Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Logan nodded. ‘Sir.’

‘Good work. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go explain to our lords and masters why we haven’t made any progress on this bloody case since Thursday.’

When Harper was gone, Steel sagged in her seat. ‘So, are you two shagging yet?’

He stuck two fingers up at her. ‘Did you have to rip a strip off Robertson and Weatherford in front of everyone? Poor sods are doing their best.’

‘Come on, I saw her checking you out all through the briefing. Yesterday she thought you were a two-foot wide skidmark on the hand-towel of life, now she’s throwing you meaningful glances like they’re on buy-one-get-one-free.’ Steel grinned. ‘You shagged her, didn’t you?’

‘She’s my sister . OK?’

‘You shagged your sister? You’re disgusting. Told Susan we shouldn’t have got you that boxed set of Game of Thrones .’

He stood. ‘You know what? I’m glad your ribs hurt. Serves you right.’

Snow-covered fields drifted by the car windows. Robbed of colour, everything looked dead beneath the grey sky.

‘Ooh, I like this one.’ Rennie took a hand off the steering wheel and turned the radio up. The sound of some insipid auto-tuned X-Factor-wannabe cover of a Marilyn Manson song glopped out of the speakers.

Logan reached forward from the back seat and flicked his ear, at almost exactly the same time as Steel clouted him on the shoulder from the passenger seat.

‘Ow!’

A glower from Steel. ‘If you’re thinking of singing along, I’m going to make sure it’s falsetto, understand?’

‘Philistines.’ But he turned the radio down again.

A bright-orange Citroën Saxo lay on its back, half in the ditch at the side of the road and half in the field beyond, scattering a path through the drystane dyke in between. Its oversized spoiler lay six feet away, buckled and torn. A ‘P OLICE A WARE ’ sticker graced its upside-down rear window.

Rennie hooked a thumb at it. ‘Had one of those when I was a boy racer. Mental car.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Logan watched it slide past: big flared wheel arches, twin exhausts, and alloy rims.

It was the same, every winter. Most people drove like little old ladies at the first sign of snow, but the wee loons still screeched about as if nothing had changed.

Steel turned in her seat, grimacing. ‘How come you never said you had a sister?’

‘Didn’t know till last night.’ Logan unhooked his Airwave handset from its clip. Say what you like about having to cart about a heavy stabproof vest all day, but the Velcro straps and armoured panels supported his back and stopped it from moving too much. Which kept the sudden stabs of pain down to a minimum.

‘Oh aye? And did you find out before or after you shagged her?’

‘Grow up.’ He punched the Duty Inspector’s shoulder number into the handset and pressed the talk button. ‘Bravo India, safe to talk?’

‘A McRae always pays his debts.’

‘Seriously, you can stop talking now. Your—’

A man’s voice boomed from the Airwave’s speaker. ‘ Go ahead, Logan. ’

‘Guv, I need in on tonight’s dunt again.’

Inspector Mhor sighed. ‘ Believe it or not, Sergeant, I didn’t float into Fraserburgh on a half-buttered rowie. ’

‘Guv?’

‘ Do you really think the dayshift Duty Inspector doesn’t talk to the backshift one? Inspector McGregor and I go through the roster every day when I hand over to her, and that includes what’s going on with her shift. I know you’ve been seconded to the MIT. ’

‘Yes, but—’

‘ No buts. Sergeant Ashton is running the raid on Ricky Welsh’s house. What, did you think that I’d say yes when McGregor said no? I’m disappointed in you, Sergeant. ’

The rising sun found a chink in the heavy lid of grey, sending blades of gold carving across the white fields.

‘I’m not trying to play anyone off against anyone else, Guv. Detective Superintendent Harper wants me to look into Jessica Campbell’s possible involvement in Peter Shepherd’s death. The drugs at Ricky and Laura’s are the only known link we have up here. So...?’

‘ And Harper’s all right with this? ’

‘It was her idea.’ OK, so that was stretching the truth a bit, but hey-ho.

Up ahead, Whitehills loomed in the distance. Its streetlights gave the place an unhealthy yellow glow.

Still nothing from Bravo India.

They were through the thirty limits before Inspector Mhor’s voice came through the speaker again. ‘ Right. Logan, I’m prepared to put you in charge of the dunt again. But I want a big result from this one — it’s costing us a fortune, so make it count. ’

‘Will do. Thanks, Guv.’

He twisted his Airwave back into place. Finally something was going his way.

Rennie took a right before they got into Whitehills proper, heading down the hill towards Martin Milne’s house.

Steel turned and squinted back at Logan again. ‘You set that whole thing up, didn’t you?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘All that guff about only having Peter Shepherd’s word for it — you just wanted your dunt back.’

‘You heard Detective Superintendent Harper, she thought it was worth investigating.’

‘You manipulative wee sod.’ A smile twitched the corner of Steel’s mouth. ‘I’ve taught you well, young Grasshopper.’

A line of wire fencing appeared on the right, surrounding the suspended building work. It looked as if they weren’t the only ones who’d read that morning’s Sunday Examiner : the media blockade was back. Three outside broadcast vans and a dozen cars were parked on the part-finished road, trails of exhaust coiling out into the morning air. Some of the rustier cars had their passenger windows rolled down a crack, cigarette smoke joining the exhaust fumes.

Their occupants turned to stare at the pool car as it bumped through the potholes.

Rennie parked in front of Milne’s house. ‘Boss?’

‘See if I catch the rancid wee turd who leaked that story?’ Steel curled her lip and scowled through the windscreen. ‘Where are they? Supposed to be babysitters minding the roost.’

No sign of a patrol car. No sign of DS McKenzie, or her minions.

Steel pulled out her phone and fiddled with the screen. Held the thing to her ear. ‘Becky?... Yeah, I’m great, thanks, bit sore, but can’t complain. How are you?... That’s good. Becky, got a wee question for you: WHERE THE GOAT-BUGGERING HELL ARE YOU?’

Rennie flinched, both hands over his ears.

‘No, you’re not, and I know that because I’m sitting outside the house right now ... Angry? Why would I be angry? Oh, wait a minute, now I remember — I TOLD YOU TO KEEP AN EYE ON MARTIN MILNE!.. Yes, I think you better, Sergeant, and when you get here we’ll see how far my left boot will fit up your backside!’

Logan climbed out into the cold, then reached back in for his high-viz jacket.

‘No excuses!’ She glowered at him with her good eye. ‘Door!’ Then back to the phone. ‘No’ you, Becky, McRae’s letting all the heat out. Where was I? Ah, right: WHAT THE HELL DO YOU—’

He thumped the door shut and marched up the driveway to the house.

Rennie scampered along behind, catching up as Logan leaned on the doorbell. He pulled out a little squeezed smile. ‘How you doing? You know, with Samantha, and Superintendent Harper, and your dad, and everything?’

‘Didn’t know you cared.’ Logan stepped back and peered through the frosted glass at the side of the door. No sign of life.

‘No, I mean it. Can’t imagine how hard that kinda thing must be.’ The smile turned into a frown, then he patted Logan on the shoulder. ‘I’m... you know?’