Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

She sighed, then gave his shoulder a squeeze. ‘You’re a silly sod, Laz, you know that, don’t you?’

And then some.

Tufty put a hand on Ricky Welsh’s head and pushed it down as he guided him into the back of the Big Car. Making sure he didn’t mess up those flowing shoulder-length locks of his by battering them against the doorframe.

Once in, Ricky sat all squinted over to one side, unable to sit properly because of his hands being cuffed behind his back.

Soon as Tufty had fastened Ricky’s seatbelt for him, Logan started the car’s engine and fiddled with the rear-view mirror until their new friend’s face filled the reflection. ‘You’re not going to give us any trouble, are you, Ricky?’

‘Bloody dog tried to rip my leg off.’

‘Your dog tried to rip my officer’s face off, so we’re probably even.’

‘I’m in agony here, OK?’

Steel wriggled down in the passenger seat as Tufty climbed in on the other side of Ricky. ‘How long till Fraserburgh?’

Logan turned on the windscreen wipers, grinding away a gritty swathe of ice. ‘Half an hour?’

Outside, two of Mitchell’s team were struggling Laura Welsh into the OSU van. They’d put a spit hood on her — it made her look as if she was wearing a baggy nylon condom on her head. The other two, Stevie Fowler and Nick McDowell were being loaded into a second patrol car.

‘Course you know what’s going to happen, don’t you, Ricky?’ Steel pointed as Harper climbed into the car with Fowler and McDowell. ‘That pair of hipster halfwits will spend the next thirty minutes spilling their guts to Detective Superintendent Harper. All the way from here to Fraserburgh, trying to cut a deal by landing you and your charming wife in the crap.’

The OSU van pulled away from the kerb, headlights scrawling their way across the granite houses as it did a three-point turn.

‘What do you think, Sergeant McRae? How long’s our Rickyboy going to get sent down for?’

Logan did a three-pointer of his own, following the van. ‘Good question. Had to be, what, sixty grand’s worth of heroin in there? Kilo of amphetamine. Plus nine thousand-quid bricks of resin...’ He sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘Fiver says eight years.’

‘Eight years? Aye, if the Sheriff’s in a really good mood. Five quid on twelve to fourteen.’

‘Deal.’

She reached across the car and shook his hand.

Ricky curled his lip. ‘Yeah, good try. I’m completely bricking it back here. Woe is me, etcetera.’ He shifted from side to side in his seat. ‘Amateurs.’

Ah well, it’d been a longshot anyway.

Logan took them out through the town limits, following the OSU van on the road to Fraserburgh.

One last go. ‘Ricky?’ Logan caught his eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘Hamish Mowat only died on Wednesday and you’re already climbing into bed with Jessica Campbell? Not very loyal, is it?’

No reply.

‘How do you think Reuben’s going to feel about that? Think he’s going to be happy?’

Ricky Welsh squirmed for a moment, then shrugged. ‘No comment.’

‘What do you think he’s going to do to you when he finds out?’

‘No comment.’

Maybe Harper would have more luck with Fowler and McDowell? Who knew, maybe Fowler would keep his trap shut about delivering a package for Logan? And maybe pixies and fairies would scamper out of DCI Steel’s backside and buy them all fish suppers for their tea.

Ricky Welsh was probably right, ‘no comment’ was the only way to go.

Steel yawned, showing off grey fillings and a yellow tongue, then slumped in her chair. ‘Time is it?’

Logan checked. ‘Nearly half one.’

Fraserburgh station was coffin quiet, not so much as the creak of a floorboard to break the spell. Wind battered the windows in the Sergeants’ Office, hail crackling against the glass. Outside, the streetlights bobbed and weaved, their pale-yellow glow blurred by the weather.

‘Half one...’ Steel slumped even further, trouser legs riding up to expose pale hairy shins. ‘Bored. Knackered.’

‘So go home.’

‘ And my ribs hurt.’

He shut down his computer. ‘So — go — home.’

‘Feels like someone’s given me a going over with a lawnmower.’ At least that would explain the hairstyle.

‘There’s no point hanging around here. One: we have to wait for everyone’s lawyers to turn up. Two: then we’ve got to wait for them to coach their clients in the ancient art of denying everything. Three: Harper says she’s sitting in on all the interviews, so it’ll take hours before it’s done.’ He stood and stretched, wincing as it pulled at the bruises along his back. ‘Might as well Foxtrot Oscar, go home, and get some sleep.’

Another yawn. ‘Harper? You no’ on first-name terms yet? After all those years you spent swimming about together in your dad’s testicles, think you would’ve developed some sort of bond. Calling each other “Sir” and “Sergeant”. No’ natural.’

‘Why is every woman in my life a pain in the backside?’

Steel grinned. ‘Your own fault for being part of the oppressive patriarchal hierarchy.’ She scratched at her belly. Frowned. ‘I want chips.’

‘Good for you.’ He fastened his equipment belt, then Velcroed on his stabproof vest. ‘Now are you coming or not?’

‘Chips.’ Steel banged on the arms of her chair. ‘Chips, chips, chips, chips, chips!’

So this was what having a toddler was like.

‘Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t—’

A knock on the door, then Narveer poked his turban into the office. His eyes were swollen around the bridge of his nose, a circle of black flecks crusting each nostril. ‘Sergeant McRae? Detective Superintendent Harper would like to see you downstairs regarding the two gentlemen we arrested at the Welshes’. Interview Room Two please.’

Ah.

She’d found out about him and Stevie Fowler.

Well, it had to happen sooner or later.

‘Right.’ Deep breath. A nod. Then he followed Narveer out into the corridor, back straight, chin up.

All the way down the stairs, the Detective Inspector peered at him. Not saying anything.

At the bottom he stopped, put a hand on Logan’s arm. ‘Sergeant McRae, I understand this is probably very difficult for you.’

Now there was an understatement.

‘But I need you to see it from the Super’s point of view.’

Her brother was involved in organized crime. Yeah, that would probably be a bit embarrassing for her. But it wasn’t as if she didn’t have plausible deniability, was it?

‘Sergeant McRae, Logan, just because she’s known about you for years, it doesn’t mean she’s used to the reality of the situation.’

She wasn’t the one who’d end up doing eight years in HMP Glenochil with all the other dodgy police officers and vulnerable prisoners.

‘Give her time, OK? She’s a much nicer person when you get to know her.’

What?

Logan licked his lips. ‘You sure about that?’

‘She’s been an only child her whole life, well, except for the spectre of you and your brother. And now here you are,’ he poked Logan in the shoulder, ‘in the flesh.’ A shrug. ‘Given how much she hated you last week, she’s come a long way.’

Yeah...

‘Anyway, better not keep her waiting.’ Narveer led the way through the station, along its creaky galleon floors, to a bland door with a big ‘2’ painted on it and a laminated sign: ‘NO PERSONS TO BE LEFT UNATTENDED IN THIS ROOM AT ANY TIME’.

Narveer knocked, then opened the door.

Harper was sitting there, on her own. Violating the signage. She tried on a smile. ‘Sergeant McRae, I want you to sit in on the interviews with Fowler and McDowell. I need a result on this one. You did a good job bursting Martin Milne, let’s see if you can do it again.’