Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘Yeah, I will... What?... No, we got a tip-off from one of the neighbours. She saw Milne rock up and gave us a call so we wouldn’t worry about him any more... Yeah, OK. Will do... Bye.’

Steel hung up, then squinted out through the windscreen with a pinched face. ‘No idea what we’re going to charge Milne with. Knowing our luck he’ll clam up, call his lawyer, and walk right out again.’

The silhouetted bones of a forest scratched by on the left, before the clouds swallowed the moon again — returning everything to darkness.

Steel had another go at a smoke ring. Failed. ‘Are we having a sulk?’

‘You know what? Fine. I’m off tomorrow and Saturday. You can all stand round in a circle patting each other’s backsides till they fall off. This is nothing to do with me.’

‘Oh no you don’t: you work for me now, remember? All leave is cancelled till— AAAAGH!’

He kept his foot hard on the brake as the Punto slithered on the wet tarmac. It jerked to a halt, sideways across the road, nose inches from a deep ditch.

Steel was frozen in the passenger seat, both hands gripping the dashboard like talons. Eyes wide. Breath coming in tiny gasps. Then she turned her head and stared at him. ‘What the goat-buggering hell do you think you’re—’

‘No.’ The words came out smooth, slow, and level. ‘I’m switching Samantha off tomorrow. Then I’m going into town to clean out the caravan. Then I’m going to get very, very drunk. And if you’ve got a problem with that, my resignation will be on the Inspector’s desk two minutes after we get to Fraserburgh.’

She unpeeled her fingertips from the dust-paled dashboard. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. It’s—’

‘I don’t care if I have to write it on the back of a fag packet, I’m done.’

Steel held up her hands. ‘OK, OK. Two days off.’ She pointed. ‘Now get this bucket of sharny rust turned the right way round, before someone comes round the corner and squishes us.’

Logan swallowed the knots in his throat. Deep breath. Then turned the key in the ignition, doing a four-point turn to get the Punto pointing towards Fraserburgh again. ‘I mean it.’

Reuben, Napier, Harper: they could all tie rocks around their necks and jump in a septic tank. Let them sink in the filth while he disappeared off somewhere warm to start a new life.

Steel reached across the car, took hold of Logan’s leg and squeezed. ‘I know. Sorry.’ She gave him a pained little smile. ‘Force of habit.’

He nodded.

Fields and fences slipped by in the darkness.

She let go of his leg and had a rummage down the front of her shirt instead. ‘Still don’t know what we’re going to charge Milne with.’

‘How about embezzling two hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds?’

She raised her eyebrows and nodded. ‘That might do it.’

‘Then we can figure out how to charge him with Peter Shepherd’s murder.’

‘ For the record, I’m showing Mr Milne exhibit G. Mr Milne, do you recognize this?’

On the little screen, DSup Harper placed a clear plastic evidence bag on the interview room table. The camera was mounted high in the corner, looking down over Harper’s shoulder at Martin Milne. Even from here it was obvious what was inside: a hardback book. That would be the copy of The Blood-Red Line they’d found in Shepherd’s bedroom.

Milne’s solicitor sat next to him, a saggy man in a dark-blue shirt and tan sports coat, looking more like a disappointed father than a legal firebrand. Narveer was next to Harper, scribbling things down in an A4 notebook.

Harper pushed the evidence bag closer to Milne. ‘ Would you like me to repeat the question? ’

Steel dug into her trousers and came out with a ten-pence piece. Clicked it down on the worktop next to Logan’s notepad. ‘No comment.’

A rancid curry smell pervaded the Downstream Observation Suite, as if someone’s rogan josh had died in here and not been given a decent burial.

Logan dug ten pence from his own pocket and clicked it beside Steel’s.

The room wasn’t much more than a cupboard, with a worktop down one side and a couple of creaky plastic chairs. A cluster of pixels were dead on the flatscreen monitor, darkening the top-right corner of the picture like a station ident. A couple of microphones were wired into the wall, on bendy stalks, the ‘T ALK ’ buttons dark and lifeless.

On screen, Martin Milne reached for the evidence bag. Picked it up and blinked at the contents. ‘ It’s a book? ’

Steel slumped. ‘Sod.’

Logan scooped both ten-pence pieces off the surface and stuck them in his pocket.

She folded her arms. ‘What kind of solicitor doesn’t tell their murdering scumbag client to “no comment” everything?’

‘Still, have to admire the guy’s speed. Got up here quick enough.’

‘ Very good, Mr Milne, it’s a book. Do you recognize it? ’

Steel dug out another ten. ‘No.’

Logan clicked one next to it. ‘Yes.’

The little version of Martin Milne lowered his head. ‘ It’s Peter’s. He’s reading it. He likes true crime. ’

‘Gah! Are you kidding me?’

Logan scooped them into his pocket too.

‘ Have you read this book, Mr Milne? ’

Mr Disappointed knocked on the interview room table. ‘ I don’t see what my client’s reading habits have to do with anything, Superintendent. ’

‘ Mr Milne knows. Don’t you, Martin? ’

‘ My client has had a traumatic ordeal. He’s just learned that his business partner and long-time friend has died. He’s cooperated with your inquiry, and now it’s time to let him get back to his family. ’

‘Aye, good luck with that.’

‘ We appear to have different definitions of the word, “cooperated”, Mr Nelson. ’ Harper counted off the interview on her fingers: ‘ Your client “can’t remember” where he’s been for the last five days. He “doesn’t know” when he last saw Peter Shepherd. He has “no recollection” of applying for a loan of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds and countersigning another for seventy-five thousand. He “can’t remember” where— ’

‘ All right, that’s enough. You’re badgering my client. If Mr Milne says he can’t remember, then he can’t remember. ’

Steel stretched out in her seat, arms behind her head. It made her shirt ride up, exposing a gash of pasty skin. ‘This is a complete and utter waste of time.’

‘ Tell me, Mr Milne, is there anything you can remember? ’

Logan jingled the stack of change in his pocket. ‘I had a visit from Napier today.’

‘Oh aye?’

Milne wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘ I can’t believe Pete’s dead... ’

‘Wanted to talk about Jack Wallace.’

‘Did he now?’

‘ I mean, Pete... He and I... ’ A sniff.

Harper leaned forwards. ‘ You were lovers. ’

‘He did.’

‘ What? ’ Milne shook his head. Wiped at his eyes again. ‘ No. Of course we weren’t. I’m married. ’

Steel stretched further, exposing more stomach. ‘He’s got it into his silly little ginger head that I fitted Wallace up on the paedo charge. And do you know why? Because Wallace is a nonce, stuck in HMP Grampian for the next five and a half years, who thinks crying “stitch-up” will get his sentence reduced.’ A hand reached down to scratch at the fishbelly flesh. ‘As if I’d ever do something like that.’

‘ Mr Milne, you are aware that Peter Shepherd photographed your sex sessions, aren’t you? He had them all set up as a slideshow on the TV in his bedroom. Or have you forgotten that as well? ’