In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  What was the point?

  ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  She opened the door and ushered him inside.

  Napier sat at the head of the table, with the windows behind him. A china cup in a china saucer on one side and a pad and pen on the other. He motioned to the chair diagonally opposite. ‘Sergeant McRae.’

  Logan lowered himself into the seat. It faced a small digital camcorder on a tripod, the little red light already on. Nothing off the record today.

  OK.

  Inspector Gibb closed the door then took the seat next to the camera, notepad out. A nod from Napier and she opened it to a fresh page. ‘Sergeant Logan McRae, can you confirm that you’ve been offered Federation representation and declined it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you. Now: where were you last night, Sergeant?’

  Logan pulled his chin in and frowned. ‘Last night?’ OK, wasn’t expecting that. ‘We were on lateshift till three this morning. Why?’

  ‘I see. And after that?’

  ‘We went to Constable Nicholson’s house to celebrate.’

  ‘Celebrate what, Sergeant McRae?’

  ‘Constables Quirrel and Anderson caught Wee Wullie McConnell. We’ve been after him for months.’ He sat forward. ‘Look what is this all about?’

  ‘And when did this celebration end?’

  ‘I don’t know. Couple of hours? The baker’s was open on Seafield Street, so had to be gone five. I got a chicken curry pie.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, Sergeant.’ She reached up and switched the camcorder off. ‘Now, would anyone like a cup of tea?’

  Napier gifted her a smile. ‘Thank you, Shona. Sergeant McRae takes milk, no sugar.’

  And they were back in Creepytown.

  As soon as she was gone, Napier opened a folder and took out some blurry stills from a security camera. ‘Reuben Kennedy went missing from Aberdeen Royal Infirmary last night, between the hours of three and four.’

  A couple of indistinct figures were caught in the act of manoeuvring a wheelchair down the corridor away from the camera. The wheelchair’s occupant was a big man, rounded, powerful looking.

  Oh that was just great. Spectacular.

  Reuben was missing.

  Sodding, buggering, bastarding hell.

  ‘Are you all right, Logan? You’ve gone rather pale.’

  ‘I … didn’t know Reuben had a last name.’

  ‘According to his doctors, he’d regained consciousness. Confused and unable to talk, but awake and alive.’ Napier held up a hand. ‘Don’t worry, we’re keeping an eye on all the ports to make sure he doesn’t flee the country.’

  Oh they wouldn’t have to worry about that. Reuben wouldn’t be going anywhere until Logan and Harper were pig food.

  ‘Speaking of Mr Kennedy, you will be pleased to know that we’ve concluded our investigation into the incidents of the seventeenth. Both you and Detective Superintendent Harper have been cleared of any wrongdoing, which I’m sure will be a weight off your mind. There may even be a commendation in the offing.’

  What?

  He didn’t move. Didn’t dare. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Of course, it would have been nice if we could have persuaded Mr Jones to turn on his employers, but you know what these career criminals are like.’

  Gavin Jones, AKA: Jonesy, AKA: Mr Teeth.

  Oh thank God.

  Maybe he wasn’t going to prison after all?

  Napier steepled his fingers and leaned forward. ‘I have to say, Logan, that I was impressed by your handling of the investigation into DCI Steel. There were those who predicted you’d try to cover up for her. Conceal the evidence. But you didn’t.’

  Logan blinked at him. ‘You knew all along, didn’t you? You set me up.’

  ‘As I told you when we took our bracing walk, “You’re an honest man, Logan McRae.”’

  ‘You already had the proof, but you wanted to see if I’d find it and bring it to you.’

  ‘A test. Yes.’ He held his arms wide. ‘And you passed, as I always knew you would.’ He let his arms fall. ‘DCI Steel arrested one Lawrence Collins a year ago for possession of indecent images of children. He had over five thousand of them on three different computers, more on an assortment of CDs and flash drives. The usual filth, where the abusers keep their faces covered.’ Napier chewed on his cheek for a moment, frowning. ‘Dundee University have a team who can analyse photographs for the vein patterns on the back of offenders’ hands, or on their penises. Unique as a fingerprint, apparently. They were working their way through Collins’s images, trying to cross-reference and identify the abusers, when they noticed something. A subset of the pictures were identical to ones they’d already processed: the images Steel “found” on Jack Wallace’s laptop.’

  ‘Wallace and this Collins were part of the same ring.’

  ‘So Dundee passed the information to the Child Abuse Investigation Unit, and when they interviewed Collins about it, he wanted to cut a deal. Time off his sentence for information about the detective chief inspector he’d supplied with a flash drive full of child pornography and information on how to plant it on someone’s computer.’

  Logan’s shoulders sagged. ‘Steel.’

  ‘Apparently she told him there were plenty of people in HMP Grampian who owed her favours. And if he didn’t do what he was told, one of them would hold him down and carve “paedo scum” into his forehead.’

  ‘You didn’t need me. You already had everything you needed.’

  A shrug. ‘This is my last case, Logan, now I can retire. Superintendent Gray will be taking my place, but there’s a role for you in the department, if you want it?’

  It was a struggle to keep his face in one place, but Logan did his best. ‘Professional Standards?’

  Holy Mother of God.

  ‘Oh you don’t have to decide right away. I’ll be here for the rest of the day, tying up loose ends. If you want to discuss things, let me know.’

  The world had gone completely mad.

  ‘All right, Lumpy, is there anything in your pockets I should know about?’ Calamity snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. ‘Anything sharp – blades, needles, that kind of thing?’

  Lumpy Patrick raised his skeletal hands over his head, letting free a groin-curdling reek of rancid sweat. ‘Nah, I’m like, clean as Mr Sheen, and that…’ His breath was even worse.

  Logan backed off a couple of paces as Calamity patted him down. ‘Don’t forget to check his turn-ups.’

  The bottom edge of Lumpy’s tracksuit bottoms had been rolled back to nearly mid-shin, showing off stick-thin pale hairy legs and grubby socks. His trainers squelched with water on the snowy pavements.

  She grimaced, keeping her face as far away from the man she was searching as possible. ‘Gah… Have you never heard of soap, Lumpy? God almighty.’

  Logan’s phone launched into its anonymous ringtone. ‘McRae?’

  ‘Mr McRae, it’s Sandy Moir-Farquharson.’ As if anyone else could own that oil-slick voice. ‘I wanted to appraise you of our progress on your friend’s case.’

  ‘Right.’

  Calamity finished with Lumpy’s top half, took a deep breath and started on the bottom.

  ‘Although the evidence against Detective Chief Inspector Steel is definitely there, we have managed to spot a number of procedural cracks in the way it was gathered and presented. There’s enough technical variance here to make me confident we can get this whole unfortunate incident to go away.’

  ‘Aaagh…’ Calamity flinched back from Lumpy’s tracksuit bottoms. ‘Why are you not wearing any underwear? God, it’s all dangly.’

  ‘That’s great news. We—’

  ‘However, she still has the internal Professional Standards review to worry about and, sadly, their burden of proof is much lower than that required in the criminal courts. In all likelihood, they will find her guilty.’

 
Ah. ‘Right.’

  ‘This means she could face a fine, expulsion from the force, or demotion. But she certainly won’t be going to prison.’

  At least that was something. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure. Our invoice will be in the post.’ And Hissing Sid was gone.

  ‘All units be on the lookout for a silver Subaru Impreza last seen heading north from New Pitsligo on the A98. Suspected drink driver.’

  Logan sat in the driver’s seat, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

  Meltwater dripped from the eaves and gutters of the buildings, the pavements all shiny – gold and green in the light spilling out of the Co-op’s window.

  ‘Update on that missing eighty-two-year-old, she’s been found in New Aberdour, safe and well.’

  Calamity hurried out of the shop, her arms full of assorted things. She hauled open the Big Car’s door and clambered up into the passenger seat. ‘Bleeding heck, it’s freezing out there.’ She held out a bottle of Lucozade and a paper bag. ‘Last hot sausage roll in the cabinet.’

  ‘Ta.’ He took a swig, then a bite of mouth-scalding meat and pastry.

  ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Scotstown Road, Fraserburgh? Reports of a domestic disturbance.’

  She helped herself to what looked like a chicken slice, getting crumbs all down the front of her high-viz jacket. ‘What time you taking your sister and her sexy sidekick down to Keith, Sarge?’

  Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘Fancy Narveer, do we, Constable Nicholson?’

  A shrug, then more crumbs, talking with her mouth full. ‘Wouldn’t say no to a Singh-along.’

  ‘Half six, you randy little sod.’

  She checked the dashboard clock. ‘Twenty minutes? Might go with you; maybe help our C Division brethren with their bags.’

  Inspector McGregor’s voice crackled out into the car. ‘Bravo India to Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

  Logan pressed the button. ‘Batter on, Guv.’

  ‘William Campbell and Alastair Simmons are at it again. Tearing lumps out of each other outside the football club. Go give them a kick up the bum, will you?’

  ‘Will do.’ He started the engine and smiled at Calamity. ‘I know this’ll sound weird, but it’s nice everything’s back to normal again.’

  Logan pulled into a parking bay and killed the engine. ‘Here we go: five minutes to spare.’

  The car park was pretty much empty at this time of the evening – the Big Car joining a couple of muddy four-by-fours and a small dented van. The building in front of them looked more like a convenience store on an industrial estate than a train station: a long metal shed with a grey pitched roof. Glass along one wall.

  ‘Thanks.’ Narveer climbed down from the back seat, closely followed by Calamity.

  ‘Why don’t I help you with the bags, DI Singh?’ All bright and cheerful.

  Hussy.

  Harper lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Just between you and me, I think Narveer has a thing for your Constable Nicholson.’

  Good luck to him – the poor sod would need it.

  ‘Don’t forget, you’ve only got seven minutes to change trains in Aberdeen.’

  ‘You’re taking this whole “big brother” thing seriously, aren’t you?’

  ‘And don’t talk to any strange men.’

  They got out and Logan humped her suitcase from the boot. Locked the car. Checked his watch. ‘You need anything?’

  ‘We’ll be fine.’

  They followed Calamity and Narveer to the platform, the wheels on Harper’s case making clattering growls against the lock-block and paving slabs. A bitter wind whipped along the line, setting a couple of empty crisp packets dancing.

  Logan stuck his hands in his pockets and watched them whirl. ‘Before I forget: we got the forensics back on Martin Milne’s car. Peter Shepherd’s DNA was all over the boot, and the fibres from the bag over his head match the car’s carpet.’

  ‘Katie Milne still no-commenting?’

  ‘Changed her plea to diminished responsibility.’

  ‘Probably for the best. No sane person bashes three people’s heads in, then stuffs sleeping pills down her six-year-old’s throat.’ Harper shook her head. ‘You know she’s not asked about Ethan once? And you think your mother’s bad.’

  Narveer and Calamity were down the other end of the platform, sharing a joke about something. The pair of them laughing like drains.

  All right for some.

  ‘Niamh?’ Logan looked off down the tracks. ‘Reuben’s gone missing.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He’s going to come after us. Might take him a while, but he’s not a forgive-and-forget sort of guy.’

  She stuck her chin out. ‘So, let him come.’

  ‘Look … keep an eye out, OK? If something happens to me, you’ll know he’s back.’

  Harper stuck her hands in her pockets and hunched her shoulders against the wind. ‘You’re a strange fish, Sergeant McRae. You handed your old boss to Professional Standards because she broke the law, but you’re on first-name terms with gangsters. I’m not sure what to make of that.’

  ‘Yeah, neither am I.’

  High-pitched twangs sang their way along the rails, getting louder.

  Logan cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry our father wasn’t more on your side.’

  ‘I’m sorry he abandoned you and your brother.’

  Not much they could do about that now.

  The train roared into view, slowing as it approached the station, its blue, pink, and white livery streaked with filth. A bleeping, then the doors hissed open.

  ‘Right, well, this is us.’ She stepped back. Stuck out her hand for shaking. ‘It’s been … different.’

  He ignored the hand and hefted her case onboard instead. ‘Don’t leave it another thirty-four years.’ Then took a deep breath and gave her a hug.

  A moment passed, then she hugged him back.

  Kind of awkward, but it was a start.

  54

  ‘Tufty, you in the vicinity of Portsoy? We’ve got another fire in a wheelie bin.’ Logan took the Big Car on a slow drift through New Pitsligo.

  ‘Can be in fifteen, Sarge.’

  ‘Maybe this time someone will have seen something.’ Rows and rows of little grey Scottish houses with dormer windows and slate roofs. ‘Any luck with the dogs?’

  ‘Work in progress: you know what these Dogmen scummers are like. Everyone hates everyone else, but they’re too scared to dob each other in.’

  ‘Friday, remember?’ A few chunks of snow clung in the lee of buildings, the drifts gone from pristine white to grit-flecked piddly yellow.

  ‘Balls in a vice, Sarge.’

  ‘Good boy.’ On the right, the houses gave way to dark fields and the bones of trees. And then it was just farmland, skulking beneath the light of a miser’s moon.

  ‘Hold on, Calamity wants a word.’

  ‘It’s not a phone, Tufty, she’s…’ What was the point? ‘Put her on.’

  ‘Sarge? Are we aiming for tenses?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Only we’ve still got visitors.’

  ‘Napier hasn’t gone home?’

  ‘Tell you, even Hector’s scared to go upstairs.’

  ‘Don’t care: Bingo baked a cake. We’re having tenses.’

  ‘Sarge.’

  ‘Now go do something productive.’

  The road straightened out, the tyres hissing through the meltwater.

  A badger flashed by at the side of the road, the top half of it anyway. The rest was smeared into a dark-red paste on the tarmac, glistening in the headlights then disappearing into the darkness.

  How long would it be before Reuben got over his bullet in the head?

  Any normal person would have had the good grace to die, but not Reuben. Not with a solid granite skull.

  Three weeks? Four?

  Probably be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, bu
t that wouldn’t stop him. OK, so he might not be up to swinging the hammer himself any more, that didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun watching.

  ‘All units be on the lookout for a turquoise Vauxhall Astra in the Pennan area. Driver acting suspiciously.’

  ‘It’s not fair.’

  The Logan in the rear-view mirror nodded. ‘We shot him in the head. In the head.’

  ‘Got no business being alive.’

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘So what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Track him down and finish the job.’

  ‘And how are we going to do that, Officer Rambo? You heard Napier: they’ve got all of Police Scotland hunting for him. Think you can do better?’

  ‘Sierra Two-Two to Control, you can tell the ambulance there’s no rush on that OAP. Better get the pathologist up.’

  ‘And what’s going to happen if you do manage to find Reuben? Murder him in cold blood?’

  ‘I shot him in the face.’

  ‘Yeah, to save your sister. But in cold blood? Remember what happened last time?’

  Logan’s shoulders dipped. ‘I am so screwed.’

  ‘You’re too much of a wimp. Couldn’t sleep for days afterwards.’

  True.

  Fields and trees, as far as the eye could see.

  ‘Anyone seen Stinky Sammy Wilson on their travels? Suspected breaking and entering on Gellymill Street, Macduff.’

  The countryside flattened out, widening the pale-grey view.

  All that heartache and soul-searching and falling off a sodding cliff for nothing.

  The road into Lovie’s came up on the right, and Logan pulled onto the apron. Sat there with the engine running, frowning out at the night.

  Of course, one person would know where Reuben was.

  Logan pulled out his phone and called John Urquhart.

  It rang, and rang, and rang, and rang…

  ‘Yellow?’

  ‘It’s Logan.’

  ‘Mr McRae? Dude. Heard you beat the shooting rap, congrats.’

  ‘Reuben’s missing.’

  ‘Yeah. Shame about that.’ There was something in the background: a snuffling grunting noise, as if a lot of people had the cold. ‘Still, on the bright side, things are settling down again. And no war, which is cool.’