Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘Yup.’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘You want me to get onto the team watching Milne’s house? Make sure the wee sod’s still there?’

‘He better be. Because if no one turns up, he and I are going to have words .’

Harper hunched forward, nose nearly touching the dashboard, staring at her watch. ‘Eight o’clock.’ She bared her teeth. ‘They’re not coming. Assuming they ever were.’

Logan struggled his way into the high-viz jacket, zipping it up to the neck, then fastened his seatbelt. ‘Maybe someone tipped them off?’

‘Bet it was Martin Bloody Milne.’ She clunked her seat upright and put her own belt on. ‘Call it.’

He didn’t bother unclipping his Airwave, just pressed the button and spoke into his shoulder. ‘All units, confirm: the swoop is on.’

‘ DI Singh: ready. ’

‘ DS Weatherford: ready. ’

‘ DS McKenzie: ready. ’

‘ DS Rennie: Geronimo! ’

Then silence.

Not again.

‘DCI Steel, confirm.’

Nothing.

‘DCI Steel, I repeat: confirm .’

A loud, wet raspberry rattled out of the handset. ‘ I’m awake, are you happy now? Was having a lovely dream, too. Helen Mirren, a thing of cherry-flavoured lubricant, and a Toblerone... ’

Logan put his peaked cap on. ‘Swoop is on in five. Four. Three. Two. One. Go!’

He cranked the engine over and clicked on the lights, foot down. The Big Car surged forward, out between the grey buildings and onto the harbour.

The council might have gritted the roads, but they hadn’t bothered with the harbour wall. It slithered beneath the Big Car’s wheels, the rear end swinging out as they fishtailed towards the Jotun Sverd .

Harper grabbed the handle above the door. ‘In one piece, Sergeant! I don’t want to end up at the bottom of the harbour!’

He eased up a little, flicked it into four-wheel-drive. Blue-and-white lights strobed all around them as the other vehicles moved into the harbour, making the falling snow glow and flicker.

Logan slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt right next to the boat, then scrambled out into the cold night.

Someone peered at him over the supply boat’s bulwark. An older woman, wearing bright-red overalls and a hard hat. Greying hair tied back in a ponytail. ‘Hello?’

He hopped over the rail and dropped the three foot onto the deck. ‘Hands where I can see them.’

She pulled in her chin. ‘Okeydokey...’ Then put her hands up, as if this was a robbery.

Harper landed beside him, followed by Narveer and his two constables. Then Rennie and his lumpen thugs.

A man appeared at the railings behind the bridge — round and squat, in a thick padded jacket. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

More and more police officers landed on the deck, like pirates in high-viz jackets. Rennie and his thugs swarmed up the stairs to the bridge. ‘Nobody move!’

‘I demand to know what the hell is happening here!’

Harper marched into the middle of the deck, between the containers, and pointed up at him. ‘You the captain?’ Heavy flakes of snow settled on her shoulders.

‘And you are?’

‘Detective Superintendent Harper. I have a warrant to search this vessel.’

He shrugged. ‘Knock yourself out.’ He leaned on the railing. ‘Suzie? Show the cops around, will you? I’ve got a Pot Noodle on the go.’

Suzie raised her eyebrows at Logan. ‘Can I put my hands down now?’

Harper kicked the nearest container. ‘We’ll start with this one.’

‘Okeydokey.’ She wrestled with the catch, forcing it down and around, then hauled the big metal door open. ‘There you go.’

Logan followed Harper to the container’s entrance, looking over her shoulder at the hollow, empty space.

That wasn’t right.

Harper curled her hands into fists. ‘Open the other ones.’

The Dog Officer pulled his face into a lopsided grimace. ‘I can go over the place again, but...’ A shrug. A Labrador sat at his feet, big pink tongue lolling out one side of its idiot grin. ‘Sorry.’

Harper swore, then stared off down the corridor. Inside, the ship smelled of diesel and air freshener. ‘OK, thanks.’

Logan leaned against the wall. ‘Nothing at all.’

She scrubbed a hand over her face. ‘You tried the cabins and the offices?’

‘Everywhere. Even the bulkhead storage compartments.’

‘God damn it.’

Narveer ambled over, ducking to avoid losing his Rupert Bear turban on the doorframe. ‘Super? We’ve done PNC checks on the crew: the only one with any form is the deckhand, Elaine. Got drunk on a hen night last year and lamped someone in the Aberdeen McDonald’s.’

Harper stared at the ceiling for a moment — white-painted metal, lined with rivets. ‘Make sure the captain’s in his office.’

‘Ma’am.’ He turned and ducked out through the door again.

She sighed. ‘It’s not looking good, is it?’

‘Well... no. Not really.’

Harper pulled herself upright. ‘Come on, let’s go speak to the captain.’

Logan followed her through the metal corridors, down the stairs and below deck. A line of cabins wrapped around the hull, with the captain’s office in the middle.

She didn’t bother knocking; barged right in. ‘All right, I’m running out of patience here, so let’s cut the social niceties. Where’s the shipment?’

The room was barely big enough for a couple of filing cabinets, a desk, a plastic pot plant, and a visitor’s chair. The captain folded his arms across his rounded stomach, using it as a shelf. Tiny brown splodges marked his shirt: the ghost of Pot Noodles past. ‘What shipment?’

‘The one that’s meant to be in the containers!’ She leaned on the desk, looming over him.

‘There’s not meant to be anything in the containers.’

Logan closed the door behind him. ‘You were supposed to pick up a number of sealed crates from a yacht, sixty miles east of Bora, and hide them in the containers.’

‘Nah.’ He shook his head, setting his chins wobbling. ‘Think I’d remember something like that. You’ve got the wrong boat, mate.’

Harper slammed her hand down on the desk, making a cup of tea tremble. ‘Martin Milne told you to pick up those crates and deliver them here!’

‘Don’t be daft. Martin told us to pick up four empty containers and take them out for a putter about the Moray Firth for a bit. Run a couple of fire drills with the crew and a man overboard. Then make for Gardenstown and wait for him. He’s bringing fish suppers for everyone.’

‘Fish suppers?’

‘Yeah, well, it’s meant to be a procedural awareness exercise thing. Something to do with new operational rules the oil companies want to bring in. Waste of time, if you ask me, but what do I know?’

Logan settled into the visitor’s chair. ‘So no yacht?’

‘No yacht. Look, if you don’t believe me, examine the ship’s log. We’ve got GPS trackers and everything gets stored on the computer so the clients can audit it. Be my guest: audit it.’

Harper stood on the bridge, hands behind her back, looking down at the prow of the ship. ‘Nobody at all?’

The senior team gathered in a ragged semicircle behind her: Eiffel Tower, Canal Boat, Christmas Tree, Old Boot, and Thomas the Tank Engine. The only one missing was Sheep Playing the Bagpipes.

Rennie leaned against one of the swivel chairs bolted to the floor. ‘The crew all back the captain’s story. Empty containers, pootling about, fire drills, and fishing dummies out of the water. Oh, and they’re getting really hacked off about the lack of fish and chips.’

‘Can’t say I blame them.’ Steel stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘Could go a fish supper right now. Maybe some mushy peas too. Oh, and a pickled onion.’