Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

The dishwasher whispered and moaned.

Rain spattered across the kitchen window.

Logan folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. ‘We’re going to do everything we can, I promise.’

She didn’t turn around. ‘Thank you.’

Then the kitchen door thumped open and Tufty poked his head in. About time.

He pulled on a big grin. ‘Katie? Can I ask a...’ He nodded back towards the front of the house. ‘It’s a quickie.’

She followed him down the hall, Logan bringing up the rear.

‘Any idea who this is?’ Tufty pointed at one of the framed photos. A close-up group of eight men, standing around a barbecue in T-shirts. Baseball caps and sunglasses. Sunburn and grins. A couple had their drinks raised in salute. ‘On the left, with the corn-on-the-cob.’

Mrs Milne blinked, frowned. ‘It’s Pete. Peter Shepherd. He’s Martin’s business partner. Him, Martin, and Brian set up GCML together nine years ago. Why?’

‘Cool, cool.’ Tufty tapped the frame. ‘And he lives...?’

‘Pennan. He’s got one of those sideyways houses. Look, why do you want to know?’

Tufty shrugged. ‘Just interested. Any chance I can borrow the photo?’

Logan fastened his seatbelt. ‘Well?’

Tufty waved through the windscreen at Mrs Milne. Then turned the wheel and took them out of the little development. Soon as he got to the junction with the main road, he reached back into the footwell and pulled out the framed photo of the barbecue. Passed it over. ‘Notice anything?’

‘They’ve burnt the sausages?’

‘Guy on the left, Peter Shepherd. Check the arm.’

Martin’s business partner had a green T-shirt with a sort of Viking logo on the front. He’d ripped the sleeves off, exposing the swollen biceps of someone who spent far too much time down the gym. And there, on his left arm, was a narwhal tattoo.

Banff sulked beneath the heavy lid of stone sky, the buildings crouched together in the rain. Tufty took them in through the limits and down the hill. ‘Station?’

‘Pennan.’ Logan pressed the talk button on his Airwave. ‘Maggie, I need you to look someone up for me. Peter Shepherd, lives in Pennan.’

‘ Give me a minute, Sergeant McRae, the MIT are hogging all the bandwidth so everything’s running like a slug. ’

Tufty took a right, onto Castle Street — its rows of old-fashioned buildings giving way to the same buildings but with shops occupying the ground floor. ‘Sarge, should we not... You know, tell DCI Steel that Shepherd’s her corpse?’

‘No guarantee it’s him, Tufty. We’re just doing a bit of legwork. Making sure we don’t waste anyone’s time.’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘When Mrs Milne reported her husband missing, did you go talk to everyone at his company?’

‘No one had seen him since Friday. He bunked off early, about half three, which was par for the course.’

‘What about Shepherd?’

He shrugged. ‘Didn’t ask. We were looking for Milne, didn’t even know Shepherd existed.’

Which was fair enough.

A handful of bodies tramped through the rain, bent nearly double under its relentless assault. All the cars had their headlights on, edging along not much faster than the people on the pavement.

‘What about this Brian person, the other partner?’

Something crawled across Tufty’s face, wrinkling bits of it, before fading away, leaving him smooth as a baby’s backside. ‘Got him: Brian Chapman. Financial Director. Big sticky-out mole on his forehead.’

‘That it?’

‘Didn’t know where Milne was, and seemed genuinely worried when I told him we’d found Milne’s car abandoned, Sunday night.’

‘ Sergeant McRae? I’ve got three speeding tickets over the last six years and that’s it. ’

‘Vehicles?’

‘ Two registered at his property: a Mitsubishi Warrior and a Porsche Nine-Eleven. ’

That explained the speeding tickets. Mind you, you’d have to be an optimist to own a Porsche in Pennan. A rear-wheel-drive sports car? And that hill? In winter? Be lucky if you got it out of the garage half the year.

‘ Do you want me to check if he made any complaints? ’

‘Please. And the phone number.’

The sandstone spire of Banff Parish Church went by the passenger window. A group of OAPs, dressed like carrion crows, shuffled in through the door, single file. A couple of floral tributes sat either side of the entrance as the minister shook hands with each and every one of them. Probably holding a sweepy in his head as to who he’d have to bury next.

Tufty chewed on his lip. ‘Sarge, are you sure DCI Steel isn’t going to blow a hairy when she finds out we didn’t come clean about Shepherd?’

The road swept around to the left, then past the football pitch and the golf course.

‘Sarge?’

‘Tell me about Martin Milne.’

He blew out a breath. Screwed up his face for a moment. Then, ‘OK. Martin Carter Milne, thirty, BA in business from Robert Gordons University, married to Katie Milne, one child: Ethan, six. Drives a dark-blue Aston Martin DB9. Very swish. Really wanted a go in it, but Traffic pulled rank.’

‘Impounded?’

‘Secure parking in Mintlaw. Mrs Milne can pick it up anytime she likes.’ The Big Car bumped over the bridge. The River Deveron was a swollen grey snake, rasping at its banks below, surging out into the bay. ‘Milne got a caution for aggravated assault three years ago. Fiscal didn’t take it to court because he was wading in to break up a fight at a Bloo Toon, Elgin City match. Left a guy with a fractured cheekbone and a broken arm.’

‘Bit of a bruiser then.’ Logan scanned the barbecue photograph for Milne.

He was in the middle, overseeing the ritual burning of the sausages. Red T-shirt with the same Viking logo as Peter Shepherd, only he’d left his sleeves on. Big arms. Not over-muscled like Shepherd’s, but thick enough to do some damage.

‘ Sergeant McRae? I’ve got records of Peter Shepherd’s house being burgled last year. The thief got away with an antique gramophone and a set of three regency candlesticks. All recovered. He’s made four complaints in the last six months about vandalism. And there’s two ongoing investigations about his business premises being broken into in Peterhead. ’

‘Ongoing since when?’

‘ Three years. ’

So for ‘ongoing’ read, ‘no one has a clue’.

‘Just in case, better give me his work number too.’ Logan turned to Tufty. ‘What are they called?’

‘GCML: Geirrød Container Management and Logistics, Peterhead.’

‘You get that, Maggie?’

‘ Do you want me to text them through to your phone? ’

‘Thanks.’

‘ And are you coming back to the station anytime soon, Sergeant McRae? Only the MIT are being... difficult. ’

‘Sorry. It’s oot-and-aboot for me and the loon. If anyone asks, we’re chasing up a misper.’

And with any luck, Steel would believe it.

‘And you’ve not seen Mr Shepherd since Friday?’ Logan pinned his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he wrote the details down in his notebook. Leaning into the corners as the Big Car wheeched along the winding road.

‘ Yup, he’s off seeing a supplier in Chesterfield. ’

Oh no he wasn’t. He was dead.

‘But you haven’t heard from him?’

‘ Nah. Don’t usually when he’s off on his travels. Likes to keep a low profile does our Pete, so it’s all text messages and emails. ’

‘OK, well, if you hear from him, tell him we’d like a word.’

‘ Will do. ’

Logan hit the button and ended the call. ‘GCML say Shepherd’s off down south, buying them some new containers.’