Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Steel gave up on her cleavage. ‘Because, Little Miss Undertaker, I’m trying to catch a murderer. That OK with you?’

The smile got colder. ‘That’s Little Miss Superintendent to you.’

Oh great. Their babysitter from C Division.

‘Superintendent, eh? Well, well, well. And you no’ long out of gymslips too.’ Steel held up a finger. ‘And before you go all feral on me: that’s a compliment. Empowered women, glass ceilings, role model to all the wee girls, blah, blah, blah.’

On screen, the reporter handed back to the studio.

Logan picked up the sticky remote and turned the TV off. Stood up straight. ‘Super.’

She didn’t even look at him. ‘Let me guess, you must be Detective Chief Inspector Steel.’

‘Guilty as charged.’

‘And probably a lot more besides.’ The Superintendent leaned against the doorframe. ‘Let’s be clear, DCI Steel, there will be no more maverick behaviour on this case. Your Major Investigation Team works for me now, it does what I tell it to do, and that includes you.’

Steel pursed her lips. ‘Oh aye?’

‘You will not release anything to the media without my authorization. Are we crystal?’

Outside in the corridor, someone coughed.

A phone rang.

The fridge and vending machines hummed.

Then Steel nodded. ‘Guess we are.’

A short man in a double-breasted suit appeared at her elbow. He was all hairy and fidgety, with a full wiry black beard and a Royal Stewart tartan turban. ‘Super? We’ve got the victim’s car. SEB are on their way.’

Logan put the remote down. ‘We’ve got Martin Milne’s car in lockup at Mintlaw, so if—’

The Superintendent pointed at him. ‘Did anyone ask for your opinion, Sergeant McRae?’

OK... How did she know his name?

‘I’m just trying to—’

‘And you’re out of uniform. That suit looks ridiculous. Change.’ She turned to her hairy friend. ‘Narveer, this whole operation smacks of ineptitude and indolence. Gather the senior officers in the incident room. Time to deliver a kick up the jacksie.’

‘Ma’am.’

Then she turned and stormed off, shouting instructions into her mobile phone.

Narveer puffed out a breath. Shook his head. ‘Sorry about that, she’s not usually like this. Don’t know what’s rattled her cage.’ Then he stuck his hand out. ‘DI Singh, I’m Detective Superintendent Harper’s minder, sidekick, and general dogsbody.’

Logan shook it. ‘Logan McRae. This is DCI Steel.’

She waved. ‘Like the turban, Narveer. Very sexy.’

A blush darkened the skin at his cheeks. ‘Right. I’d better... get on with it. Major Incident Room in, about fifteen minutes? That sound OK?’

At least it would give Logan time to change.

Rennie looked Logan up then down again. ‘Thought you were plainclothes now?’

The Major Incident Room bustled with muffled conversations as they waited for Detective Superintendent Harper to appear. Steel had taken the seat at the middle of the table, facing the whiteboard, flanked by two DIs in much better- fitting suits than Logan’s. Two DSs sat on one side, Becky on the other — not talking to anyone, poking away at her phone instead.

Logan straightened the epaulettes on the shoulders of his black Police-Scotland-issue fleece. ‘Our new Central-Belt overlord’s idea of making friends.’

‘Eeek.’ He bared his teeth. ‘Let me guess: bit of a ballbreaker? Tough woman in a man’s world, having to try harder than anyone else to get the same amount of respect?’

‘Or she was just being a dick.’

‘Point.’ He straightened up and dropped his voice to a whisper as the door opened. ‘Talk of the dick and she shall appear.’

Narveer was first in, carrying a stack of paper bags from the Tesco at the end of the road. He dumped them on the table as DSup Harper swept into the room.

She took up position directly behind Steel. ‘Ladies, gentlemen, glad you could join us.’ A bright smile. ‘Can someone get the lights please?’

Rennie scurried off to oblige, plunging the room into semi-darkness. Lit only by the glow of the streetlights outside.

‘Now, do help yourself to cakes while I get this set up.’

There was a rustling of bags and the occasional ‘Oooh!’ as the MIT dug into doughnuts, yumyums, raisin whirls, and custard slices. How to win friends and influence police officers, lesson one: bring cakes.

A roller screen hung on the wall opposite the whiteboard. Harper pulled it down to full size, then pointed a remote at the projector mounted to the ceiling. It hummed and whirred, then a PowerPoint slide appeared on the screen.

Motes of dust drifted in the beam.

Logan dipped into the last bag and came out with an Eccles cake. The rotten sods had taken all the good stuff.

‘O PERATION H OURGLASS ~ B RIEFING S LIDES ’ blurred across the screen, until Narveer stood on a chair and fiddled with the focus.

Harper clicked the button, and a photo of her appeared. ‘In case you don’t know by now, my name is Detective Superintendent Niamh Harper. I work for the Serious Organised Crime Task Force, bridging the gap between Police Scotland and various local and governmental support agencies. I specialize in putting kingpin figures behind bars.’ That smile again. ‘Which is why you’ve been lumbered with me.’

It wasn’t exactly Billy Connolly’s Greatest Hits , but it actually got a chuckle or two from the assembled team.

Click .

A man’s face filled the screen, taken with a long lens probably from a concealed location.

‘Allow me to introduce you to Malcolm McLennan, AKA: Malk the Knife.’

It was a much more candid photo than the one Steel had used at the morning briefing. Middle-aged, receding hairline cropped short. A strange, youthful look to his skin and cheeks, but his eyes peered out from hooded lids. As if he were someone much older wearing a mask.

‘Born twenty-third of April 1960, in a little mining village in Fife. Got into trouble as a kid — low-level stuff, nothing serious — then graduated to the armed robbery of a security van in Edinburgh when he was eighteen. He did four years, and when he came out he was a different man.’

Click .

It was one of the crime-scene photos from the book in Shepherd’s bedroom. The one where a man slumped in a bathroom stall with his throat sliced open. Blood soaked the front of his frilly shirt.

‘Antony Thornton, one-time business associate of McLennan. Word on the street was that Thornton wanted to cut a deal with Lothian and Borders CID, McLennan slashed his throat so deeply the head nearly came off. Nothing could be proved.’

Click .

Another man, this one floating facedown in the harbour, arms and legs spread as if he were playing at being a starfish. ‘David Innes. Drug dealer. Allegedly he was skimming off the top. McLennan gutted him. Again, no evidence, no prosecution.’

Click .

A young man, sprawled across the back seat of a car, eyes wide open, hands curled in his lap. Everything from his chin to his lap was soaked in blood. ‘Edward Tucker—’

‘Aye, no offence,’ Steel brushed pastry crumbs from her cleavage, ‘but fascinating as the history lesson is, Super, when do we get to the bit that’s got anything to do with Peter Shepherd?’

Harper laughed. ‘A very good point, Roberta.’

Roberta? So she’d gone from ‘Do what you’re told’ to first-name terms in fifteen minutes?

She raised the remote. ‘Let’s fast forward a bit.’

Click . Blood. Click . Death. Click . Blood. Click . Bodies. Click . Blood. Click . Death. Click . More bodies.