Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Napier turned and walked on. ‘Other officers look at us the way that junkies and thieves look at you, Logan. Waiting for the long arm of the law to fall upon their shoulders.’

And why here? Why do this out in the freezing cold not-so-great outdoors? Why not back at the station with a witnessing officer and a video camera?

Maybe he was going to cut Logan a deal? Something not quite legal: that was why he needed seclusion to do it.

The beach curled around to the right, where the bay became the River Deveron. But before they got that far, Napier stopped again. ‘Tell me, Logan, what do you know about Jack Wallace?’

Logan blinked. OK, wasn’t expecting that. ‘Not much. He’s a paedophile?’

‘Jack Wallace, thirty-two, currently serving six years for possession of indecent images of children.’

‘Good.’

‘Is it?’ Napier turned and marched up the beach, leaving the sand behind for a line of grass. ‘What if Jack Wallace isn’t a paedophile after all? What if evidence has emerged that suggests his conviction is unsafe? What if the images found on his laptop were planted there?’

Past a low wall topped with a brown picket fence, and out onto the pavement.

Logan grabbed his arm. ‘Why?’

‘The evidence used to convict Wallace all came from DCI Steel. No corroboration, no paper trail, just a laptop with images of child abuse on it.’ He peered over Logan’s shoulder, across the road. ‘Ah, look: a Co-op. We can get milk there.’

‘Are you saying Steel fitted him up?’

‘Jack Wallace had no history of child abuse. No hints. No warnings. No suspicions. And then, one day, all of a sudden his laptop is full of kiddy porn. Does that not strike you as suspicious?’

‘Not really. He was good at covering his tracks. Some of them get away with it their whole lives.’

‘That’s true.’ Napier wandered across the road, past the boarded-up garage. ‘Tell me, Logan, do you think DCI Steel is the kind of officer who would fabricate evidence? Who’d bend the rules to get a result? Even if she had to bend them so far they shattered?’

‘No.’ Of course she would, but there was no way in hell he was telling Napier that.

‘I see.’

They passed the bus shelter, where a young man in a sodden hoodie slouched with a pushchair. Fag in his mouth as he texted away.

‘These are serious allegations, Logan. There has to be an investigation: a thorough one. If Detective Chief Inspector Steel’s done nothing wrong, then we’ll exonerate her. But if I find out that she’s perverted the course of justice, she’ll find herself on the receiving end of an eight-year stretch in Glenochil.’

Napier pulled a packet of fruit pastilles from his pocket, helped himself to one, then held them out to Logan. ‘This isn’t the 1970s, it’s not The Sweeney or Life on Mars . The modern police force has to be squeaky clean, or we’re no better than the thugs and politicians.’

The pastilles hovered between them.

‘What’s it got to do with me?’

‘You know DCI Steel. You’ve worked for her. You know her methods. You have her confidence. The people working for her now — the MIT — they can’t be relied upon, they’re in her thrall. But you’ve been all the way up here in B Division for over a year, beyond her grasp.’

‘How do you know I won’t go right back there and tell her everything you’ve just told me?’

‘Do you have any idea how many times I’ve investigated you over the last decade? Many, many, many times. And each time it’s turned out that you were in the right all along. No one’s that good at covering their tracks. You’re an honest man, Logan McRae.’

Logan’s fingers twitched, then drifted up towards the packet.

‘Of course, I could force the issue: get you formally seconded to Professional Standards, but I don’t want that. I want you to help because this is what’s best for DCI Steel and Police Scotland. A thorough investigation to either clear her name, or... Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

‘I see.’ The investigation was going to happen whether he helped out or not. And if he didn’t, it would simply give Napier an excuse to start grubbing about in Logan’s business too.

Yeah, that really, really wouldn’t turn out well.

And maybe Napier was right? Maybe this was for Steel’s own good? An investigation would clear her name and that would be that. And if Logan was involved he could make sure no one jumped to the wrong conclusions. Napier could retire and everyone else could get on with their disaster-ridden lives.

So why not?

Logan took the top pastille and popped it in his mouth. Lime. ‘Suppose I said yes, and I’m not, I’m only asking. But if I said yes, what would you want me to do?’

‘Ooh, here we go.’ Steel settled into one of the canteen chairs. ‘Turn it up, turn it up.’

Logan picked the remote off the table and pointed it at the TV mounted on a shelf above the recycling bins. Cranked up the volume. Then grimaced. The remote was all gritty and sticky. ‘For God’s sake...’ The thing was smeared with blobs of doughnut jam and a dusting of castor sugar.

‘Shhh!’

On the screen, a newsreader in a serious suit frowned for the camera. Behind them, Banff station lurked in the rain, water dripping from the curlicues and semi-balconies. ‘ Thank you, Stacy. Police Scotland have named the man found in woods outside of Macduff, Aberdeenshire, yesterday as Peter Shepherd. Mr Shepherd, a director at a support services company... ’

Logan dumped the remote on the draining board and washed the sticky off his hands. ‘Inspector McGregor’s right, it’s like sharing a station with vermin.’

‘Will you shut your yap, Laz? Trying to watch this.’

‘ ...following statement. ’

The shot cut to the station front door, where Steel stood beneath an umbrella held by someone out of shot. ‘ We are anxious to trace the whereabouts of Martin Milne, a partner at Geirrød Container Management and Logistics. ’ Milne’s photo filled the screen — the one of him at the barbecue. ‘ We are very concerned for Mr Milne’s safety. If you have any information, you’ve seen him or spoken to him, we need you to get in touch. ’ Then she was back on the screen again. ‘ Mr Milne was last seen on Sunday night, wearing a green waxed Barbour jacket, red fleece shirt, blue jeans, and tan-coloured boots. ’

Out here, in real life, Steel pointed at the screen. ‘Do my boobs look perkier than usual?’ She stuck a hand down her shirt and fiddled with the contents. ‘Maybe I should wear Susan’s bra more often?’

A microphone popped into shot, clutched in a gloved hand. ‘ Chief Inspector, can you comment on rumours that Peter Shepherd’s death resembles a gangland execution? ’

‘ I’m no’ playing the speculation game, here, Sunshine, I’m appealing for witnesses. ’

Logan drew a breath in through his teeth. ‘Did you really just call the BBC News guy “Sunshine”?’

‘ Martin, if you’re watching this, it is extremely important you get in touch with us. Your family are worried about you. ’

‘I wonder if they do it in a balconette?’ Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle. ‘That’s always good for a bit of jiggly-wobbliness. Susan would like that.’

He shuddered. ‘Can we please not discuss your breasts?’

There was a knock on the doorframe, followed by, ‘I’d ask if I’m interrupting anything, but I think we all know the answer.’ A woman stood with her arms folded. Black suit. Black boots. Black shirt. Long blonde hair tucked behind one fairly large ear and cascading over the other. A strong jaw. The smile she pulled didn’t go anywhere near her eyes, or the bags underneath them. ‘Would someone care to tell me why we put out an appeal on national television?’