Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Milne nodded, eyes still fixed on his shoes.

‘Good. Now, you get packed.’

Logan rested his forearms on the steering wheel as Narveer escorted Martin Milne up the drive to his house. No sign of the media today. The small development was buried under a couple feet of snow, everything anonymized by the rounded white blanket. The only thing not covered in snow was the other patrol car, parked up at the junction. Its occupants sat upright, making a big show of being vigilant, as if they hadn’t been reading newspapers and eating crisps when Logan had pulled up in the Big Car.

Reuben was pulling in favours. That meant whatever was coming his way, it was coming soon. Someone brighter might attack the people he loved first, destroy everything around him, but not Reuben. He wouldn’t have the patience. No, he’d want his revenge up close and personal. And he’d want to be there to see it happen.

Mind you, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t eventually get around to punishing the people Logan cared about... The patrol car parked outside the house would keep Susan, Naomi, and Jasmine safe for a while, but Police Scotland wouldn’t keep it there forever. And as for Steel...?

He cleared his throat. ‘Did you mean what you said?’

Harper looked up from her mobile phone, thumbs tapping away at the screen. ‘About what?’

‘Doing the right thing.’

‘Course I did.’ Back to the phone. ‘Look at Auschwitz, or Rwanda, or Somalia, all that human suffering because people didn’t do the right thing. They pretended it was nothing to do with them, they looked after number one. That’s how civilization dies.’

Milne and Narveer had reached the front door. They stood there, waiting on the top step.

‘No matter what it costs?’

‘No matter what it costs.’

The door opened and Katie Milne blocked their way, arms folded, face lined and heavy. She looked as if she’d aged ten years since Sunday.

Milne put his suitcase down and held out his arms, as if he was expecting a hug.

She slapped him.

‘What if it costs you everything?’

‘Then you do it anyway.’ Harper put her phone away. ‘But Milne’s not losing anything, he threw it all away when he cheated on his wife and decided to run away with his boyfriend.’

Katie landed another couple of blows before Narveer stepped in and broke it up. He grabbed both her wrists and spoke to her — the words inaudible from inside the Big Car. Whatever he was saying, it seemed to be working. Her shoulders dropped, then her head. Then she turned and walked into the house, leaving the door open behind her.

Narveer patted Milne on the back, watched him pick up his suitcase and shuffle inside, then followed him.

Then you do it anyway.

Logan checked the dashboard clock. ‘That’s it gone twelve. Do you want to—’

The phone in Harper’s hand launched into some hip-hop song and she swore. Held it to her ear. ‘Boss. How are you— Yes... Yes, I know... We’re all—’ She glanced across the car at Logan, then turned in her seat to face the window, showing him her back. ‘I understand that, sir, but everything’s in hand. Soon as they unload the boat at Gardenstown, we’ll arrest Malcolm McLennan’s people and—... Yes, sir... That’s the plan. We’ll—’ She put her other hand over her eyes, fingers digging into her temple. ‘I know that, sir. Yes... OK. We’ll keep you updated... Bye.’ Harper lowered her phone to her lap. ‘Oh joy.’

Logan turned the key in the ignition. ‘Pressure?’

‘It never changes. Doesn’t matter how high up the tree you climb, there’s always another monkey further up trying to crap on you.’ She puffed out a breath. ‘Maybe we should head over to Peterhead and have another crack at Laura and Ricky Welsh? See if we can find something concrete linking them to Jessica Campbell.’

He made a seesaw motion with one hand. ‘Doubt they’ll say anything. They used to deal for Hamish Mowat’s operation, if it gets out they’re playing on Campbell’s team someone’s going to have a pop at them in prison. Doesn’t matter how tough you are if they stick a homemade knife in your back.’

‘Maybe you can work the same magic you used on Martin Milne and Steven Fowler?’

It was worth a go. ‘I can try.’

Anything to put off the phone call he had to make.

No matter what it costs.

Ricky Welsh had a scratch at the tattoo encircling his neck. Its ink had faded to a gritty blue on his yoghurt-pot skin. He tipped his head to one side, letting his hair swing. ‘No comment.’

Logan pulled the next photo from the folder. ‘I am now showing Mr Welsh a photograph of exhibit D, nine blocks of cannabis resin, each with an estimated street value of one thousand pounds.’ He slid the picture across the table. ‘Do you recognize these, Ricky?’

‘No comment.’

Sitting next to him, Welsh’s lawyer couldn’t have looked more bored if he’d tried. The bald patch on top of his head was spreading along with his waistline. His suit a bit shiny at the elbows. He’d gone to university for this? Where was the strutting about in front of the jury, making rousing speeches and jabbing his finger at things? Scoring points and rescuing the innocent from travesties of justice. Instead, he was trapped in a cramped over-warm room, on a snowy Tuesday afternoon, in Fraserburgh, with a client who’d probably spent more time in court than he had.

‘We found these in your living room, Ricky.’

‘No comment.’

‘If you didn’t put them there, who did?’

‘No comment.’

Harper sighed. Checked her watch. As if that was going to make any difference.

Logan put another photo on the table. A surveillance shot of someone’s mum, chunky and unthreatening, wearing a grey jacket over a floral dress. Her afro was streaked through with grey spirals, skin the colour of polished mahogany. ‘Do you recognize this woman, Ricky?’

His eyes flicked to the picture and away again. ‘No comment.’

‘No? We have information that the cannabis resin in your house belongs to her.’

The solicitor yawned. Sighed.

‘No comment.’

Yeah, this was going to take a while.

Logan ran a hand through his stubbly hair. Blew out a breath. It thickened in front of his face, turning into a cloud of white that slowly faded into the falling snow.

The prison car park had been ploughed and gritted, mounds of dirty white piled up in the far corner like a mini mountain range. A lot of effort for the half-dozen cars sitting there, their paintwork slowly disappearing under the fresh fall.

He shifted his phone from one hand to the other and blew onto his frozen-sausage fingers.

Come on: one last bit of good before Reuben came for him and took it all away. Make the call.

Can’t.

No matter what it cost, remember?

Yes, but—

Either it’s the right thing to do, or it isn’t. Pick one.

A big fat seagull waddled across the tarmac, glaring up at him as if he’d done something to offend it.

The phone in his hand rang, making him flinch so hard he almost dropped it. ‘Hello?’

Harper’s voice came from the speaker. ‘ Logan? That’s them bringing Laura Welsh up now. Maybe we’ll have more luck with her than Ricky? ’

‘It couldn’t go any worse, could it? I’ll be there in a minute.’

‘ OK. ’

The line went dead.

Logan scrubbed a hand across his face, setting the bruises and tiny punctures stinging. Then turned and marched inside.

‘No comment.’ Laura Welsh barely fit in the interview room chair.

Her solicitor was nearly sideways in his seat, trying not to get squished by those broad shoulders. A small man in a pinstriped suit that needed a bit of a clean. His fingers skittered along the edge of his notepad, the pen almost vibrating as he wrote ‘N O C OMMENT ’ in it. Probably wondering who he’d offended at the Scottish Legal Aid Board to make them lumber him with Laura Welsh.