonymous ringtone. She jumped to the floor, all four feet making a loud thump as she touched down. About as graceful as a dropped microwave.
He pulled out his phone. ‘McRae.’
A sharp, loud voice stabbed into his ear. ‘How dare you call and leave abusive messages on my phone, Logan Balmoral McRae! I am your mother and you will not—’
He hung up. Then brought up his call history and blocked her number. Glowered at the screen for a bit.
Sod her.
Logan hauled his stabproof vest on over his police-issue fleece, got into his equipment belt, and topped the lot with his high-viz jacket. What every sharply dressed man about town was wearing this season. On with the hat, then out into the driving sleet.
His phone went again as he hurried across the car park.
Tough.
Logan pushed his way through the tradesman’s entrance and into the warmth of the station. Stamped his feet free of gritty grey snow.
Laughter boomed out into the corridor from the canteen. ‘Come on then, what did you do?’
‘Only thing I could – threw up on it.’
More laughter.
He kept going, through into the main office. No one around. And with any luck it would stay that way till everything was sorted.
Logan slipped off his jacket and stepped into the Sergeants’ Office. Stopped. Tried really hard not to swear.
Harper was sitting in his seat, an open file on the desk in front of her. ‘Sergeant.’
‘Sir.’
She pointed. ‘You’re supposed to leave your equipment in the locker room. Officers are not authorized to take police property home with them. Especially not extendable batons and CS gas!’
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