Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Steel poked it in the forehead with her fake fag. ‘Malcolm McLennan, AKA: Malk the Knife. Edinburgh’s Mr Huge. You run drugs, guns, illegal immigrants, or prostitutes in the city, he gets a cut or you wind up missing important bits. If you’re lucky.’

Logan turned his sheet over. There were another three bodies pictured on the back. All naked, all male, all battered, all with bin-bags duct-taped over their heads.

Steel sniffed. ‘And before some smart aleck asks the obvious question: no, we don’t know who killed this lot. Don’t even know if it’s the same person each time. And the Organised Crime and Counter Terrorism Unit can’t prove Malky ordered the killings either. So they’re about as much use as Rennie in a knocking shop.’

‘Hey!’

‘Shut up.’

Logan turned the paper back over again. Jessica Campbell was bringing drugs into Aberdeenshire from Glasgow. And now Malcolm McLennan was killing people in Banff. John Urquhart was right: Wee Hamish Mowat might not be dead yet, but the big boys were already muscling in.

Which meant that sooner or later, Reuben was going to kick back. Hard.

The post-briefing rush for the canteen and the toilets thundered through the station as Steel lounged by the Major Incident Room window, smoking her fake cigarette and exploring her armpit with one hand while the other pinned a mobile phone to her ear. ‘Yeah... Nah... Did he?... Yeah...’

Logan folded the printout with its dead bodies into four and stuck it on the table.

Rennie slouched over. ‘You run B Division, right?’

‘Why?’

‘The guvnor wants a couple of bunnets to go door-to-door when pics of the victim’s face come in. You can spare me two or three, can’t you?’

Logan stared at him. ‘First: you don’t get to call my divisional officers, “Bunnets”.’

Rennie pursed his lips. ‘Someone’s touchy the day.’

‘Second: my divisional officers will be busy policing B Division. They will not have time to go running about doing your legwork for you.’ Logan took a couple of steps, then poked Rennie in the chest. ‘Third: most of them have been in the job a lot longer than you, and they deserve a bit of respect. Are we clear?’

Rennie’s bottom lip popped out. ‘Only asking.’

He stepped closer, till they were nearly nose-to-nose. ‘Well don’t.’

There was a snort from the corner, then Steel’s gravelly tones burst across the room. ‘For God’s sake, will you two just kiss and get it over with? Could cut the sexual tension in here with a spoon.’

Logan stayed where he was. ‘Detective Sergeant Rennie and I were discussing resource allocation.’

‘Nah, you pair were about to whip out your truncheons and give each other a good seeing to. But far be it from me to stand in the way of young love: if you promise no’ to give Rennie back with his arse all covered in lovebites, you can “discuss resource allocations” to your heart’s content.’

‘What?’ There was a shudder, then Rennie backed away wearing his spanked child expression. ‘I only wanted a couple of bodies to help with the ID. You didn’t have to get all threatening about it. Was only—’

Steel rapped her knuckles on the tabletop. ‘Rennie: coffee. Two and a coo.’

‘But, Guv, I wasn’t doing any—’

‘You heard: milk and two sugars. And I hear rumours someone’s got a malt loaf planked somewhere. I’ll have a slice of that too.’

‘But, Gu-uv ...’

‘ Now , Detective Sergeant.’

His bottom lip got poutier. Then he turned and shuffled out of the room. Closed the door behind him.

Steel crossed her arms and frowned at Logan. ‘Who crapped in your porridge then?’

‘I don’t have to—’

‘Having a go at poor wee Rennie. Police Scotland doesn’t approve of workplace bullying, you grumpy old sack of—’

‘Oh come off it, you say worse to him all the time! And—’

‘You were being a dick, Laz. Spoiling for a fight.’ Steel shook her head. ‘With Rennie . Be like kicking a puppy, then sticking it in a tumble dryer with a bucket of broken glass. Then setting fire to the tumble dryer.’

Yeah.

Logan sighed. Screwed his face up into a knot.

She was right: picking on Rennie wasn’t fair. Steel’s DS might be an idiot, but it wasn’t his fault Logan had barely slept. Wasn’t his fault Reuben loomed over everything like a massive rabid dog.

‘Sorry.’ Logan ran a hand across the stubble on top of his head. ‘Been a tough week. I’ll apologize.’

‘Don’t care how rough it is, you don’t ruin a perfectly good tumble dryer.’ She took a puff on her e-cigarette. ‘Going to be a total nightmare to live with now. He’ll be slumping about with a face like a cat’s bum, all martyred and woe-is-me.’

‘I’ll talk to him.’ Logan looked away. Outside, the violet sky was fringed with pre-dawn blue and pink. The lights of Macduff twinkled on the other side of the bay. ‘We’re switching Samantha off tomorrow. Life support.’

A sigh. Then Steel took hold of his arm and squeezed. ‘You going to be OK?’

‘Yeah. Course.’ He frowned. ‘Don’t know.’ Then let out a long, slow breath. ‘Anyway, suppose I’d better...’ He nodded at the door. ‘Got to go brief the team.’

‘...so make sure you keep your eyes open, OK?’ Logan settled back against the windowsill and rested his mug of tea on a stack of case files.

The Constables’ Office wasn’t a large room. Old-fashioned with worktop desks on two walls, covered in paperwork and four ancient grey computers. Four office chairs, most of which looked on the verge of collapse — the foam rubber stuck out of one as if it had prolapsed. Three uniformed officers in Police Scotland ninja black stared at him.

Calamity clicked the point of her pen in and out and in and out. Click, click, click . ‘What about a national appeal? Maybe we’re not getting any sightings because Tracy’s left the area?’

A wee soft voice piped up. ‘Can’t really blame her, can you?’ Isla pulled her auburn hair back into a thick ponytail and tied it off. Didn’t matter if she was in her thirties or not, she still looked like a teenager — heart-shaped face, red lipstick, with more eyeshadow and mascara than was strictly necessary for arresting people. Her little legs barely reached the ground as she swivelled back and forth in her chair, the toe of her boots barely scraping the carpet. ‘If I had Big Donald Brown for a dad? I’d do a runner too.’ Hair done, she took a sip of coffee. ‘Good luck to her.’

Logan frowned up at the rogues’ gallery above the radiator — a double row of local drug dealers and thieves scowled back at him from their photocopied pictures. Big Donald Brown was second row, three in from the right. A slab of flesh with a broad forehead, prominent ears, and the kind of eyebrows that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Border terrier. ‘Anyone know if she’s run away from home before?’

Tufty checked his notes, the pink tip of his tongue poking out between his lips as he skimmed them. The strip light glowed in his ginger crewcut, giving him a fiery halo. Which was probably as close as he was ever going to get. ‘She’s nineteen, Sarge. It’s not really running away from home, is it?’

‘Still...’ Logan chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. ‘Doesn’t matter how much of a scumbag her dad is, he’s worried about her.’ He pointed. ‘Isla, get onto the media office and tell them we’re after a spot on the news and all the social media they can throw at it. If they give you any grief you have my permission to do the little-girl-lost routine you think none of us know about.’

A nod. ‘Sarge.’