Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Pink rushed up Calamity’s cheeks, turning them the same colour as her nose. ‘Ah. Sorry, Sarge. We didn’t know you were...’ She grabbed her bag-for-life and pointed at the front door. ‘We should probably...’

‘Constables Nicholson, Anderson, and Quirrel, this is Detective Superintendent Harper. And before you go any further down that line of thought: no. She’s my sister.’

Tufty squinted at the pair of them, then a smile blossomed on his thin face. ‘Ah, right: I see it now. You’ve both got the same ears!’

‘...useless unprofessional bunch of turdbadgers .’ Steel hurled the newspaper down on the conference table.

No one moved. Ten plainclothes officers, four uniforms, all squeezed into the Major Incident Room and all doing their best not to make eye contact with her.

Steel stomped off to the window, blocking the view of Banff bay and the gently falling snow. ‘Well?’ If anything, she looked worse than she had yesterday. The penguin PJs were gone, replaced by a charcoal-grey suit and red silk shirt, but the bruises had darkened and spread. A pair of truly impressive black eyes sat either side of her bandaged nose, their edges fading to green and yellow. The bruise on her cheek was the colour of over-ripe plums.

She glared at them out of her one good eye, the other still swollen up like a pudding. ‘Didn’t think so. Well believe me: I’m no’ forgetting and I’m no’ forgiving this. I find out which one of you gave the Sunday Examiner an exclusive, I’ll make sure you walk squint for a month. Understand?’

Someone cleared their throat.

Logan leaned back against the wall, keeping as still as possible. Every movement sent needles and knives jabbing through his back, ribs, and stomach.

More glowering from Steel. ‘Now, who fancies a bollocking?’ She raised a finger and pointed at the assembled officers one at a time: ‘Eenie, meenie, miny, mo, catch a slacker by the toe.’ The finger stopped with DS Robertson and his sideburns. ‘You, Pop Larkin, where’s my list of Milne and Shepherd’s sexual conquests?’

Pink bloomed across the skin above that ridiculous facial hair. ‘It’s not as easy as you’d think. I’m trying to get names for all the faces, but—’

‘THEN TRY HARDER!’ Steel mashed her hand against the table, making everyone flinch. ‘This is a murder investigation, not a game of sodding Cluedo. When I tell you to do something, you bloody well do it!’

The blush deepened. ‘Yes, Guv.’

‘Next! Which one of you idiots is meant to be hunting down the animals who attacked me and Buggerlugs McRae over there?’

There was a pause, then DS Weatherford raised her hand.

Suddenly, Steel was all sweetness and light. ‘Ah, Donna. Good. Tell me, Donna, have you caught them yet?’

‘Well...’ She glanced around the room, but no one would look at her. ‘Not as such , you see—’

‘WHY THE BLOODY HELL NOT?’

Weatherford shrank back in her seat. ‘There’s no fingerprints! And we can’t get DNA back till—’

‘AAAARGH!’ Steel bashed the table again. ‘This is what I’m talking about. Every single one of you: it’s not your fingers you need to get out, it’s your whole buggering fist!’

Then Harper stood. ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector.’ She pointed at the actions written on the whiteboard. ‘You all know what you’ve got to do, so go out there and do it. And try to keep your big mouths shut this time.’

Chairs scraped back and the MIT team scurried out, heads low, no doubt suitably motivated from being shouted at for the last ten minutes.

Logan waited till the door shut to sink into one of the vacated chairs. Winced. The knives were out again. He hissed out a breath.

Steel stuck two fingers up at him. ‘Don’t start. You’re getting no sympathy from me. Want to know what pain is? Try this on for size.’ She hauled her shirt up, exposing her side. The paisley-pattern map of Russia she’d complained about yesterday was there in all its blue, green, and purple glory. It stood out bright and clear against the milk-bottle skin, disappearing under the line of a scarlet bra.

‘God’s sake, put it away.’ He grimaced and turned his head away. ‘Trying to make me lose my Weetabix?’

‘Cheeky wee sod.’

Harper took her place at the head of the table. ‘All right. I think that’s quite enough banter. Let’s focus on the problem at hand.’ She sat back, steepling her fingers. ‘How much damage does this cause us, Roberta?’

Steel sniffed, then picked up the Sunday Examiner again. Opened it out so the front page was on display. A big photo of Martin Milne stared out at them beneath the headline, ‘M URDER S USPECT “ W ORKING W ITH P OLICE” S AYS O FFICER ’. She dumped it back on the table. ‘No’ exactly great news, is it?’

‘Well, I suppose it would be naïve of us to think Malk the Knife wouldn’t expect something like this. The question is: does it change anything? Logan?’ The smile that accompanied his name was brittle, but at least it was there. Keeping it professional.

He pulled the paper closer.

An anonymous source on the Major Investigation Team confirms that Martin Milne (30) is working with Police Scotland to identify the people responsible for last week’s murder of his lover, Peterhead businessman Peter Shepherd (35). Mr Shepherd’s body was discovered in woodland south of Banff...

Well, if Milne was planning on keeping his relationship with Shepherd a secret, it was too late now.

Logan sucked on his teeth, staring at the picture. ‘If I were Malcolm McLennan, and I knew the police were watching, there’s no way I’d get Milne to smuggle things into the country for me now. Far too risky.’

‘So our whole operation is ruined, because someone on the MIT can’t keep their big mouth shut.’

‘Assuming Malcolm McLennan had anything to do with it in the first place. He denied it at the funeral...’ Frowning hurt, but Logan did it anyway. ‘What if it’s all a big distraction? Killing Peter Shepherd like that, leaving him lying about for people to find, it’s a bit high profile, isn’t it? We were always going to connect his body to McLennan. And then connect Shepherd to Milne. Maybe that’s the idea?’

‘True.’ Harper stared at one of the room’s windows.

Outside, the lights of Macduff were just visible through the pre-dawn gloom. Snow clung to the hill over there, pale blue and deep.

Steel prodded at the skin around her swollen eye. ‘What about one of the other scummers? Black Angus MacDonald, or Ma Campbell?’

Logan tapped at the table with a fingertip. ‘Could be. Campbell’s got drugs in Macduff already, maybe this is her way of making sure we’re all focusing our attention on McLennan instead of her? Make enough noise and the signal gets hidden.’

‘Hmmm...’ Harper kept her eyes on the window. ‘What about the money Milne and Shepherd borrowed?’

‘The only reason Milne thinks it came from Malcolm McLennan is because Shepherd told him it did. They could have been dealing with anybody and Milne wouldn’t have known, would he? Plus it means the local mob believe McLennan ’s the one moving in on their turf, not Jessica Campbell. Any retaliation’s going to be aimed at Edinburgh, not Glasgow.’

A knock on the door, and Narveer poked his head in. Today’s turban was a greeny-blue tartan with yellow lines through it. ‘Super? That’s the Assistant Chief Constable on the phone for you.’

‘Thank you, Narveer.’ She stood. ‘We can’t afford to take our eye off Milne, but I agree it’s possible this is all sleight of hand. Logan, I want you to look into the Ma Campbell angle. Get descriptions of anyone Milne met with and see if they match. See if we can turn down the noise a bit and let the signal come through.’