In the Cold Dark Ground (32 page)

‘
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…’

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.’

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 to 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.