Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘It’s only been a week since we turned up Peter Shepherd’s body. Give it time.’

‘A week’s a long time in politics and Police Scotland.’ She folded her arms, narrowed her eyes at the hand-drawn map and the fridge magnets. ‘Are we missing anything?’

‘What about DS McKenzie and DS Robertson? Logan dipped into the Tupperware box. ‘We’ve got a lump of cheese or a sheep playing the bagpipes.’

‘Better make it the bagpipes for McKenzie, she moans enough.’

Logan stuck that magnet on the smaller scrawled map in the corner — Milne’s hotel. The block of cheese went on the other little map — the part-built development where the Milne family home sulked. ‘Shame we can’t co-locate them. Be a lot easier to manage one locus than two.’

‘True. It would free up bodies for the swoop as well.’ Harper picked up a marker pen and twirled it between her fingers and across her knuckles, like a tiny baton. Back and forth, back and forth. ‘Give McKenzie a shout and tell her we want Milne back in the family home whether the wife likes it or not. I doubt anything’s going to happen, not right away. Malk the Knife will want a few days to work on his revenge. Robertson can run the babysitting team.’

Logan settled on the edge of the conference table, next to her. ‘Assuming it’s actually Malcolm McLennan behind it.’

She turned and frowned at him. ‘Why do you always do that?’

‘I’m only saying we should keep an open mind.’

‘No, not that. You never call him Malk the Knife, it’s always Malcolm McLennan.’

‘An old friend once told me you shouldn’t use silly nicknames for your enemies: it’s disrespectful. And when you treat your opponent with disdain, you underestimate them. And when you underestimate them, you give them an advantage.’

She looked him up and down. ‘Might not be as daft as you look, Logan Balmoral McRae.’

‘Thanks, sir.’

Back to the map. ‘Anyway, it’s not as if we’ve got anything on the Jessica Campbell angle. Ricky and Laura Welsh still aren’t talking.’ She stood. ‘Get a car. When I’ve spoken to Narveer, we’ll go make sure Milne isn’t trying to wimp out on us.’

Harper grabbed a folder from the table and marched off.

As soon as the door shut behind her, Logan sagged. Dug out a packet of paracetamol and washed three of them down with a swig of tea. They did nothing to blunt the ache radiating across his chest.

Steel hadn’t moved.

‘Drink your Lemsip.’

‘Urgh...’

‘Don’t know why you bothered coming into work today.’

Steel raised her head from the conference table. ‘I’m dying.’

‘What did I tell you this morning? Stay home, call in sick. But no , you had to play the brave little soldier.’

‘Be nice to me, I’m dying .’

‘And what happened? You snored, gurgled, and farted all the way up here. It was like sharing a car with a malfunctioning septic tank.’

She wrapped her hands around the mug of Lemsip and slurped at it. Then frowned at him with bleary bloodshot eyes. ‘Did we do anything last night?’

Logan turned his back on her and fiddled with the fridge magnets on the whiteboard instead. ‘Do anything?’

‘Yeah, I had this weird feeling we got in a fight or something. And when I woke up my dressing gown was all soggy.’

‘No. Don’t remember that.’

‘I can’t have peed myself, ’cause it was only wet on the front.’

Logan repositioned the old boot, putting it further away from the Christmas tree. How could she not remember admitting she’d fitted up Jack Wallace? ‘Right. Well, I’d better go get that car sorted.’ He hobbled out of the room, nearly colliding with DS Robertson in the corridor.

Robertson backed off a couple of paces, a manila folder held against his chest as if that was going to save him from the impending bollocking when Steel got her hands on him. He nodded at the Major Incident Room door. ‘Is the Creature from the Lesbian Lagoon in?’

Logan grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. She’s likely to go off like Semtex this morning.’

‘Not again .’ He shifted his grip on the folder and fiddled with one of those ridiculous sideburns of his. ‘I’ve got IDs and interviews for some of Milne and Shepherd’s sex partners.’

‘Only some?’

‘Not my fault it’s taking forever, is it? You try getting members of the public to identify someone based on a photo of them humping two blokes. Not as if you can go on Northsound and say, “We’re looking for a double-jointed busty brunette, with a caesarean scar and a hairy mole on her bum, who enjoys kinky threeway fun,” is it? And I’ve got Milne’s family to look after.’

Logan glanced up and down the corridor, then leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘This goes no further than you and me, OK? But...’ Another check. ‘Have you thought about actually going and asking Martin Milne?’

‘But Steel—’

‘Doesn’t need to see your working, she just wants results.’

Which was how she’d got into trouble with Jack Wallace in the first place.

He had a quick check in the corridor outside the locker room. No one about. Then ducked inside. The room was packed with tall, thin lockers in varying shades of battleship grey, green, blue, and beige. They lined the walls, with an island stretching out between the two windows. A hanging rail was set up behind the door, festooned with stabproof vests and high-viz waistcoats, all bearing their owner’s numbered epaulettes.

Logan flicked through them till he got to the vest that used to belong to Deano. Well, he was retired now, he didn’t need it. One last check to make sure no one was watching, then Logan unbuttoned the epaulettes and replaced them with his own.

No one would ever know. Well, unless they did a stock check, and even then there was no evidence that he’d been the one who nicked it.

His own stabproof would quietly disappear, taking with it its tattered front-piece and dented armour plate. Like the cagoule, gloves, plastic bags, and bullet casings had. Leaving nothing to tie him to last night’s fiasco.

Nothing except two eye witnesses, one of whom might well be dead by now. The other of whom would be plotting a very nasty, very bloody, revenge.

Logan pulled the new stabproof vest on, fiddling with the big Velcro tabs until it fit. All those years and it had adapted to Deano’s body shape. It’d take a while to train it to his own. And for some reason, the pockets were full of Starburst wrappers.

He ditched them in the bin, then nipped downstairs to the Sergeants’ Office.

Beaky wasn’t in, so Logan slipped into the seat and logged onto the computer. Scanned through the notifications for the last twelve hours. No sign of anyone being admitted to hospital for gunshot wounds in Aberdeenshire, or Aberdeen City.

Well, there wouldn’t be, would there. Reuben had his own private wee NHS to take care of himself and his people. Go to a hospital with a nine-millimetre hole in you and the doctors were obliged by law to inform the police. Much better to go private.

So was John Urquhart alive or dead?

Logan stared at the screen for a bit, then logged out. Grabbed the Big Car’s keys from the box, and almost made it outside.

‘Sergeant McRae?’

He turned, and there was DS Weatherford, still looking sweaty and harassed. The bags under her eyes had darkened, matching the stains beneath her arms. She shuffled her feet. ‘DS Robertson tells me the guvnor’s a bit... delicate this morning?’

Understatement of the year. ‘One way of putting it.’

Weatherford glanced over her shoulder. ‘It’s not my fault. I’ve tried everything. They won’t prioritize the DNA results unless we fast-track them, and there’s no budget for it. How am I supposed to catch the people who assaulted the pair of you? How ?’