Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Logan stared at the back of her head as she fiddled about with teabags and spoons. ‘Where did you get the images?’

‘Oh, you’d no’ believe the things you can confiscate if you know the wrong people.’

Oh God.

Logan buried his face in the bag of frozen peas. ‘You fitted him up.’

‘Got loads of those photos left too, you know: if you ever need someone off to the jail?’

‘That’s not “bending the rules”! That’s snapping the damn things in half, then setting them on fire, then peeing on the smouldering ashes.’ Gah. He threw the petits pois down on the countertop. ‘How many times have you done it? How many people have you sent to prison on faked evidence?’

Steel dug out the steaming teabags and hurled them into the sink. ‘We hold a position of trust , Laz. It’s no’ about following the rules or ticking the boxes on this or that procedure, it’s about justice. Proper justice for the poor sods out there getting brutalized and attacked and raped and killed.’

He threw his arms out, as if blocking the way. ‘We’ve got rules for a reason! You can’t—’

‘Justice! And yeah: so I fitted Wallace up, so what? He bloody well deserved it.’

‘Napier was right.’

‘Napier’s a dick.’ She slopped milk into the mugs, then thumped one down in front of Logan hard enough to send a beige wave slopping over the side. ‘And he’s got sod all on me.’

‘The created dates on the images show they were all copied onto his machine in two batches.’

‘Doesn’t prove anything. If Napier had evidence he wouldn’t need you crawling about like a cut-price Columbo.’

‘God’s sake.’ He sat back.

She sat forward. ‘OK, so it was wrong. You happy now? I — was — wrong. But what the hell was I supposed to do? Jack Wallace raped Claudia Boroditsky, he raped Rosalyn Cooper. She killed herself because of him. It’s what he does.’ Steel poked the table again. ‘You want people like that running about when Jasmine’s growing up? Stalking her in nightclubs? Following her home?’

‘It’s not—’

‘But it’s OK. Don’t you see?’ A smile bloomed across Steel’s face. ‘You’re on the investigation . You can make sure Napier gets sod all, and if anything does come up, you lose it. And you make sure it stays lost.’

‘Christ.’ He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the bag of defrosting peas.

‘You owe me that, Logan. You owe me.’

The ceiling seemed like miles away in the gloom. Logan lay on his back, staring up at it. Every breath ached, but it was difficult to tell if the pain was from the battering his chest and ribs had got, or if it was something deeper. Something under the skin. Something malignant.

She’d fitted Wallace up.

So what? He’d killed Eddy Knowles. Tried to kill Reuben too. And failed.

Who came off worse in that comparison: the police officer who breaks the rules to get a rapist off the street, or the one who tries to murder a mob boss to save his own skin?

It wasn’t as if he’d had any choice though, was it? It—

‘Oh shut up.’ His voice barely bruised the silence.

‘Yes, but I didn’t have any—’

‘What’s the point of going over and over this? You think you did what you had to. So does she.’ Logan checked his watch. ‘It’s two in the morning. Go to sleep.’

‘Jack Wallace wasn’t going to kill her, though, was he?’

The bed creaked beneath Logan as he hissed and grunted his way over onto his side. ‘Got to be at work tomorrow.’

‘Napier’s not going to stop, you know that, don’t you?’

For God’s sake.

Logan sighed.

‘Of course he isn’t.’ The house was graveyard quiet.

‘So what are we going to do?’

‘Thought I told you about that: no plurals.’

‘OK, so what am I going to do? Cover for her, or tell the truth?’

‘She’d cover for you.’

‘Maybe she shouldn’t.’ The pillow was soft against his bruised face. ‘You can’t fit people up. If you do, you’re no better than Reuben, or Malcolm McLennan, or Jessica Campbell. The rules are there for a reason .’

‘So tell the truth.’

‘I can’t .’

‘What did you tell Reuben? We can’t make evidence disappear, the police force doesn’t work that way any more. The law applies to everyone. Him, me, even Steel.’

‘Look, let’s... sleep on it. See how we feel in the morning.’

‘I feel sick.’

Snow clattered against the bedroom window.

‘So do I.’

Detective Superintendent Harper raised an eyebrow. ‘What happened to her?’

Steel slumped at the end of the conference room table, head buried in her hands. Not moving.

Logan shrugged. ‘Coming down with a bit of a cold.’

The sound of voices came from the locker room below their feet, singing from the shower room across the hall, someone coughing a lung up on the landing outside. The sounds of Banff station lurching its way through another day of MIT infestation.

‘Hmm...’ Harper stared at him. ‘And you? Break up another fight outside a pub?’

He pointed at the sticking plasters, freckling his face. ‘Need to buy a new razorblade, this one’s blunt.’

Becky eased her way into the room, holding a tray covered in mugs. She bared her teeth. ‘Right.’ The smile she pulled on wouldn’t have fooled a house brick as she thumped the tray down on the table. ‘Anything else I can get you, or should I go and maybe do some actual police work?’

‘Thank you, DS McKenzie.’ Harper helped herself to a coffee. ‘While we’ve got you, how about an update on Martin Milne?’

‘Climbing up the walls. Worried about his wife and kids. Moaning about how someone should be organizing Peter Shepherd’s funeral.’ She scowled at the tray of mugs as Logan picked up a coffee and a Lemsip for Steel, then grabbed a tea for himself. ‘If we weren’t watching him round the clock, Milne would be off.’

‘Suppose we’d better pay him a visit.’ Harper sipped at her coffee, grimaced slightly. ‘This is great, thanks. If you pass DI Singh on the way down, let him know I’m looking for him.’

‘Yes, Super.’ Becky turned and flounced off, curly brown hair bobbing along behind her like an angry pompom.

Logan nudged Steel’s shoulder. ‘Drink your drinks.’

‘Urgh.’

Harper sniffed. ‘Tell me, Detective Chief Inspector, does your sudden illness have anything to do with the funeral and wake yesterday?’

Steel surfaced barely long enough to show off her two black eyes and the bags underneath them. ‘It was howfing it down with snow the whole time. Talk about freezing? Still can’t feel my toes.’ She even threw in a cough or three for good measure.

‘Quite.’ Harper turned to face the whiteboard, where someone had drawn out the harbour at Gardenstown along with the surrounding streets and the only two roads out of town. An assortment of fridge magnets were stuck to the board. ‘Remind me again, who’s the Eiffel Tower?’

Logan checked the list. ‘DI Singh’s team. You’re the penguin in a sombrero, Rennie is the canal boat, DS Weatherford is Thomas the Tank Engine—’

‘I have never known a police station that had to resort to stolen fridge magnets.’

‘I’m the Christmas tree, and DCI Steel is the old boot.’

‘Hmmm...’ Harper edged closer. ‘She doesn’t really have a cold, does she?’

‘Been mainlining Strepsils and Lockets all the way up here.’ Which was a lie.

Harper stared at the board. ‘This has to work. The top brass are already complaining about the budget on this investigation, if this is another disaster...’ She bared her teeth. ‘I need a result, Logan. I need it tonight.’