Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Oh great.

Sit in a little room, trying to get the guy who was meant to deliver an illegal package to him to incriminate himself without mentioning Reuben, or Logan, or the illegal package.

Because that was going to go so well.

And it’d be videoed, so they’d have him on record fiddling the truth.

Wonderful.

Eight years for being concerned in the supply of controlled drugs — Contrary to Section 4(3)(b) of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971, M’lord — and another eight for trying to pervert the course of justice.

Hurrah.

‘Are you all right, Sergeant? Only I thought you’d be pleased at this show of faith.’

‘Yes.’ He pulled on a smile of his own. It hung there like a scar. ‘Thank you.’

Screwed, screwed, screwed, screwed, screwed.

‘For the record, I am now showing Mr Fowler exhibit Sixteen A.’ Harper held up an evidence bag full of small white pills. ‘Do you recognize these, Steven?’

The interview room smelled of aftershave and tobacco, both of which oozed out of Fowler as if he’d been drenched in them. He’d been stripped of his hoodies, sandshoes, and skin-tight jeans and given a white SOC suit instead — rustling every time he moved. ‘Are they pills of some kind?’ Playing it wide-eyed and innocent.

At least it made a change from the usual ‘no comment’.

‘Seriously, Steven?’ She glanced at Logan. ‘Can you believe this guy?’

Fowler shrugged and spread his hands. ‘What am I supposed to say? They look like some sort of pill to me.’

‘What kind of pill?’

‘I’m doing my best to cooperate. I could have lawyered up and I didn’t, did I? I really want to help, but me and Nick were only there to look at a mountain bike. If I’d known they were drug dealers we’d never have gone. Honestly.’

Harper stared at him. Then wrote something down in her notebook, tore the page off, folded it, and handed it to Logan: ‘F EEL F REE T O A CTUALLY C ONTRIBUTE A T S OME P OINT .’

Well, there was probably no point putting it off any longer.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Have you been in the market for a mountain bike for long, Steven?’

‘Yeah. Totally.’

‘I see. Good. And what do you do, when you’re not shopping for second-hand bicycles? Got a job?’

Pink bloomed in Fowler’s cheeks. ‘Not at the moment.’

‘I see.’

He shifted in his seat, then ran a hand across his sideways quiff as if checking it was still there. ‘I’m not on benefits or anything, OK? Got made redundant last week, that’s all.’

‘I see.’

‘Me and Nick worked as roustabouts for two years... then the oil price, you know?’

Silence.

‘Wasn’t our fault. Everyone says they’re tightening their belts, yeah? Well, their belts are cutting off our circulation. How am I supposed to support my kids with no job?’

‘I see.’

Fowler leaned forwards, shoulders scrunched up around his ears. ‘It’s not easy out there. Yeah, I got my redundancy, but it’s not going to last, is it? Got to make your own way in the world, can’t rely on handouts, can you?’

Logan tapped his pen against his notebook. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like a metronome.

Fowler stared at it. ‘Man’s got to work. That’s what we wanted the bike for. Going to start a messenger service in Aberdeen. Point-to-point for oil companies and that, you know?’

Tap. Tap. Tap.

‘I mean, everyone’s got packages they need delivered, right? Letters and bids and tenders and things. Stuff you can’t email.’

Tap. Tap. Tap.

‘And that’s why we were there. Need to buy a couple of bikes to get it off the ground.’

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He wrapped his arms around himself. ‘See. Nothing weird about it. Just two blokes trying to pay their way.’

Tap. Pause. Tap. Pause. Tap...

Harper sighed. ‘Interview suspended at one forty.’ She pressed the button, then stood. ‘I suggest we take a comfort break and reconvene in five minutes. Sergeant McRae will look after you.’

As soon as the door shut behind her, Logan leaned forward, mirroring Fowler. ‘Steven? I know who you are.’

Fowler blinked at him.

‘You’re already delivering packages, aren’t you? That bit of your story was true.’

He bit his top lip and stared at the tabletop. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

‘Oh come off it, Steven, I know, OK? Reuben — the package, hiding it?’ He picked up the notebook and slammed it down again. ‘I know .’

Fowler flinched. His shoulders trembled. ‘I don’t... It... We...’

‘You were supposed to drop off a package.’

‘Oh Christ...’ He scrubbed a hand across his face, as if he was trying to rub some life back into it. ‘Who told you?’

‘Well?’

‘Yes. There was a package.’ Fowler scooted forward in his seat, talking low and fast. ‘Look, it hasn’t been easy, OK? The redundancy. It’s... I need to make money. I’ve got two kids and an ex who thinks I’m made of the bloody stuff. So I do a bit of delivery driving, it’s no big deal, is it? A bit of picking up and dropping off?’ He bared his teeth. ‘Only I need a lot more than picking-up and dropping-off money. So I thought, why not? I mean, it’s not like this Reuben guy’s going to shop me to the police if I nick his drugs, is it? How’s he even going to know?’

Really?

‘I think he might notice.’

‘No, think about it: I pull a fast one at the handover, I keep the stuff but give them fake pills. Nick films it on his phone, so it all looks cool. See? We gave the guy the stuff, so it must be them what stole it, not us. We’re in the clear.’ Fowler bit his bottom lip. ‘All’s fair in love and dealing, right?’

‘All’s fair? Have you any idea what Reuben does to people who steal...’ Logan narrowed his eyes. Wait a minute: give the guy the stuff? The guy . Not Logan . Steven Fowler had no idea who he was. ‘What about this guy you were meant to deliver the package to?’

‘What about him? Probably some drug-dealing scumbag. Not like anyone’s going to miss him.’ Fowler raised his nose. ‘If you think about it, I’m doing society a favour.’

He didn’t have a clue.

‘Who is he: the guy who’s getting the package? Name?’

A shrug made the SOC suit crackle. ‘First parking spot, west of Portsoy, half two Tuesday morning is all I got. No names.’

The details were exactly the same as Urquhart had given him. Only Urquhart had trusted Logan with Stevie Fowler’s name.

He really didn’t know.

A smile crept across Logan’s face.

Fowler pulled his chin in and sat back. ‘What? What’s so funny?’

Maybe he could get away with this after all?

Harper sighed her way back into her seat. Clicked the button on the recording unit. ‘Interview recommences at one thirty-seven.’

Logan gave her a grin. ‘Mr Fowler would like to make a statement, wouldn’t you, Steven?’

He twisted his head to one side, shoulders up. The sideways quiff was developing a distinct droop. ‘Yeah.’

‘Just tell Detective Superintendent Harper what you told me.’

Fowler puffed his cheeks out, then nodded. ‘OK, here’s the thing...’

Harper stared down the corridor as Fowler was led back to the cells. Then she turned to Logan. ‘How did you do that?’

He closed the interview room door. ‘Got lucky, I suppose.’

‘No. I was only gone for six minutes and when I got back, there he was singing like a parakeet. You did the same thing with Martin Milne.’

‘You want to take a quick pop at McDowell too? Let him know Fowler’s trying to dob him in as the brains of the operation.’