47
Logan gave Narveer a shrug, then hurried after Harper, out into the snow, zipping up his high-viz jacket and pulling on his peaked cap.
McKenzie was down on the main deck, wandering back and forth in front of the containers, mobile phone clamped to her ear, breath trailing along behind her in the frigid air.
‘Sir?’ Logan reached out and grabbed Harper’s arm. ‘Are you sure you shouldn’t be taking DI Singh with you? He is your sidekick, after all.’
‘Narveer is a big boy, Sergeant, believe me, he’ll be fine. Which is more than I can say for Martin Milne.’ She climbed down the stairs to the main deck. ‘Grab DS McKenzie. Tell her I want Milne’s house locked down tighter than a pair of cycling shorts.’
‘Sir.’
She clambered up onto the dockside and stamped through the snow to the Big Car.
McKenzie was staring up at him, still on the phone, wearing an expression that suggested she’d just stepped in something.
Logan picked his way down the stairs, the metal treads clanging beneath his feet. ‘Becky?’ He pointed at the Big Car. ‘Harper needs you: we’re pulling Martin Milne.’
She put a hand over the bottom of her phone. ‘Why me? Robertson’s on babysitting duty.’
‘Because you ran the team looking after him. She wants a full lockdown till we get there.’
Her eyes narrowed. Then she went back to her phone call, turning her back on him and keeping her voice down.
‘Sometime tonight would be good, Becky. You know what detective superintendents are like if you keep them waiting.’ He crossed the deck and climbed up onto the harbourside. Stood there until she finished her call, and joined him.
Her curly brown hair was flecked with snow. ‘This has been a complete cocking farce.’
‘Yup, and now we get to go apportion blame.’ He climbed into the Big Car and started the engine. Set the blowers on full to clear the fogged-up windscreen.
McKenzie slipped into the back. Pulled out her Airwave. ‘DS Robertson, safe to talk?’
‘Fit like, Becky? How’d the swoop go, you get them?’
‘Shut up and listen. I need a sit-rep on the Milne house.’
‘All present and correct: no one in or out. No sign of any suspicious vehicles in the area.’
‘They up and doing?’
‘Lights are on, but the curtains are drawn. Think they’re watching telly and trying to kid on he never shagged his business partner.’
‘Good. Keep them on lockdown, we’re paying a visit.’ McKenzie put her handset away. ‘Everything’s set.’
Harper nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Then frowned. ‘Is there something else?’
She clicked on her seatbelt. ‘Thought I’d tag along for the ride.’
‘I think Sergeant McRae and I can handle it.’
‘Sure you can.’ A cold, unpleasant smile uncoiled across her face. ‘But I wasted days looking after Milne, and if the wee sod’s screwed us over I want to be there when he gets his collar felt. And if we’re really lucky, he’ll resist arrest for a bit first.’
‘Fair enough.’ Harper pointed at the windscreen as the fog finally cleared. ‘Let’s go see what he has to say for himself.’
Logan did a five-point turn, keeping their speed to a crawl and steering well clear of the sudden drop into the dark water. As they faced the right way, a set of blue flashing lights appeared on the road above the harbour, working its way down. ‘Sir?’
She reached across the car and put a hand on his arm. ‘Hold it here for a minute.’
The car got closer, then disappeared behind a squat row of cottages, before emerging again, driving onto the dock. It stopped beside the Big Car, and the driver’s window buzzed down. Logan buzzed his down too.
Oh no.
Napier looked up at him. ‘Sergeant McRae.’
Not now. Not here.
‘Chief Superintendent.’
‘Tell me, is Detective Chief Inspector Steel available?’ He wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t rubbing his hands with glee. Instead his shoulders drooped, mouth pulled down at the edges, a slightly pained expression on his face. ‘I’m afraid I need a word.’
‘She’s on the ship.’
‘I see.’ He bit his bottom lip and frowned for a moment. Then nodded. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
The window buzzed up and the patrol car pulled forward a dozen feet, until it was alongside the boat.
‘All right, Sergeant, we can go now.’
‘Actually,’ Logan unclipped his seatbelt, ‘I’ll only be a minute, OK?’ He scrambled out of the Big Car, and picked his way through the snow to the patrol car as two of Napier’s colleagues boarded the Jotun Sverd, leaving their boss on the dockside. ‘Sir?’
Napier turned and nodded at him. ‘Not the best of days, Logan. Not the best.’
‘What’s going to happen to her?’
‘We found a flash drive covered in her fingerprints. It’s got exactly the same set of images she discovered on Jack Wallace’s laptop. The “last modified” dates match.’ The tip of Napier’s nose was already going red. ‘A report has been submitted to the Procurator Fiscal.’
‘They’re going to prosecute?’ Logan marched off a couple of paces, then back again. ‘But she’s—’
‘This isn’t what I wanted, Logan, it really, really isn’t. Every time I have to arrest a fellow officer…’ He sighed, the breath turning into a cloud. ‘Well, there you go. That’s my problem, isn’t it?’
‘What’s going to happen to her?’
Napier wiped flecks of snow from the shoulders of his black police-issue fleece. ‘She’ll be charged with perverting the course of justice. Jack Wallace will be released from prison and his conviction quashed. In all likelihood, he’ll sue Police Scotland and win. And the next time he rapes someone we’ll have to start all over again, but it’ll be three hundred percent more difficult because his lawyers will be screaming “harassment”.’ Napier shook his head. ‘This is why we have rules, Logan.’
Up on the boat, Steel emerged from the bridge, slouching along with her hands in her pockets, e-cigarette poking out of the side of her mouth. Napier’s people were behind her. No handcuffs, no frogmarching.
Napier patted Logan on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t be here for this bit.’
No matter what the cost.
The two officers helped Steel up onto the dockside, then stood back.
She took a good long draw on her fake cigarette. ‘Well, well, if it’s no’ the Dark Prince of Professional Standards himself. What can we do you for, this sharny night, Nigel?’
Napier stared at her for a moment, then put his hands behind his back. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure – Scotland – Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment.’
She glanced past him at Logan. ‘Oh aye?’
‘Please, get in the car.’
‘What if I don’t want to get in the car? What if I want to kick off, right here?’
He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. ‘Please, just get in the car.’
‘I’ve done sod-all and you know it.’
‘That’s for a court to decide.’
She jabbed a finger in Logan’s direction. ‘Tell him, Laz. Tell this lanky strip of gristle he’s got the wrong woman.’
One of Napier’s people stepped up and took hold of Steel’s arm. ‘Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be, OK?’
‘Laz?’
The other one stepped up, and between them they steered her towards the patrol car.
‘Laz, tell them!’
They opened the back door and eased her inside, one putting a hand on top of her head so she wouldn’t bash it.
‘LAZ! TELL THESE BASTARDS WHAT—’
Clunk. The car door shut, taking her angry voice with it.
The snow
-covered landscape hissed past the Big Car’s windows, headlights glittering back at them from wet tarmac. Every time the windscreen wipers travelled across the glass, they squeaked and moaned, as if someone was murdering a lot of mice one at a time.
Harper was staring at him.
Logan kept his eyes on the road.
‘Well, Sergeant, are you going to tell us what that was all about?’
‘DCI Steel is consulting on one of the Chief Superintendent’s cases.’
Trees drifted by in the distance, their branches drooping under the accumulated frozen weight.
‘Hmmm…’
Sitting in the back seat, McKenzie kept her mouth shut, thumbs busy poking away at her mobile. Texting or playing Candy Crush.
Harper scowled out at the darkness. ‘I can’t believe we’ve been so stupid. There never were any gangsters, were there? All that rubbish about getting a loan from Malcolm McLennan – Milne made it up.’
‘He falls out with Peter Shepherd, they fight, it gets out of hand, and next thing you know, he’s got a body to get rid of.’ Logan changed down for the hill. ‘So he comes up with the idea of staging it to look like the photo in The Blood-Red Line and framing McLennan for it. Tells us McLennan loaned them two hundred thousand so we won’t do him for embezzling the cash – suddenly he’s the victim. A nice neat little package.’
‘And I should have listened to you in the first place.’ She banged a hand on the dashboard. ‘Idiot.’
Harper’s Airwave gave its four point-to-point beeps. ‘Ma’am, it’s Narveer.’
She pressed the button. ‘Go ahead.’
‘I’ve sent the Jotun Sverd’s crew on their way. No fish suppers for them.’
‘What about everyone else?’
‘There’s a couple of house fires in Peterhead, and a factory unit’s gone up in Fraserburgh. Sounds like wilful fire raising. Everyone on duty’s en route. I’ve disbanded everyone else. No point totally spanking the overtime budget.’
The road wound up, then plunged down like a rollercoaster.
‘Thanks, Narveer. We’ll need to get started on the paperwork first thing tomorrow. See if we can justify the almighty cock-up and expense.’
‘Will do. Do you … with— … isn’t for— … next…’ Then hissing. Then nothing at all.
Harper slapped the Airwave against her palm. ‘Work you stupid lump of plastic.’
McKenzie shifted forward. ‘It’s the hollow here. No reception.’
Through a gap between the hills, the sea was a slab of clay, framed by snow-flecked woods.
Logan took them around the corner, and slowed. A woman stood at the side of the road, wearing jeans, a Barbour jacket, and a knitted bunnet. She waved her arms over her head, caught in the on-again off-again flash of a Range Rover’s hazard lights.
He stopped and buzzed down his window. ‘Broken down?’
Her cheeks and nose glowed bright pink. ‘There’s been an accident – a car’s left the road. Please, you have to help them!’
‘Hold on.’ Logan pulled the Big Car up onto the verge, behind the Range Rover, then jumped down into the snow. Reached into the back for his high-viz jacket and peaked cap. ‘Becky, can you get the warning signs out of the boot and stick them up round the corners? Don’t want some idiot rallying their way into the back of us.’
McKenzie put her phone away. ‘OK.’
‘There’s a spare high-viz in there too.’
The woman tugged at his sleeve. ‘Please hurry.’
Logan took out his torch and crunched his way through the snow to the front of the Range Rover. A pair of tyre marks cut through the dirty white crust, heading over the edge. He played the beam down the ravine and across the trees, then stopped. Red tail-lights reflected the torchlight back at him.
He peered closer. It looked like a hatchback, about thirty feet down the gorge, tipped up on its side, crumpled between the trunks of two trees. Maybe a Clio or a Fiesta – something boy-racery with an oversized exhaust, the number plate half hanging off.
‘Right,’ he turned back to the woman in the Barbour jacket, ‘I need you to get back in your car and head up the hill. Soon as you get to the top, call nine-nine-nine. Tell them…’
She wasn’t looking at him, she was staring at the Big Car.
Someone lay in the road, on their front, not moving.
It was Harper. Facedown on the tarmac, as if she fancied a nap.
What, had she fallen out? Slipped on the snow?
Logan took a step towards her, then stopped as something hard pressed into his back.
A thick, dark voice sounded over his shoulder. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sergeant Logan McRae.’
He licked his lips. ‘Reuben.’
The Range Rover’s back doors opened and two men climbed out: one huge and solid, the other thin and knife-like. Smiler and Mr Teeth, AKA: Allan Wright and Gavin Jones. The remaining two-thirds of Reuben’s Transit van team since Eddy Knowles got his head caved in. They were both wearing black leather gloves. Both holding semiautomatic pistols.
So this was it.
Reuben jabbed him in the back again. ‘You’re supposed to be dead.’
Every inch of Logan’s skin fizzed, the hair stood up on his arms and head, his mouth was full of wasps. ‘Tried it once. Didn’t like it.’ He eased around.
Reuben had his sawn-off shotgun in one hand. The other held a crutch – stainless steel with a grey plastic cuff – keeping the weight off that leg. ‘Did you really think you were going to get away with it? Pulling a gun on me, like I’m some sort of prick?’
Funny, but now that the moment was here, it was almost calming. No need to worry about when Reuben would make his move, when he’d get his revenge, because it was now. There was something liberating about that.
Logan nodded back towards the Big Car. ‘Detective Superintendent Harper and DS McKenzie have nothing to do with this.’
‘What, you think you’re going to play the big hero? “Save them, it’s me you want?” That kind of crap?’
Someone crunched through the snow behind him, getting closer. Then another familiar voice. ‘Can we get this over with?’ It was McKenzie.
‘Oh for God’s sake. You’re working for Reuben? Seriously?’
‘Told you: I’ve got two kids to put through university and a police pension that won’t cover the mortgage when I retire.’ She stepped around him, putting herself behind Reuben and the shotgun. ‘If you’re working up to a lecture about loyalty, don’t bother. I know what you did to DCI Steel, McRae – she might be a useless old bag, but you wouldn’t know loyalty if it gave you a lap dance.’ Becky stuffed her hands in her pockets and sniffed. ‘Come on, Reuben, time’s wasting. Do him and get it over with.’
‘What?’ Reuben grinned. ‘And miss out on all this fun?’
The shotgun flashed up, the barrel smashing into the bridge of Logan’s nose. It sent him staggering backwards, arms windmilling as the snowy verge disappeared beneath his feet. And he was gone…
48
Hot yellow orbs flashed across the dark sky, screaming and jabbing as Logan went crashing through branches and bushes, tumbling over and over, their jagged limbs clawing at his face and hands.
Then a loud crump and he was on his front in the snow, head-down on the hill, tangled in the undergrowth.
Ow…
‘Oh for God’s sake. Are you happy now?’ McKenzie’s voice cut through the silence.
‘You listen up, you curly-haired wee bitch, you are here because I own you. Understand?’
Logan rolled over onto his back and tried to blink away the ringing in his ears.
Up.
Get up and run.
Yes, because being bright fluorescent-yellow in the woods wouldn’t get him shot at all, would it?
He unzipped his high-viz jacket and struggled out of the thing. Rolled away as the sawn-off barked. A rain of pellets clattered through the bran
ches. One bit at his hand, but not hard enough to break the skin.
That was the trouble with a sawn-off, it was great for close quarters – you could clear a room with one with a single blast – but over longer distances? The shot spread out too far, too fast.
Logan scrambled behind the upturned Fiesta as the shotgun barked again, pinging and clanging against the dented bodywork. Everything tasted of hot pennies. He ran a hand across his mouth – it came away warm and slick and black in the moonlight. Blood dripped from his burning nose, the world stank of meat and peppercorns.
Reuben’s voice boomed out. ‘COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE, MCRAE!’
No chance.
He dragged out a hanky and wadded it against his bleeding nose.
Could head down the hill. Stick to the trees and make it as far as the sea. Might get a signal on the Airwave down there. Call in the cavalry.
‘LET’S MAKE THIS EASY, SHALL WE, MCRAE? YOU COME OUT AND TAKE YOUR MEDICINE LIKE A BIG BOY AND I WON’T KILL YOUR DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT FRIEND. HOW DOES THAT SOUND?’
Terrible. He’d probably kill them both anyway.
Logan peered around the Fiesta’s boot.
Reuben stood at the road’s edge, caught in the Range Rover’s headlights, using his shotgun as a pointer – directing Allan Wright and Gavin Jones down the slope. They were harder to make out than their boss, almost vanishing as they picked their way through the snow and bushes. Gavin Jones on the left, Allan Wright on the right.
OK, stocktake.
Logan patted his equipment belt: one set of limb restraints, one set of handcuffs, one extendable baton, and a can of CS gas. Throw in an Airwave handset that wasn’t getting a signal and that was it. God knew where the torch had got to, probably buried in the snow somewhere.
A hard crack sounded from the left, followed by a ringing thud that vibrated through the Fiesta’s bodywork.
A voice from the right, Wright: ‘YOU GET HIM?’
There was a pause, then Jones shouted back. ‘DON’T KNOW.’
What good were limb restraints against guns?
Should’ve listened to Urquhart and taken the semiautomatic with him.
Yes, because that worked so well last night, didn’t it?
In the Cold Dark Ground Page 43