In the Cold Dark Ground (47 page)

‘Here.’ Logan held out a plastic cup full of vending machine coffee, topped with a scummy disc of foam masquerading as milk.

Harper took it. ‘Thanks.’

‘They were out of KitKats, so I got you a Double Decker.’ Logan eased himself into the plastic seat next to hers, groaning and grunting all the way. ‘Gnnn…’

‘You OK?’ She ripped the top off the orange-and-purple wrapper and took a bite of chocolate.

‘No.’

‘Me neither.’

A man in light blue hospital scrubs squeaked his way down the corridor and stopped in front of them. Checked his clipboard. ‘Detective Superintendent Harper? Good. Yes. Well, I’m happy to say that Mrs Milne’s going to be fine. We pumped her stomach and it looks like she didn’t take anywhere near enough Loprazolam to cause any real damage.’

Logan took a sip of his own horrible coffee. ‘What about her son?’

‘Ah.’ The nurse clutched the clipboard to his chest and pulled on a pained smile. ‘
Unfortunately
, Mrs Milne gave Ethan a lot more sleeping pills than she took herself. We’re doing everything we can.’

Harper stood. ‘Is she fit to be discharged?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Good.’ She dumped her coffee, untouched, into the bin. ‘Logan, get the car. Mrs Milne’s got some answering to do.’

Harper walked back up the corridor, the squeal and groan of the station’s floorboards accompanying her like an ominous soundtrack. She stopped in front of Logan and sagged against the wall. ‘Still with her solicitor. Don’t know what she thinks she’s going to achieve. Maybe cop a plea for diminished responsibility?’ Harper stifled a yawn. ‘Anything from the hospital?’

‘Not yet.’ Logan checked his watch. ‘Twenty past two.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘We should really sod off. Been a long,
long
day.’

‘I’m going nowhere.’ She wrinkled her top lip and sniffed. ‘Urgh… Why does everything smell of black pudding?’

He pointed at the dark clots of Reuben in her hair. ‘That would be you.’

A shudder. ‘Right, that’s it: I’m off to find the station showers. Gah…’ She marched away, stiff-backed, arms held out from her sides as if she were wading through something horrible.

Katie Milne’s solicitor could do worse than go for diminished responsibility. Clearly the woman was off her head. Killing her husband was bad enough – and maybe understandable in the circumstances – but what she’d done to her son? No sane person gave their six-year-old child an overdose of sleeping pills.

So yes, diminished responsibility.

A good lawyer could probably get her six years, an honest lawyer would make sure she never set foot in the real world again. But a
great
lawyer?

A great lawyer would make sure it never got to court in the first place.

Logan turned and headed to one of the empty admin offices. No furniture, no filing cabinets, nothing but uneven carpet tiles and the peppery smell of dust. He closed the door and pulled out his wallet.

Sandy Moir-Farquharson’s business card was wedged in between Logan’s library card and a receipt for high-strength painkiller. He called the emergency contact number on the back and listened to it ring.

Twenty past one in the morning, and the lawyer sounded wide awake: ‘
Hello?
’ No rest for the wicked.

‘Mr Moir-Farquharson, it’s Logan McRae.’ Deep breath. ‘I’d like you to represent a friend of mine. She’s in custody right now.’ And yes, she was guilty, but… But what? He’d done worse things himself? He felt ashamed? He wanted a shot at redemption?

Probably far too late for that.

Still, it was worth a try.

‘
I see. Well, before I make a decision, Mr McRae, I shall need to know who this friend is and what they’re alleged to have done.
’

‘Her name’s Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel.’

The microwave dinged and Logan fished out his bowl. ‘Ow! Ow! Ow!’ It clattered onto the worktop. ‘God, that’s hot.’ The stolen beans glooped and bubbled. He smothered them with stolen hot sauce and stolen cheddar. Then buttered his stolen toast and took the lot over to the line of tables.

A serious-looking woman frowned out of the canteen’s TV, mouth moving silently while the ticker below her scrolled: ‘
19
D
EAD
I
N
D
AMASCUS
C
AR
B
OMB
A
TTACK…
G
OVERNMENT
M
INISTER
R
ESIGNS
O
VER “
H
OSPITALGATE”
S
CANDAL…
B
ENJAMIN
A
ND
J
ACINTA
L
EAVE
B
RITAIN’S
N
EXT
B
IG
S
TAR…
’

Logan left her on mute and dipped a bit of toast into his spicy cheesy beans. Chewed as he turned the page. Mrs Milne’s police record was restricted to two parking tickets, one for speeding, and a caution over a trolley rage incident in the Peterhead Asda six months ago.

The canteen door opened, then clunked shut. Followed by a sigh. Then the sound of the vending machine whirring into life. A rattle,
hiss-click
, then more sighing. Narveer settled on the opposite side of the table, clutching a tin of Irn-Bru and a bar of Dairy Milk. ‘Logan.’

‘Inspector.’ Another bite of bean-dipped toast.

‘What a nightmare…’ He clicked the top off his fizzy juice and stifled a yawn. ‘Anything from the hospital?’

‘Nothing they can do but wait and see.’

‘Poor wee soul. I remember when our eldest was that age – came down with meningitis. Thought we were going to lose him.’ Narveer shuddered, then clunked a bite of chocolate. ‘Never been so scared in my life. Can you
imagine
forcing sleeping tablets down your wee boy’s throat? Doesn’t bear thinking about.’

And the whole thing cast Ethan’s being the clumsiest kid in school in a different light. All those bruises, cuts, and scrapes. The broken arm. How much of that was Mummy? How much of it done to punish Daddy?

Next up was the manila folder full of dirty photographs. Logan spread them out on the table, making a fan around his bowl.

Narveer pointed. ‘Catching up on the case?’

‘Yup.’ He scooped out another mound of beans.

‘Have I done something to offend you, Sergeant?’

‘No. Sorry. It’s been a long, long,
long
horrible day.’ Logan sat back. ‘I’m doing interview prep.’

‘Let me guess, Niamh won’t let you go home?’

‘Be a shame to abandon the whole thing now.’ More beans. ‘Far as we can tell, Mrs Milne found the note before Martin could disappear. He was all packed and ready to go – two suitcases for him and a backpack for Ethan. Probably thought he could sneak out the back way while we were all hanging about Gardenstown harbour like a bunch of morons.’

‘Hmph.’ Narveer polished off his chocolate, then wiped his hands down the front of his jacket. Pulled over the photos. ‘This DS Robertson’s work?’

A nod.

‘God, his penmanship’s appalling. What’s this say?’ He held out a picture of Milne, Shepherd, and a woman who had her hands wrapped around Milne’s throat as she brought the full length of her strap-on to bear.

‘“Diane McMillan” That’s a D.’

‘It is? Oh. “No police record, works as a learning support coordinator. At home with her husband when PS went missing – Alibi confirmed.”’

Logan finished his pilfered beans and wiped the bowl clean with the last of his pilfered toast. ‘At least he checked.’

‘True.’ Narveer flicked through the rest. ‘You think these will help?’

‘Probably not.’ He stood and walked his empties back to the kitchen area. Dumped the bowl and plate in the sink. ‘You want a tea?’

‘Please. Then maybe we should…’ He stood. ‘Niamh.’

Harper slouched into the canteen, rubbing a towel through her hair. ‘Inspector Singh.’ She’d ditched the bloodstained suit, replacing it with a black police T-shirt and standard-issue trousers.

‘Sergeant McRae’s making tea, if you want one?’

‘Not the way he makes it.’ She dumped the towel on the back of a chair. ‘Katie Milne’s solicitor says we can interview her now.’

Logan dumped his teabag back in the box and returned to the table. Gathered up the PNC report and the photographs, stacking them up into a … pile. Wait a minute. He frowned, tilted his head to one side and stared.

Then spread the top three photos out again.

One was Aggie with her
Iron Maiden
tattoo; one was the redhead in the stripy stockings; and one was the young blonde woman, looking back over her shoulder at the camera – three biro question marks were lined up in the bottom corner. Identity unknown.

‘Logan?’

No.

Couldn’t be.

Could it?

‘Sergeant: I said it’s time to go interview Katie Milne.’

He span around. ‘Paper. I need a newspaper.’ There were a pile of them on the coffee table, in front of the TV with its mute newsreader.
Daily Mail
,
Telegraph
,
Press and Journal
,
Scottish Sun
. The front pages were a mix of political scandals, showbiz gossip, and atrocities in the Middle East.

Damn it.

‘Sergeant McRae, are you—’

‘Ah!’ Logan lurched over to the recycling bins, lined up between the kitchen area and the vending machines. He knelt, ripped the cover off the paper bin and rummaged inside – throwing hand towels and printouts and sandwich wrappers and cereal boxes and scrunched-up envelopes over his shoulder.

‘Have you gone mad? Narveer, stop him!’

Where the hell was… Ah. Perfect.

Logan stood holding a copy of that morning’s
Aberdeen Examiner
aloft as if it were Excalibur itself. ‘Got it!’

He slapped it down on the table, face up: ‘
H
UNT
C
ONTINUES
F
OR
S
TUDENT
E
MILY’S
K
ILLER
’ above the photo of Emily Benton. ‘You see?’

Narveer held up his hands. ‘OK, Sergeant, I think it’s maybe time you went home and got some sleep.’

‘Look.’ He poked the newspaper with a finger, then the photo from Shepherd’s collection. ‘That’s why she looks familiar.’ The young woman getting spanked was grinning back over her shoulder, half of her face hidden. But it was her.

‘Yeah… No. Don’t see it.’

Logan dragged out his Airwave. ‘Control, I need to speak to someone about the Emily Benton post mortem. Right now.’

‘
Hold on…
’

Narveer grimaced, looking across the explosion of paper debris radiating out from the recycling bins. ‘You said it yourself, it’s been a long day. You’ve been through a lot and—’

A broad Doric accent thumped out of the Airwave’s speaker. ‘
Aye, fa’s this?
’

‘Sergeant McRae, B Division. You got Emily Benton’s PM photos?’

‘
Aye.
’

‘I need any distinguishing features.’

‘
We can have a bash. … Tum-tee, tum-tee, tum-tee… Right, here we go: scar on outside of left ankle, strawberry birthmark inside of right thigh, crown on second molar lower left.
’

Harper picked up the photograph and squinted at it. Then held it out to Logan. ‘There.’ A strawberry birthmark, just visible on her inner thigh, below Shepherd’s spanking hand. If you didn’t know what it was, it could easily be mistaken for a shadow. ‘You were right.’

She didn’t have to sound so surprised about it.

Katie Milne shifted on the other side of the table, setting her white oversuit rustling. ‘When will I get my clothes back?’

‘When our forensics lab are finished with them.’ Harper gave Logan the nod.

The interview room was far too hot. Beads of sweat glistened on the forehead of Katie’s lawyer – the same saggy disappointed man who’d represented her husband last time they were in here. He moved his notebook out of the way as Logan laid out the photographs from Shepherd’s bedroom porn collection. One at a time. Slow and deliberate, as if he were dealing tarot cards.

‘Do you recognize any of these women, Mrs Milne?’

She blinked at him, then at the images, then at her lawyer. ‘Barney?’

‘Superintendent Harper, are you deliberately trying to distress my client?’

‘We’re trying to get at the truth, Mr Nelson. Please continue, Sergeant McRae.’

More women joined the ranks on the tabletop. ‘How about now?’

‘Look, this has nothing to do with the unfortunate events surrounding Martin’s death. Please move on.’

The very last picture was Emily Benton, looking back over her shoulder.

Katie flinched.

Harper sat forward. ‘So you recognize
her
?’

‘I…’ She licked her lips. ‘No. I’ve never seen her before.’ But she didn’t seem to be able to look away.

Logan put the other faces back in the folder, leaving Emily Benton in the middle of the table. ‘Do you want to tell us about her?’

Katie wrapped her arms around herself, rocking back and forwards. ‘I didn’t… It… I don’t know.’ She stared at the photograph. ‘I mean, she could—’

‘One moment, please.’ Her lawyer put a hand on her arm. ‘I think, in the circumstances, my client and I need to have a further discussion. We—’

‘He
lied
to me. When Ethan was born, Martin swore he’d never cheat on me again. He
swore
.’

‘Katie, I really don’t think this is a good—’

‘I got a text meant for her. He sent it by mistake. There was a … an intimate photograph.’ She ground the palm of her hands into her eyes. ‘He was
screwing
her.’

‘Katie, please. Let’s take a minute and—’

‘So I did what any good mother would do: I confronted her. Told her she had to stop seeing him. He was my husband. He loved
us
, not
her
.’