Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘ Gah... It’ll be a cluster-hump of credit-stealing egomaniacs, all pulling rank on each other. You know what? I’ve changed my mind. You can keep it. ’ She hung up.

‘Thanks a heap.’

The blowers were still churning away at the fog and ice. Going to take a while.

Of course what he should be doing was sorting out the insurance on the caravan. He let his head fall back against the rest and glowered up at the Punto’s ceiling. Yes, because that wasn’t going to look suspicious, was it?

Oh, Mr McRae, I see you became the legal owner of the static caravan when you switched off your girlfriend’s life support. And two days later you’re making an insurance claim because it’s burned to the ground. Hmm...

No doubt about it, this was turning out to be a spectacular year.

Hadn’t even got the damn thing on the market before someone torched the place.

The question was: who set the fire? Which one of Reuben’s minions?

Well he didn’t need a team of fire investigators to find out. Logan poked John Urquhart’s number into his phone and waited for him to pick up.

‘ Yello? ’

‘Who burned down my caravan?’

‘ Mr McRae? Dude. How you feeling today? ’

‘Which one of Reuben’s little helpers did it? I want a name.’

‘ That was a serious bash on the head you got. ’

‘Give me a sodding name!’

Silence from the other end of the phone.

The clear glass inched higher.

‘ It wasn’t Reuben who did it, it was me. ’

‘It was you ? What the bloody hell did you—’

‘ Thought you’d be pleased! The caravan was spattered with blood: yours and Eddy’s. DNA everywhere, signs of a struggle... Now there’s no forensic evidence tying you to anything. You said all that stuff was going to the charity shop or the tip anyway, so I torched the lot. ’

‘Ah.’

‘ Doesn’t matter how hard they look, no one can put you and Eddy together in the same place. He’s gone, the snowglobe’s gone, the crime scene’s gone. You’re in the clear. ’

If only it was that easy.

Wind rattled the hotel room window, hurling clumps of sleet against the glass.

Martin Milne sat on the end of the single bed with his head in his hands.

A small, drab hotel room in a small, drab hotel, with views out over the churning sea. Just the place if you wanted to gear yourself up for a suicide attempt. Which, going by the state of Milne, was a distinct possibility.

His voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. ‘She threw me out.’

Now there was a shock.

Logan pulled the printouts from his jacket pocket. ‘I need you to look at some faces for me, Martin. See if any of them are the men you spoke to about the loan.’

‘Said I was poisonous.’ Milne took the photos. Frowned.

‘We need to find these people, Martin. It’s important.’

‘I’ll never get to see Ethan again. He’s my world...’

Yeah right. If Milne was that concerned about his son he wouldn’t have been running away to Dubai with Peter Shepherd. Abandoning the poor wee sod to grow up without a father. Made you sick.

Logan folded his arms. ‘Martin? Where were you? After they killed Peter Shepherd, where did you go?’

He moved on to the next photograph. ‘Where did I go?’

‘You went missing for four days. Everyone was worried about you. Katie was worried about you.’

‘She’s never going take me back, is she?’

Of course she wasn’t.

‘Give her time.’

A nod. ‘After...’ He bit his lip. Sniffed. ‘I hid in the woods the first night. Too scared to sleep in case they came back. Next day it poured rain, I walked and walked and walked.’ Milne frowned. ‘An old man gave me a lift to Turriff in his van. Got myself a B-and-B and stayed in my room with the curtains shut.’ His chin came up. ‘And then I realized how selfish I was being. I had to go home and protect my family. Protect my son.’ The chin dropped again. ‘How am I supposed to protect him if she won’t let me in the house?’

Logan put a hand on his shoulder. Tried for a consoling smile. ‘Katie’s angry. Probably feels betrayed, lied to, used. It’ll take her a while to get past that.’

A nod.

‘You want to keep Ethan safe, don’t you?’

Another nod.

‘So look at the pictures and see if you recognize the men you and Peter spoke to.’

Milne took the printouts and frowned at the faces. Took his time.

Muffled voices came through the wall from the room next door, followed by the jingly sound of a cartoon on the TV.

Out in the corridor, someone marched past.

Milne pointed at one of the pictures. ‘This kind of looks like the guy they called Three.’

‘Anyone else?’

He shook his head. ‘Wasn’t really paying attention when I met them.’ A small laugh burst free, strangled and ragged. ‘Pete and me had been talking all morning about running off to Dubai together. They’re not keen on... you know, men being together, but Pete said we could make it work. If we were discreet. And the money was great .’

Logan stared at him. ‘And what about Ethan? While you’re off earning heaps of cash in Dubai, what happens to your son?’

Milne picked at the bedspread, keeping his eyes on his fingers. ‘We were going to take him with us.’

Aye, right.

‘There were only two visas, Martin.’

‘I got a ninety-day one for him online. See if he liked living with us in Dubai before making it permanent...’ A shrug. ‘Don’t suppose it matters now.’

Logan took the printouts back and drew a number three on the photo Milne had chosen. The man in the picture had swept-back brown hair and a proper soup-strainer moustache. As if he were channelling an Eighties porn-star.

Milne wiped at his eyes. ‘Don’t suppose anything matters now.’

Becky was waiting for Logan as he stepped back into the corridor. ‘McRae.’

He closed the door to Milne’s hotel room. ‘DS McKenzie.’

She jerked her chin towards the exit. ‘ She out there, is she?’

‘What, Steel? No.’ He tucked the folder of mugshots under his arm. ‘Look, whatever the pair of you are fighting about, it’s got nothing to do with me. I just go where I’m told.’

‘Scrotum-faced old cow.’ Becky folded her arms. ‘All she does is shout and whinge and make sarcastic comments.’

‘Yup.’

‘You know she screwed up the overtime log for January? The whole month. Again. How am I supposed to put two kids through university and pay the bloody mortgage if she keeps screwing up the overtime?’

Logan held a hand up. ‘Preaching to the choir. You want some advice?’

‘No.’

‘Fine.’ He turned and walked to the exit. Got as far as the door before Becky thundered down the corridor after him.

She grabbed him by the arm. ‘OK, what?’

‘Steel can’t be arsed doing the paperwork, so she makes a mess of it till someone steps in and does it for her. You want your overtime paid? You’re going to have to take one for the team, or talk someone else into it.’

Becky’s face crumpled. ‘But it’s her job!’

‘I did it for nine years. Tell me about it.’ He pushed through into the hotel reception, a bland beige space with dying pot plants and an ugly carpet.

‘I hate being a police officer!’

Join the club.

Sleet spattered the windscreen. A couple of people hurried by the car, heads down, shoulders up, teeth bared. They didn’t look at the funeral home.

Logan propped the printout up against the steering wheel. ‘According to the National Crime Agency, it’s one Adrian Brown, AKA: Brian Jones, AKA: Tim Donovan.’