In the Cold Dark Ground (48 page)

Harper went to say something, but Logan nudged her with a knee under the table. She closed her mouth.

‘The little bitch laughed; rubbed it in my face.’ Katie bared her teeth, eyes narrowed as she glared at the woman in the photo. ‘Him and her. And she
laughed
.’ Katie reached out with one hand, placing it flat over the picture. Then crumpled it into her fist. ‘She laughed at me and my family.’

Logan kept his voice low and neutral. ‘And what did you do, Katie?’

‘I made her stop.’ A frown. ‘I don’t know how. One minute we were in the car park, and the next we were in the woods. Her head was all broken and there was a wrench in my hand. It was all … sticky.’ Katie let go of the photograph. Emily Benton’s face was creased and distorted. ‘I left her there.’

Logan nodded. ‘Is that what happened with Peter Shepherd, Katie?’

She blinked at him. ‘I started going through Martin’s pockets. Checking his email. Checking his phone. I needed to know he wasn’t doing it again.’

The radiator growled away to itself, pumping out heat into the already oppressive room.

No one moved.

Then Katie shrugged. ‘I found a receipt for three business-class tickets to Dubai. Him, Ethan, and Peter Shepherd. They were going to work for some firm building roads and bridges on the other side of the world. Martin was going to
leave
me.’ She bared her teeth. ‘Peter Shepherd was going to take my family away from me.’

Her solicitor sighed. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t say anything more, Katie?’

‘You wouldn’t believe how he cried. Pleading and bawling, all covered in bruises on the forest floor. And Martin begging me to stop…’

‘Katie. Please.’

‘Then all that stuff in the papers. The Emily bitch wasn’t a one-off mistake, there were
dozens
of them. And him and Peter. The sex. The dirty filthy lying bastard. He promised me. He swore!’

Logan leaned forward. ‘Whose idea was it to pretend that gangsters killed Peter Shepherd?’

She frowned at him. ‘You’d have found his body sooner or later: Martin said we had to make it look like someone else did it. That he could make it look convincing. That he could lie about some Edinburgh heavy lending Peter money and you’d jump to all the wrong conclusions.’

And he’d been right.

‘Where’s the money now?’

‘I knew GCML was in trouble, but I didn’t know it was going bankrupt. Not till then.’ She laughed, short and bitter. ‘Two hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds embezzled from the company. They thought they could run away to Dubai and set up house before anyone noticed what they’d done. Can you believe that? Oh yes,
they’d
be fine, but what about
me
?’ Katie curled her top lip. ‘When the bank forecloses on the company and repossesses our home? What was
I
supposed to do?’

Katie dug her nails into the tabletop. Stared at them as the quicks went white. ‘All those lies about how much he loved me. I’d be
homeless
. Poor. What kind of man does that?’

‘What happened to the money, Katie?’

She turned and blinked at her solicitor. ‘Barney?’

‘I’m sorry,’ her solicitor shook his head, ‘but I don’t think I can represent you any more.’

‘OK, let’s forget about the money for now.’ Logan eased his hand across the table, until it lay next to hers. ‘Do you want to tell us what happened in the house tonight?’

Outside, someone thumped along the corridor, setting the floor creaking.

The radiator pinged and gurgled.

Harper shifted in her seat.

Then Katie Milne brought her head back around and sighed.

‘It’s OK.’ Logan took her hand. It was cool and dry. ‘You can talk to us.’

‘No comment.’

‘Next.’ Logan pointed and Isla clicked the mouse, bringing up a picture of a little girl in a pink frock. All gaptoothed smile and pigtails. ‘Isabella Cameron. They had to amputate her right arm and it’ll take years to reconstruct her face.’

Tufty stuck his chin out. ‘I’ve been doing the rounds of the pubs. Seems there’s a new dog-fighting ring in the area. Mastiffs, bull terriers, Staffordshires, anything big and compact.’

‘Stay on it. Whoever’s responsible, I want their balls in a vice by Friday, understand? Calamity, you help him.’

‘Sarge.’

‘Next.’

A click and the little girl was replaced by an elderly woman with about twice as much skin as any normal human being had a right to, all folded and creased.

Isla groaned. ‘I thought they gave her fourteen months?’

‘That’s right, campers: Mrs Wyatt’s out on parole again. Make sure every shop between here and Macduff knows to keep an eye out. Isla: get a grade-one flag put on her ex-husband’s flat. Last thing we need is another geriatric war. And while we’re at it, when—’

There was a knock on the door and a skeletal face appeared. Inspector Gibb – Napier’s sidekick, his own private Renfield. Responsible for making the odd cup of tea, taking notes, eating bugs, and shifting coffins. ‘Sergeant McRae? Chief Superintendent Napier would like a word soon as you’re free.’

He checked his watch. Ten past five, the shift had barely started. Surprised Napier had waited this long. ‘Constable Anderson can finish the briefing.’

Logan followed Gibb out into the corridor, back straight, arms swinging at his side. Off to meet his doom.

Through the main office, out and up the stairs.

Gibb didn’t say a single word until they were standing outside the Major Incident Room on the top floor. ‘You have the right to have a Federation representative present, if you wish?’

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.’