In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  He pressed the button on his Airwave. ‘All units, check in.’

  ‘DI Singh: no movement.’

  ‘DS Weatherford: no movement.’

  ‘DS Rennie: nada for us.’

  ‘DS McKenzie: no movement.’

  Silence.

  Logan pressed the button again. ‘DCI Steel, check in please.’

  Her voice cracked out of the handset. ‘I’m bored, I’m tired, I’m cold, and Spaver here keeps farting. Other than that? Sod all.’

  Harper shook her head. ‘And they made that a Detective Chief Inspector?’

  He looked away. Fixed his Airwave back on its clip. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get anything out of Laura Welsh.’

  ‘At least you tried.’ She pursed her lips, frowning as if she could taste something sour. ‘It’ll be over soon. All we need is a result this evening and everything will be fine again.’

  Narveer’s voice came over the speakers. ‘Hold on, we’ve got something. Lights on the water.’

  ‘About time!’ She scooted forward and peered out through the windscreen. ‘Can’t see anything.’

  ‘Yup, we’ve got visual – small container ship. It’s the Jotun Sverd.’

  ‘Hallelujah.’ Harper picked up her Airwave from the dashboard. ‘All right, everyone, listen up. We stay put till Malcolm McLennan’s goons offload the cargo. I want them red-handed, so no one moves before it’s all in their vehicle.’

  Logan tapped his fingers along the steering wheel. ‘You wouldn’t think the harbour was big enough for a supply boat, would you? Will it even make it through the entrance?’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough.’

  The ship’s lights appeared through the snow, getting closer.

  ‘Logan?’ Harper kept her face forward and voice light and neutral. ‘When this is all done, do you want to come visit down in Dumfries? I think Mum would like to meet you.’

  ‘Erm … yeah, that would be nice.’ Assuming Reuben let him live that long. ‘I’ll need to find someone to look after Cthulhu, though.’

  The boat got bigger and bigger, its orange hull standing out against the black water. It was nowhere near as big as the full-sized supply boats – the whole thing would have fitted into a tennis court, with room to spare. Spotlights bathed the small deck in a harsh white glow, picking out four offshore containers with the Geirrød Viking logo on them.

  Its engines growled into reverse, slowing the thing to a crawl as it approached the harbour entrance. But instead of trying to squeeze in, the ship swung around, so its stern was facing Gardenstown, then backed up alongside the jutting arm of the sea wall.

  One last growl, and the engines fell silent. A couple of men jumped up onto the wall and tied the ship in place.

  It wouldn’t have been much use on a stormy night, but with the sea like a slab of dark marble, it would be good enough for offloading, even if it did block the harbour entrance.

  Harper rubbed her hands together. ‘Not long now.’

  ‘Where the hell are they?’ Harper checked her watch again. ‘It’s been twenty minutes.’

  ‘Maybe they’re struggling through traffic somewhere? You know what it’s like when it snows – everyone drives like tortoises.’

  She puffed out her cheeks. ‘Tell everyone to check in again. McLennan’s men have to be somewhere.’

  Logan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and scowled out at the falling snow. Reuben was out there right now, plotting. Planning his revenge.

  Question was: when?

  Tomorrow? The day after? A week from now?

  Tonight?

  The flakes glowed for a moment as they passed through the sphere of yellow cast by the bulkhead light fixed to the building next to the Big Car. Then faded to blue-grey again.

  Might be an idea to not be at home when he turned up. Maybe he could beg a bed at Calamity’s? Or Tufty’s parents’ house?

  Or he could appropriate one of the cells in the station. Wasn’t as if anyone used them these days.

  Cthulhu would hate it, but it was better than the alternative: the pair of them waking up at four in the morning to find three figures in ski masks looming over the bed with sawn-off shotguns and machetes.

  Or they could get a B-and-B sorted for the night. Get another one for the night after that. And another after that. Keep moving so no one knew where they were.

  On the run from now till Reuben’s thugs caught up with him.

  ‘Logan?’

  ‘Hmm?’ He blinked. Turned.

  Harper was staring at him. ‘If you don’t stop drumming your fingers, I’m going to break them. OK?’

  He took his hands off the wheel. ‘Sorry.’

  Harper sagged in the passenger seat. ‘This whole thing’s a complete disaster, isn’t it?’

  ‘Give it time.’

  ‘Gah.’ She took her watch off and placed it on the dashboard, in a tiny sliver of streetlight. ‘Forty minutes. They should have been here, unloaded, and gone by now.’

  True.

  Logan shrugged. ‘They might be playing it cautious. Scoping out the harbour, making sure there’s nothing suspicious going on. Or maybe they’re running a bit late?’

  Or maybe he’d been right in the first place, and this was all a set-up.

  He looked across the car at Harper.

  Yeah, probably best to keep that to himself.

  ‘I told you so,’ probably wouldn’t go down too well.

  Steel’s voice growled out of the speaker. ‘Aye, no offence, Super, but are we planning on spending the night here? Cos if we are I want a sexy WPC instead of Spaver McFartypants.’

  Harper picked up her Airwave. ‘This channel is for operational use only.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose and screwed her eyes shut. ‘Is DI Steel always this much work?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ Logan set the windscreen wipers going again, clearing two lopsided grey rainbows through the snow. Nothing had changed – the Jotun Sverd still sat at the harbour entrance, all lights blazing like an industrial Christmas ornament. ‘We should’ve brought a Thermos of tea.’

  Logan sat forward in his seat, arms on the steering wheel. ‘Maybe we need to go back to the idea that we’re being screwed with.’

  Harper reclined her seat and stared up at the ceiling. ‘Do you have any idea how much this operation is costing?’

  ‘It was always a bit too obvious, wasn’t it? Shepherd’s body is left lying about for us to find, it leads us to Martin Milne, which leads us to the money they owed, which leads us here.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s like someone’s handed us a join-the-dots picture and left us to get on with it.’

  ‘Only the picture’s a great big knob, wearing a police hat.’

  ‘So what do you want to do?’

  She scowled. ‘Kick Martin Milne in the balls. Hard.’

  Logan fiddled with his Airwave, taking it off the closed channel and back onto the normal one. ‘Sergeant McRae to Control. Have we got any suspicious activity reported in B Division tonight?’

  A man’s voice crackled back. ‘How suspicious is suspicious?’

  It would be something big, if it needed a distraction this size. ‘Banks, building societies, anywhere you’d get a big financial score. Luxury car showrooms, that kind of thing? It’ll be nowhere near Gardenstown.’

  Harper clapped her hands over her face. ‘I’m going to look like a proper moron if they clear out a bank while I’m sat here twiddling my thumbs with twenty officers and a dog team.’

  ‘Hud on, I’ll have a lookie.’

  The Jotun Sverd just sat there, all bright lights and shiny paintwork.

  ‘Do you think Milne knows? I mean, he had to arrange the boat.’ Logan frowned. ‘But they had to pick up the stuff from a yacht… Why go to all that trouble?’

  ‘Aye, Sergeant McRae? No sign of anything suspicious reported. You want me to give you a shout if something comes in?’

  ‘Thanks.’ He
switched his handset to the operation’s channel again, then settled back in his seat to wait.

  ‘DS McKenzie: no movement.’

  Logan wiped the windscreen. Still nothing.

  Harper had the seat all the way back now. ‘They’re not coming, are they?’

  He checked his watch. ‘Twenty to eight.’

  ‘Argh. Nearly two hours late. Why would you set all this up and not turn up for two hours?’ She reached into her jacket and pulled out her phone, dialling without sitting up. ‘Hello, Narveer?… Yes. … Not a thing. … Yeah, I’m coming to that conclusion as well. … OK. … We’ll give it till eight – if nothing’s doing by then, we’re going in. At least tonight won’t be a complete bust. … Yeah, OK. Bye.’ She put her phone away and glanced across the car at Logan. ‘You get the gist?’

  ‘Yup.’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘You want me to get onto the team watching Milne’s house? Make sure the wee sod’s still there?’

  ‘He better be. Because if no one turns up, he and I are going to have words.’

  Harper hunched forward, nose nearly touching the dashboard, staring at her watch. ‘Eight o’clock.’ She bared her teeth. ‘They’re not coming. Assuming they ever were.’

  Logan struggled his way into the high-viz jacket, zipping it up to the neck, then fastened his seatbelt. ‘Maybe someone tipped them off?’

  ‘Bet it was Martin Bloody Milne.’ She clunked her seat upright and put her own belt on. ‘Call it.’

  He didn’t bother unclipping his Airwave, just pressed the button and spoke into his shoulder. ‘All units, confirm: the swoop is on.’

  ‘DI Singh: ready.’

  ‘DS Weatherford: ready.’

  ‘DS McKenzie: ready.’

  ‘DS Rennie: Geronimo!’

  Then silence.

  Not again.

  ‘DCI Steel, confirm.’

  Nothing.

  ‘DCI Steel, I repeat: confirm.’

  A loud, wet raspberry rattled out of the handset. ‘I’m awake, are you happy now? Was having a lovely dream, too. Helen Mirren, a thing of cherry-flavoured lubricant, and a Toblerone…’

  Logan put his peaked cap on. ‘Swoop is on in five. Four. Three. Two. One. Go!’

  He cranked the engine over and clicked on the lights, foot down. The Big Car surged forward, out between the grey buildings and onto the harbour.

  The council might have gritted the roads, but they hadn’t bothered with the harbour wall. It slithered beneath the Big Car’s wheels, the rear end swinging out as they fishtailed towards the Jotun Sverd.

  Harper grabbed the handle above the door. ‘In one piece, Sergeant! I don’t want to end up at the bottom of the harbour!’

  He eased up a little, flicked it into four-wheel-drive. Blue-and-white lights strobed all around them as the other vehicles moved into the harbour, making the falling snow glow and flicker.

  Logan slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt right next to the boat, then scrambled out into the cold night.

  Someone peered at him over the supply boat’s bulwark. An older woman, wearing bright-red overalls and a hard hat. Greying hair tied back in a ponytail. ‘Hello?’

  He hopped over the rail and dropped the three foot onto the deck. ‘Hands where I can see them.’

  She pulled in her chin. ‘Okeydokey…’ Then put her hands up, as if this was a robbery.

  Harper landed beside him, followed by Narveer and his two constables. Then Rennie and his lumpen thugs.

  A man appeared at the railings behind the bridge – round and squat, in a thick padded jacket. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  More and more police officers landed on the deck, like pirates in high-viz jackets. Rennie and his thugs swarmed up the stairs to the bridge. ‘Nobody move!’

  ‘I demand to know what the hell is happening here!’

  Harper marched into the middle of the deck, between the containers, and pointed up at him. ‘You the captain?’ Heavy flakes of snow settled on her shoulders.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Harper. I have a warrant to search this vessel.’

  He shrugged. ‘Knock yourself out.’ He leaned on the railing. ‘Suzie? Show the cops around, will you? I’ve got a Pot Noodle on the go.’

  Suzie raised her eyebrows at Logan. ‘Can I put my hands down now?’

  Harper kicked the nearest container. ‘We’ll start with this one.’

  ‘Okeydokey.’ She wrestled with the catch, forcing it down and around, then hauled the big metal door open. ‘There you go.’

  Logan followed Harper to the container’s entrance, looking over her shoulder at the hollow, empty space.

  That wasn’t right.

  Harper curled her hands into fists. ‘Open the other ones.’

  The Dog Officer pulled his face into a lopsided grimace. ‘I can go over the place again, but…’ A shrug. A Labrador sat at his feet, big pink tongue lolling out one side of its idiot grin. ‘Sorry.’

  Harper swore, then stared off down the corridor. Inside, the ship smelled of diesel and air freshener. ‘OK, thanks.’

  Logan leaned against the wall. ‘Nothing at all.’

  She scrubbed a hand over her face. ‘You tried the cabins and the offices?’

  ‘Everywhere. Even the bulkhead storage compartments.’

  ‘God damn it.’

  Narveer ambled over, ducking to avoid losing his Rupert Bear turban on the doorframe. ‘Super? We’ve done PNC checks on the crew: the only one with any form is the deckhand, Elaine. Got drunk on a hen night last year and lamped someone in the Aberdeen McDonald’s.’

  Harper stared at the ceiling for a moment – white-painted metal, lined with rivets. ‘Make sure the captain’s in his office.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ He turned and ducked out through the door again.

  She sighed. ‘It’s not looking good, is it?’

  ‘Well … no. Not really.’

  Harper pulled herself upright. ‘Come on, let’s go speak to the captain.’

  Logan followed her through the metal corridors, down the stairs and below deck. A line of cabins wrapped around the hull, with the captain’s office in the middle.

  She didn’t bother knocking; barged right in. ‘All right, I’m running out of patience here, so let’s cut the social niceties. Where’s the shipment?’

  The room was barely big enough for a couple of filing cabinets, a desk, a plastic pot plant, and a visitor’s chair. The captain folded his arms across his rounded stomach, using it as a shelf. Tiny brown splodges marked his shirt: the ghost of Pot Noodles past. ‘What shipment?’

  ‘The one that’s meant to be in the containers!’ She leaned on the desk, looming over him.

  ‘There’s not meant to be anything in the containers.’

  Logan closed the door behind him. ‘You were supposed to pick up a number of sealed crates from a yacht, sixty miles east of Bora, and hide them in the containers.’

  ‘Nah.’ He shook his head, setting his chins wobbling. ‘Think I’d remember something like that. You’ve got the wrong boat, mate.’

  Harper slammed her hand down on the desk, making a cup of tea tremble. ‘Martin Milne told you to pick up those crates and deliver them here!’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Martin told us to pick up four empty containers and take them out for a putter about the Moray Firth for a bit. Run a couple of fire drills with the crew and a man overboard. Then make for Gardenstown and wait for him. He’s bringing fish suppers for everyone.’

  ‘Fish suppers?’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s meant to be a procedural awareness exercise thing. Something to do with new operational rules the oil companies want to bring in. Waste of time, if you ask me, but what do I know?’

  Logan settled into the visitor’s chair. ‘So no yacht?’

  ‘No yacht. Look, if you don’t believe me, examine the ship’s log. We’ve got GPS trackers and everything
gets stored on the computer so the clients can audit it. Be my guest: audit it.’

  Harper stood on the bridge, hands behind her back, looking down at the prow of the ship. ‘Nobody at all?’

  The senior team gathered in a ragged semicircle behind her: Eiffel Tower, Canal Boat, Christmas Tree, Old Boot, and Thomas the Tank Engine. The only one missing was Sheep Playing the Bagpipes.

  Rennie leaned against one of the swivel chairs bolted to the floor. ‘The crew all back the captain’s story. Empty containers, pootling about, fire drills, and fishing dummies out of the water. Oh, and they’re getting really hacked off about the lack of fish and chips.’

  ‘Can’t say I blame them.’ Steel stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘Could go a fish supper right now. Maybe some mushy peas too. Oh, and a pickled onion.’

  Harper ignored her, pointing a finger at Narveer instead. ‘What about the logs?’

  He checked his notebook. ‘GPS says they never went anywhere near where Milne said the yacht would be. Assuming there ever was a yacht. And there’s CCTV on all decks too – they didn’t rendezvous with anything.’

  ‘BLOODY HELL!’ She gripped the console, shoulders hunched. Hissed out a breath. ‘Options?’

  Narveer sighed. ‘Think we’re going to have to take this one on the chin. We were working on information we believed to be reliable. It’s not our fault.’

  ‘Oh aye, the top brass will buy that.’ Steel gave him a cheery grin. ‘Known for their understanding nature are our glorious overlords.’

  Logan stepped up beside Harper. ‘What if Malcolm McLennan was telling the truth at Hamish Mowat’s funeral and his people had nothing to do with Shepherd’s death? What if it was Martin Milne all along?’

  She turned and stared at him. ‘So, what: you were right in the first place?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Narveer, send everyone home. And tell the captain his boss won’t be turning up this evening, because he’s going to be in a sodding police cell.’ She turned and marched towards the door. ‘Sergeant McRae, you’re with me.’