Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

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.