In the Cold Dark Ground

32

‘...useless unprofessional bunch of turdbadgers.’ Steel hurled the newspaper down on the conference table.

No one moved. Ten plainclothes officers, four uniforms, all squeezed into the Major Incident Room and all doing their best not to make eye contact with her.

Steel stomped off to the window, blocking the view of Banff bay and the gently falling snow. ‘Well?’ If anything, she looked worse than she had yesterday. The penguin PJs were gone, replaced by a charcoal-grey suit and red silk shirt, but the bruises had darkened and spread. A pair of truly impressive black eyes sat either side of her bandaged nose, their edges fading to green and yellow. The bruise on her cheek was the colour of over-ripe plums.

She glared at them out of her one good eye, the other still swollen up like a pudding. ‘Didn’t think so. Well believe me: I’m no’ forgetting and I’m no’ forgiving this. I find out which one of you gave the Sunday Examiner an exclusive, I’ll make sure you walk squint for a month. Understand?’

Someone cleared their throat.

Logan leaned back against the wall, keeping as still as possible. Every movement sent needles and knives jabbing through his back, ribs, and stomach.

More glowering from Steel. ‘Now, who fancies a bollocking?’ She raised a finger and pointed at the assembled officers one at a time: ‘Eenie, meenie, miny, mo, catch a slacker by the toe.’ The finger stopped with DS Robertson and his sideburns. ‘You, Pop Larkin, where’s my list of Milne and Shepherd’s sexual conquests?’

Pink bloomed across the skin above that ridiculous facial hair. ‘It’s not as easy as you’d think. I’m trying to get names for all the faces, but—’

‘THEN TRY HARDER!’ Steel mashed her hand against the table, making everyone flinch. ‘This is a murder investigation, not a game of sodding Cluedo. When I tell you to do something, you bloody well do it!’

The blush deepened. ‘Yes, Guv.’

‘Next! Which one of you idiots is meant to be hunting down the animals who attacked me and Buggerlugs McRae over there?’

There was a pause, then DS Weatherford raised her hand.

Suddenly, Steel was all sweetness and light. ‘Ah, Donna. Good. Tell me, Donna, have you caught them yet?’

‘Well...’ She glanced around the room, but no one would look at her. ‘Not as such, you see—’

‘WHY THE BLOODY HELL NOT?’

Weatherford shrank back in her seat. ‘There’s no fingerprints! And we can’t get DNA back till—’

‘AAAARGH!’ Steel bashed the table again. ‘This is what I’m talking about. Every single one of you: it’s not your fingers you need to get out, it’s your whole buggering fist!’

Then Harper stood. ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector.’ She pointed at the actions written on the whiteboard. ‘You all know what you’ve got to do, so go out there and do it. And try to keep your big mouths shut this time.’

Chairs scraped back and the MIT team scurried out, heads low, no doubt suitably motivated from being shouted at for the last ten minutes.

Logan waited till the door shut to sink into one of the vacated chairs. Winced. The knives were out again. He hissed out a breath.

Steel stuck two fingers up at him. ‘Don’t start. You’re getting no sympathy from me. Want to know what pain is? Try this on for size.’ She hauled her shirt up, exposing her side. The paisley-pattern map of Russia she’d complained about yesterday was there in all its blue, green, and purple glory. It stood out bright and clear against the milk-bottle skin, disappearing under the line of a scarlet bra.

‘God’s sake, put it away.’ He grimaced and turned his head away. ‘Trying to make me lose my Weetabix?’

‘Cheeky wee sod.’

Harper took her place at the head of the table. ‘All right. I think that’s quite enough banter. Let’s focus on the problem at hand.’ She sat back, steepling her fingers. ‘How much damage does this cause us, Roberta?’

Steel sniffed, then picked up the Sunday Examiner again. Opened it out so the front page was on display. A big photo of Martin Milne stared out at them beneath the headline, ‘MURDER SUSPECT “WORKING WITH POLICE” SAYS OFFICER’. She dumped it back on the table. ‘No’ exactly great news, is it?’

‘Well, I suppose it would be naïve of us to think Malk the Knife wouldn’t expect something like this. The question is: does it change anything? Logan?’ The smile that accompanied his name was brittle, but at least it was there. Keeping it professional.

He pulled the paper closer.

An anonymous source on the Major Investigation Team confirms that Martin Milne (30) is working with Police Scotland to identify the people responsible for last week’s murder of his lover, Peterhead businessman Peter Shepherd (35). Mr Shepherd’s body was discovered in woodland south of Banff...

Well, if Milne was planning on keeping his relationship with Shepherd a secret, it was too late now.

Logan sucked on his teeth, staring at the picture. ‘If I were Malcolm McLennan, and I knew the police were watching, there’s no way I’d get Milne to smuggle things into the country for me now. Far too risky.’

‘So our whole operation is ruined, because someone on the MIT can’t keep their big mouth shut.’

‘Assuming Malcolm McLennan had anything to do with it in the first place. He denied it at the funeral...’ Frowning hurt, but Logan did it anyway. ‘What if it’s all a big distraction? Killing Peter Shepherd like that, leaving him lying about for people to find, it’s a bit high profile, isn’t it? We were always going to connect his body to McLennan. And then connect Shepherd to Milne. Maybe that’s the idea?’

‘True.’ Harper stared at one of the room’s windows.

Outside, the lights of Macduff were just visible through the pre-dawn gloom. Snow clung to the hill over there, pale blue and deep.

Steel prodded at the skin around her swollen eye. ‘What about one of the other scummers? Black Angus MacDonald, or Ma Campbell?’

Logan tapped at the table with a fingertip. ‘Could be. Campbell’s got drugs in Macduff already, maybe this is her way of making sure we’re all focusing our attention on McLennan instead of her? Make enough noise and the signal gets hidden.’

‘Hmmm...’ Harper kept her eyes on the window. ‘What about the money Milne and Shepherd borrowed?’

‘The only reason Milne thinks it came from Malcolm McLennan is because Shepherd told him it did. They could have been dealing with anybody and Milne wouldn’t have known, would he? Plus it means the local mob believe McLennan’s the one moving in on their turf, not Jessica Campbell. Any retaliation’s going to be aimed at Edinburgh, not Glasgow.’

A knock on the door, and Narveer poked his head in. Today’s turban was a greeny-blue tartan with yellow lines through it. ‘Super? That’s the Assistant Chief Constable on the phone for you.’

‘Thank you, Narveer.’ She stood. ‘We can’t afford to take our eye off Milne, but I agree it’s possible this is all sleight of hand. Logan, I want you to look into the Ma Campbell angle. Get descriptions of anyone Milne met with and see if they match. See if we can turn down the noise a bit and let the signal come through.’

Logan nodded. ‘Sir.’

‘Good work. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go explain to our lords and masters why we haven’t made any progress on this bloody case since Thursday.’

When Harper was gone, Steel sagged in her seat. ‘So, are you two shagging yet?’

He stuck two fingers up at her. ‘Did you have to rip a strip off Robertson and Weatherford in front of everyone? Poor sods are doing their best.’

‘Come on, I saw her checking you out all through the briefing. Yesterday she thought you were a two-foot wide skidmark on the hand-towel of life, now she’s throwing you meaningful glances like they’re on buy-one-get-one-free.’ Steel grinned. ‘You shagged her, didn’t you?’

‘She’s my sister. OK?’

‘You shagged your sister? You’re disgusting. Told Susan we shouldn’t have got you that boxed set of Game of Thrones.’

He stood. ‘You know what? I’m glad your ribs hurt. Serves you right.’

Snow-covered fields drifted by the car windows. Robbed of colour, everything looked dead beneath the grey sky.

‘Ooh, I like this one.’ Rennie took a hand off the steering wheel and turned the radio up. The sound of some insipid auto-tuned X-Factor-wannabe cover of a Marilyn Manson song glopped out of the speakers.

Logan reached forward from the back seat and flicked his ear, at almost exactly the same time as Steel clouted him on the shoulder from the passenger seat.

‘Ow!’

A glower from Steel. ‘If you’re thinking of singing along, I’m going to make sure it’s falsetto, understand?’

‘Philistines.’ But he turned the radio down again.

A bright-orange Citroën Saxo lay on its back, half in the ditch at the side of the road and half in the field beyond, scattering a path through the drystane dyke in between. Its oversized spoiler lay six feet away, buckled and torn. A ‘POLICE AWARE’ sticker graced its upside-down rear window.

Rennie hooked a thumb at it. ‘Had one of those when I was a boy racer. Mental car.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Logan watched it slide past: big flared wheel arches, twin exhausts, and alloy rims.

It was the same, every winter. Most people drove like little old ladies at the first sign of snow, but the wee loons still screeched about as if nothing had changed.

Steel turned in her seat, grimacing. ‘How come you never said you had a sister?’

‘Didn’t know till last night.’ Logan unhooked his Airwave handset from its clip. Say what you like about having to cart about a heavy stabproof vest all day, but the Velcro straps and armoured panels supported his back and stopped it from moving too much. Which kept the sudden stabs of pain down to a minimum.

‘Oh aye? And did you find out before or after you shagged her?’

‘Grow up.’ He punched the Duty Inspector’s shoulder number into the handset and pressed the talk button. ‘Bravo India, safe to talk?’

‘A McRae always pays his debts.’

‘Seriously, you can stop talking now. Your—’

A man’s voice boomed from the Airwave’s speaker. ‘Go ahead, Logan.’

‘Guv, I need in on tonight’s dunt again.’

Inspector Mhor sighed. ‘Believe it or not, Sergeant, I didn’t float into Fraserburgh on a half-buttered rowie.’

‘Guv?’

‘Do you really think the dayshift Duty Inspector doesn’t talk to the backshift one? Inspector McGregor and I go through the roster every day when I hand over to her, and that includes what’s going on with her shift. I know you’ve been seconded to the MIT.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘No buts. Sergeant Ashton is running the raid on Ricky Welsh’s house. What, did you think that I’d say yes when McGregor said no? I’m disappointed in you, Sergeant.’

The rising sun found a chink in the heavy lid of grey, sending blades of gold carving across the white fields.

‘I’m not trying to play anyone off against anyone else, Guv. Detective Superintendent Harper wants me to look into Jessica Campbell’s possible involvement in Peter Shepherd’s death. The drugs at Ricky and Laura’s are the only known link we have up here. So...?’

‘And Harper’s all right with this?’

‘It was her idea.’ OK, so that was stretching the truth a bit, but hey-ho.

Up ahead, Whitehills loomed in the distance. Its streetlights gave the place an unhealthy yellow glow.

Still nothing from Bravo India.

They were through the thirty limits before Inspector Mhor’s voice came through the speaker again. ‘Right. Logan, I’m prepared to put you in charge of the dunt again. But I want a big result from this one — it’s costing us a fortune, so make it count.’

‘Will do. Thanks, Guv.’

He twisted his Airwave back into place. Finally something was going his way.

Rennie took a right before they got into Whitehills proper, heading down the hill towards Martin Milne’s house.

Steel turned and squinted back at Logan again. ‘You set that whole thing up, didn’t you?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘All that guff about only having Peter Shepherd’s word for it — you just wanted your dunt back.’

‘You heard Detective Superintendent Harper, she thought it was worth investigating.’

‘You manipulative wee sod.’ A smile twitched the corner of Steel’s mouth. ‘I’ve taught you well, young Grasshopper.’

A line of wire fencing appeared on the right, surrounding the suspended building work. It looked as if they weren’t the only ones who’d read that morning’s Sunday Examiner: the media blockade was back. Three outside broadcast vans and a dozen cars were parked on the part-finished road, trails of exhaust coiling out into the morning air. Some of the rustier cars had their passenger windows rolled down a crack, cigarette smoke joining the exhaust fumes.

Their occupants turned to stare at the pool car as it bumped through the potholes.

Rennie parked in front of Milne’s house. ‘Boss?’

‘See if I catch the rancid wee turd who leaked that story?’ Steel curled her lip and scowled through the windscreen. ‘Where are they? Supposed to be babysitters minding the roost.’

No sign of a patrol car. No sign of DS McKenzie, or her minions.

Steel pulled out her phone and fiddled with the screen. Held the thing to her ear. ‘Becky?... Yeah, I’m great, thanks, bit sore, but can’t complain. How are you?... That’s good. Becky, got a wee question for you: WHERE THE GOAT-BUGGERING HELL ARE YOU?’

Rennie flinched, both hands over his ears.

‘No, you’re not, and I know that because I’m sitting outside the house right now... Angry? Why would I be angry? Oh, wait a minute, now I remember — I TOLD YOU TO KEEP AN EYE ON MARTIN MILNE!.. Yes, I think you better, Sergeant, and when you get here we’ll see how far my left boot will fit up your backside!’

Logan climbed out into the cold, then reached back in for his high-viz jacket.

‘No excuses!’ She glowered at him with her good eye. ‘Door!’ Then back to the phone. ‘No’ you, Becky, McRae’s letting all the heat out. Where was I? Ah, right: WHAT THE HELL DO YOU—’

He thumped the door shut and marched up the driveway to the house.

Rennie scampered along behind, catching up as Logan leaned on the doorbell. He pulled out a little squeezed smile. ‘How you doing? You know, with Samantha, and Superintendent Harper, and your dad, and everything?’

‘Didn’t know you cared.’ Logan stepped back and peered through the frosted glass at the side of the door. No sign of life.

‘No, I mean it. Can’t imagine how hard that kinda thing must be.’ The smile turned into a frown, then he patted Logan on the shoulder. ‘I’m... you know?’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’

‘So what’s it like suddenly having a wee sister?’

Logan leant on the bell again. ‘Slightly less annoying than you.’

A grin. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

‘You heard Steel: Malcolm McLennan’s not going to make contact with this lot hanging about.’ He pointed at the phalanx of cars. Some of the occupants were already out, cameras poised. ‘Go check every single road tax, tyre, brake light, and anything else you can think of.’

The bottom lip protruded a half inch. ‘Why me? You’re the one in uniform, surely you should be... Erm.’

Logan stared at him.

He cleared his throat. ‘Right. OK.’ Then turned and marched back down the drive again, intercepting the vanguard as they made it as far as the pavement outside the house. ‘All right, ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to need to see your driver’s licences.’

The door opened and a rumpled Katie Milne blinked out at Logan. ‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’ Her gaze slid over his shoulder and she sagged. ‘Oh God, not them again. Why can’t they leave us in peace?’

‘Mrs Milne, I know it’s early, but we need to have a word with your husband. There’s a story in today’s paper that you’re probably going to want to discuss too.’ Which was an understatement. Hey, your husband was having an affair with his business partner and as many women as they could talk into having a threesome with them.

Happy Sunday.

33

Martin Milne’s eyes got wider and wider as he read the front page of the Sunday Examiner. His bottom lip wobbled when he turned the page and saw the rest of it. ‘Oh God...’

They’d left the curtains shut in the living room, so the press couldn’t leer in through the windows. A pair of standard lamps cast a cheery glow on the ceiling completely out of keeping with the horrified expression on Milne’s face.

‘How did... Who? It’s...’ He lowered the newspaper, then jerked up in his seat — turning to face the closed door. ‘Has Katie seen this?’

‘No’ yet, no.’ Steel winced her way down onto the couch, hissing like a deflating balloon. ‘But it’s only a matter of time.’

‘But I trusted you!’ He grabbed his head with both hands, forcing the hair back from his face. ‘How could... Oh God...’

Logan took the newspaper back and folded it, hiding the offending front page. ‘We’ll find out who spoke to the journalist and we’ll make sure they’re properly punished. If you want to make a formal complaint we have guidelines to help you through the process. Here.’ He reached into a pocket of his stabproof vest and pulled out a leaflet. Handed it over.

‘What’s my wife going to say? What’s Katie going to think when she finds out?’

Steel pursed her lips. ‘My guess? She’ll no’ be too happy about you shagging a bloke. Doubt she’ll be too keen on the other women either.’

He crumpled the leaflet. ‘This is all your fault!’

‘Aye, with all due respect, Martyboy, I’m no’ the one who forced you into bed with Peter Shepherd and half the slappers between here and Ellon. That was all you.’

‘Oh God.’

Logan took out his notebook. ‘Can you describe the people who gave you and Peter the loan?’

Milne glared up at him. ‘Are you insane? I’m not helping you any more. I trusted the police and you told a newspaper who I was sleeping with! Private, personal details.’

A sigh. Then Logan lowered himself onto the edge of the couch, the stabproof vest making sure he sat bolt upright. ‘I’m sorry, Martin, but you can’t back out of this now.’

‘I want you out of my house.’

‘Let’s say you don’t cooperate with our investigation. Do you think Malcolm McLennan will forget about the two hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds you owe him? No, he’ll make you smuggle things into the area for him whether you like it or not. And we’ll be watching you.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Sooner or later we’re going to catch you bringing in a boatload of drugs — or counterfeit goods, or weapons, or illegal immigrants — and we’re going to arrest you and put you away for sixteen to twenty years. And Malcolm McLennan isn’t going to be very pleased about losing a shipment, is he? He’ll be even less pleased when you try to cut a deal to get out of prison before you’re fifty.’

Milne bit his bottom lip and stared down at his hands.

‘Or maybe you’ll refuse to smuggle anything for him, because you know we’re watching you. He won’t like that either; all that money you owe. What do you think the chances are of you being found in the not too distant, battered to death, naked, with a bag over your head?’

Milne’s voice was barely audible. ‘Why can’t you just leave me alone?’

Steel shook her head. ‘Never going to happen, Martyboy. That ship sailed soon as you fessed up in the cells. You help us, or you’re screwed.’ She gave him a big grin. ‘Now, any chance of a cuppa? I’m parched.’

The little boy sat at the kitchen table, wearing thick socks and fleecy pyjamas with dinosaurs on them. A graze sat on his left cheek, about the size of a walnut, the skin scabby and brown as it healed. His face was creased with sleep and his blond hair stood out at all angles, so the resemblance was uncanny when Steel sat down next to him and pushed a piece of jam-smeared toast and a big glass of milk in front of him.

‘There you go, Ethan. You eat that up like a good wee boy.’

He turned his head to the door.

Muffled shouting filtered through from the living room. Not clear enough to make out actual words, but the tone obvious. Katie Milne wasn’t pleased about her husband’s extramarital activities.

Logan tucked his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he rinsed out his mug and placed it on the draining board. ‘We’ve got descriptions of three I–C-One males, two in their late twenties, one early forties. Couple of distinguishing features we can run past the National Crime Agency, see if we can’t get a match.’

‘Good.’ Rustling came from the speaker, as if Harper was rummaging through a pile of paper. ‘What about names?’

‘No luck. Milne says they always referred to each other by number: One, Two, and Three. “One” was the older guy.’

‘Hmmmm... So definitely organized. How did Milne take the article in the paper?’

The sound of something smashing against the wall made Ethan flinch, toast halfway to his mouth.

‘He and his wife are discussing it now.’

‘Logan?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I appreciate you keeping our relationship professional at work — I know a lot of people would have a problem with taking orders from their little sister — but when we’re off duty you can call me Niamh. OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Good. Right. Well, get cracking with the IDs and we’ll see if your theory pans out.’ The line went dead.

His little sister. Yeah, that still sounded weird.

He put his phone away. ‘Time to head.’

Steel held up a finger. ‘Just a minute.’ Then she scooted around in her chair, until she was facing the wee boy. ‘Ethan? Can you tell your Aunty Roberta what happened to your face?’ She pointed at her own cheek, mirroring the scabby patch.

The little boy shrugged, then stared at his toast. ‘Fell down.’ His voice was tiny, barely more than a whisper.

‘Where did you fall down?’

‘Outside.’ He picked at his toast. ‘Some boys pushed me.’

‘Wee shites.’ Steel sighed, then popped a couple of pills from a blister pack, washing them down with a scoof of Ethan’s milk. She levered herself to her feet. ‘Right, wee man, we’re off. Make sure you look after your mum. Can you do that for your Aunty Roberta?’

The six-year-old lowered his eyebrows, pursed his lips and nodded.

‘Good boy.’

Out in the corridor, the sound of fighting was much clearer.

‘HOW COULD YOU? YOU FILTHY, DIRTY, PERVERTED—’

‘Now you just sound homophobic.’

‘HOMOPHOBIC? I’LL GIVE YOU HOMOPHOBIC, YOU CHEATING BASTARD!’

‘OW! Don’t—’

Something smashed.

Logan nodded at the living room door. ‘Think we should break it up?’

‘Nah.’ Steel hoiked up her suit trousers. ‘Do them good to let off a bit of steam before she chucks him out of the house. Besides, I’m starving — time for second breakfast.’

‘I HATE YOU!’

They slipped out and shut the front door behind them.

‘Ooh, bleeding hell.’ Steel wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. Then narrowed her eyes.

A patrol car had pulled up at the back of the press pack. Two faces blinked out through the windscreen, one with curly brown hair, the other grey. DS McKenzie and DC Owen.

Steel produced her phone. Listened to it ring with a big smile plastered across her face.

In the patrol car, McKenzie flinched, then took out her own mobile.

‘Becky. Sweetheart. Can you guess what I’m thinking?... That’s right... No, I don’t think so. I think I’ll aim for right up to the knee... That’s right.’

McKenzie’s face drooped.

‘Aye, you better believe it. But as all these lovely members of the press are watching, I’m going to give your lazy wee bumhole a temporary reprieve. Milne’s getting chucked out of the family home and you’re sticking to him like sick on a ballgown... Because I don’t want Milne disappearing, suitcase in hand, that’s why. Probably going to crash at a friend’s house, but in case he fancies hopping a flight to Rio, you’re watching him.’

In the car, McKenzie folded forward and rested her head on the dashboard.

‘And while you’re at it, get onto DS Robertson — tell him to get his comedy-sideburn-wearing arse down here and babysit the wife and kid. Now did you get all that, or do I have to tattoo it on your lower intestine with my size nines?... Good girl.’ Steel hung up. ‘Right, where’s the Boy Blunder?’

Logan pointed.

The media encampment didn’t look too happy. A lot of them stood about with faces like a spanked backside, glowering as Rennie squatted down beside an ancient Volvo estate and poked at its tyres.

Steel made a loudhailer from her hands. ‘HOY! CAPTAIN KWIK-FIT, WE’RE LEAVING!’

‘What hacks me off is how she lied all those years.’ Logan leaned forward, poking his head between the front seats. ‘How could anyone be so self-centred, so awful a human being, that they thought it was OK to make two wee boys think their dad was dead?’

Snow drifted down, melting as it hit the pool car’s windscreen.

Steel tucked her hands into her armpits. ‘What’s keeping Rennie? Can he no’ see I’m wasting away here?’

An old man hobbled out of the Tesco humping two hessian bags in one hand, working a walking stick with the other.

‘Thirty-four years and not so much as a word.’

‘Bet he comes back with the wrong grub.’

‘There was a headstone and everything! Right there in the graveyard with his name, date of birth and death carved on it. How sick would you have to be to get a headstone made?’

‘Should’ve sent you instead. Rennie’ll be back with a pair of tights, a grapefruit, and a pack of ice lollies.’

‘Then drag your two kids to lay flowers in front of it every year? She faked his grave!’

Steel puffed out her cheeks. ‘Yes, your mother’s a heartless, vindictive, nasty, complete-and-total swivel-eyed loony, we get it. Now where’s my pies?’

‘Thanks. Your support means a lot to me. I’ve just found out the father I thought was dead since I was five wasn’t. Oh and he had another family that apparently was nice enough not to abandon. And while we’re at it, he died two months ago.’

‘You lost a dad you thought was dead anyway, and gained a sister. By my reckoning, you’re ahead on the deal.’

‘Ahead? What’s wrong with you?’

She shrugged. ‘Might be the pills. Or, it might be you being a whiny little bitch. How many years have you been on the job? All you had to do was look your dad up on the system. You didn’t bother.’

‘I thought he was dead. Why would I look him up?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Because he was your dad?’

Logan sat back, folded his arms and stared out of the window. ‘You’re a lot of help.’

A sigh. ‘Laz, it’s no’ my fault you’ve got a pineapple wedged up your bum. This thing with Samantha, it was only two days ago. That takes some getting over. You need some time off. Go away for a bit.’

‘And who’s supposed to catch Peter Shepherd’s killer?’

Steel stared at the ceiling. ‘Such a martyr.’

‘I am not a martyr.’

‘Yeah, because the whole MIT, the entire might of B and A Divisions — they can’t solve a murder. Only the great Sergeant Logan McRae can do that.’

Outside, the snow fell.

A couple walked past, arm in arm. Couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old. Young and in love. They’d learn soon enough.

Steel took out her fake cigarette and popped it in her mouth. ‘Take some time off.’

‘I went to see Jack Wallace yesterday.’

She blew a puff of steam at the windscreen, turning it opaque. ‘Oh aye?’

‘Sends his love.’

‘Good. Hope he’s getting lots of love himself. Aye, from some big hairy bloke giving him fourteen-inches of non-consensual prison-issue-sausage after lights out.’ Another puff. ‘Couldn’t happen to a more deserving arsehole.’

Rennie bustled out of the Tesco clutching an armful of something.

‘About time.’ One more puff, then Steel put her e-cigarette away. She kept her voice light and neutral. ‘Any reason you felt the need to go see our friendly neighbourhood kiddy-fiddler, Laz?’

Rennie hurried across the street, high-stepping through the snow.

‘Believe it or not, I was looking out for you.’

Her voice didn’t change. ‘Were you now?’

The driver’s door opened and Rennie climbed in behind the wheel. ‘Holy Mother of the Sainted Aardvark, it’s cold out there.’ He handed his armful to Steel, then stuck the keys in the ignition. The engine roared into life, heaters howling lukewarm air into the space, spreading the crackling scent of hot pastry. ‘Brrrrrr...’

‘’Ello, ’ello, ’ello, what’s all this then?’ She pulled a package from the bag. ‘Hot Cornish pasties? Well, DS Rennie, looks like you just became my favourite sergeanty type. Sorry, Laz. No hard feelings.’

Yeah, right.

‘OK, thanks anyway.’ Logan hung up the desk phone and frowned at the computer screen. Then hit print.

The Sergeants’ Office seemed to have become the dumping ground for a collection of blue plastic crates that smelled vaguely of fish.

Logan picked up his empty mug and headed out into the main office.

No one there. The blinds were open: snow drifted down from a coal-coloured sky, the waters of the bay had receded, leaving a dark curve of wet sand behind.

A grinding whirring noise burst from the big photocopier/printer and two dozen sheets of A4 clicked and whined into the tray. He left them there and went to make a cup of tea.

The TV was on with the sound turned down to a murmur. A balding Italian chef smeared fillets of white fish with a snot-coloured paste then wrapped them in ham.

Logan chucked a teabag in his mug and stuck the kettle on.

Someone had obviously decided that the station’s resident gnome wasn’t classy enough and given him a bright-blue bowtie. They’d replaced his paper dagger with a magic wand and—

‘Can I not get two minutes peace?’ Logan pulled out his ringing phone. ‘McRae?’

‘Is this Sergeant Logan McRae?’

Why did nobody ever listen? ‘Can I help you?’

‘It’s Detective Inspector Bell.’

A smile cracked its way across Logan’s face. ‘Ding-Dong, it’s been years. How’s CID treating you?’

‘You own a static caravan, don’t you: 23 Persley Park Caravan Park, Aberdeen?’

Oh God. The smile died. They’d found Eddy Knowles’s body.

Barbed wire wrapped itself around Logan’s chest, tightening and tightening until there was barely any breath left.

He was screwed.

‘Logan? Are you there?’

He cleared his throat. Stood up straight. ‘That’s my caravan.’

Here it came.

Hand yourself in to the nearest police station where you’ll be detained on charges of murder and attempting to pervert the course of justice by illegally disposing of a body.

‘I’ve got some bad news, the fire brigade did what they could, but by the time they got there... I’m sorry.’

‘Fire brigade?’ The barbed wire snapped and air rushed into his lungs.

‘The fire investigation team are looking through what’s left, but it’s pretty much burned to the ground. At least no one was hurt, right?’

‘Was it... Did someone...?’

‘Officially, I can’t say — ongoing investigation — but off the record? Apparently there’s traces of an accelerant. Looks like it was torched on purpose.’

‘Christ.’

So that was that. His whole life with Samantha had been consumed by flames. First his flat, now her caravan. There was nothing left but her body.

‘You know I’ve got to ask this: can you confirm your whereabouts last night, Sergeant McRae?’

Logan blinked at the TV, a wee bloke with curly hair was turning a little bird in a frying pan. ‘Home. I was at home. In Banff.’

‘And can anyone corroborate that?’

‘Three police constables and a detective superintendent. We had beer and sausages.’

‘Yeah, as alibis go that’s a pretty good one. I’ll let you know if anything comes up this end, but in the meantime I’ll text you the crime number and you can get on to your insurers.’

Logan puffed out a breath. ‘Yes. Thanks, Ding-Dong.’

He hung up.

They hadn’t found Eddy’s body. Urquhart hadn’t screwed him over.

Thank Christ.

‘Any chance of a coffee?’ Inspector Mhor sidled into the room, hands in the pockets of his black police-issue trousers. The canteen lights sparkled off the big polished dome of his head. With the two small ears, small mouth, button nose, and hairy eyebrows, he looked a bit like a surprised egg.

Logan swallowed. Nodded. ‘Guv.’

‘You OK?’

‘Sorry. One of those days.’ He pulled another mug from the cupboard.

Mhor leaned against the wall. ‘How’s preparation for the dunt coming?’

‘Good, thanks: we’re going in at half-eleven tonight. As long as everyone turns up on time.’

‘Have you told Beaky she doesn’t have to come in early?’

‘Next on my list, Guv.’ She wasn’t going to be pleased, but tough. At least she’d get a lie-in. ‘Soon as I’ve spoken to Detective Superintendent Harper.’

The kettle juddered and rattled, then fell silent.

‘Logan, I want you leading from the rear on this one, understand? You look like someone tied you to a washing machine then threw you down an escalator. Battered police officers don’t fill the public with confidence.’

‘Guv.’ Coffee, sugar, hot water. He handed the mug over.

‘Cheers. And for God’s sake do something about the Response Level warning, will you? Someone’s changed it to “Dalek Attack Imminent.” Nightshift are a law unto themselves.’ Mhor took a sip, grimaced, shuddered, then turned and sidled off. ‘Urgh. Like licking the underside of a broken-down bus...’

34

Logan swapped the warning of Dalek attack for a more traditional, ‘NORMAL’, then headed upstairs with his pile of printouts.

DS Weatherford bustled past on the landing, clutching a file box, grey fringe stuck to her shiny forehead. ‘I’m doing it, I’m doing it.’

He watched her go. ‘I didn’t say anything!’

‘Aaaargh...’

A happy workforce was a productive workforce.

Harper was on the top floor with her sidekick, the pair of them sitting side-by-side at the conference room table poking away at laptop computers.

‘Sir?’

She looked up. ‘Sergeant McRae.’ Her voice had all the warmth of a mortuary cadaver. ‘What have you got for us?’

Fine. If that was the way she wanted to play it — he could do cold and professional too.

Logan held up the printouts. ‘No direct matches, sir, but they’ve sent me every near miss in the whole UK. I’ll get Milne to go through the photos, see if he recognizes anyone.’

Narveer held out his hand. ‘Let’s have a squint then.’

He passed them over and the Inspector flicked through them.

‘I understand you’re organizing a drugs raid for tonight, Sergeant.’

Logan nodded. ‘Ricky and Laura Welsh. Word on the street is they’re acting as agents for Jessica “Ma” Campbell. She’s trying to move in on Hamish Mowat’s old territory. If we can get our hands on one of Campbell’s representatives it might help with the Shepherd case.’ Well, assuming it wasn’t the guy Reuben sent back to Glasgow with his hands in a Jiffy bag.

Narveer poked a finger at a picture of a young man on the printout. ‘Big Willie Brodie. I did him for assault and possession with intent, what: eight years ago? God, doesn’t time fly?’

‘And you didn’t tell me about this in advance, because...?’

‘Didn’t I?’ Logan hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘The operation’s been planned since Wednesday. We were going in long before we knew there was any connection with Peter Shepherd’s murder and—’

‘Possible connection.’

‘Has to be worth a go, doesn’t it?’

Narveer laughed and poked another picture. ‘Crowbar Gibson! Thought he was dead.’

Harper pursed her lips and frowned at Logan. ‘I think it’s probably best if Detective Inspector Singh and I accompany you on this raid.’

Sod.

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Now is there anything else?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Sergeant?’ Narveer pulled his chin in, then held up the last sheet of the pile. ‘Before you head off, are we really worried about Daleks attacking Banff?’

Inspector Mhor was right, the nightshift had a lot to answer for.

‘You scheming, underhand, lowlife, son of a rancid—’

‘Oh come off it, Beaky, it was never your dunt in the first place.’ Logan slipped in behind the wheel of his rusty Punto. It was like sitting down in a fridge. ‘Tell you what, you want it? You can have it.’ He turned the key and whacked the heater up to full.

‘Really?’ Suspicion dripped from her voice. ‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’

‘Nothing. It’s all yours.’

‘Laz, I’m warning you.’

A sliver of clear glass appeared at the bottom of the windshield, creeping upwards with glacial slowness.

‘There’s nothing wrong. Oh, and good news: Detective Superintendent Harper will be tagging along, and so will her sidekick DI Singh. Kick-off’s at half eleven. Make sure you wear warm socks.’

‘Seriously? I’ve got to do a dunt with a superintendent and a DI breathing down my neck?’

‘Don’t forget the Chief Inspector from Elgin doing his “down with the common man” thing.’

‘Gah... It’ll be a cluster-hump of credit-stealing egomaniacs, all pulling rank on each other. You know what? I’ve changed my mind. You can keep it.’ She hung up.

‘Thanks a heap.’

The blowers were still churning away at the fog and ice. Going to take a while.

Of course what he should be doing was sorting out the insurance on the caravan. He let his head fall back against the rest and glowered up at the Punto’s ceiling. Yes, because that wasn’t going to look suspicious, was it?

Oh, Mr McRae, I see you became the legal owner of the static caravan when you switched off your girlfriend’s life support. And two days later you’re making an insurance claim because it’s burned to the ground. Hmm...

No doubt about it, this was turning out to be a spectacular year.

Hadn’t even got the damn thing on the market before someone torched the place.

The question was: who set the fire? Which one of Reuben’s minions?

Well he didn’t need a team of fire investigators to find out. Logan poked John Urquhart’s number into his phone and waited for him to pick up.

‘Yello?’

‘Who burned down my caravan?’

‘Mr McRae? Dude. How you feeling today?’

‘Which one of Reuben’s little helpers did it? I want a name.’

‘That was a serious bash on the head you got.’

‘Give me a sodding name!’

Silence from the other end of the phone.

The clear glass inched higher.

‘It wasn’t Reuben who did it, it was me.’

‘It was you? What the bloody hell did you—’

‘Thought you’d be pleased! The caravan was spattered with blood: yours and Eddy’s. DNA everywhere, signs of a struggle... Now there’s no forensic evidence tying you to anything. You said all that stuff was going to the charity shop or the tip anyway, so I torched the lot.’

‘Ah.’

‘Doesn’t matter how hard they look, no one can put you and Eddy together in the same place. He’s gone, the snowglobe’s gone, the crime scene’s gone. You’re in the clear.’

If only it was that easy.

Wind rattled the hotel room window, hurling clumps of sleet against the glass.

Martin Milne sat on the end of the single bed with his head in his hands.

A small, drab hotel room in a small, drab hotel, with views out over the churning sea. Just the place if you wanted to gear yourself up for a suicide attempt. Which, going by the state of Milne, was a distinct possibility.

His voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. ‘She threw me out.’

Now there was a shock.

Logan pulled the printouts from his jacket pocket. ‘I need you to look at some faces for me, Martin. See if any of them are the men you spoke to about the loan.’

‘Said I was poisonous.’ Milne took the photos. Frowned.

‘We need to find these people, Martin. It’s important.’

‘I’ll never get to see Ethan again. He’s my world...’

Yeah right. If Milne was that concerned about his son he wouldn’t have been running away to Dubai with Peter Shepherd. Abandoning the poor wee sod to grow up without a father. Made you sick.

Logan folded his arms. ‘Martin? Where were you? After they killed Peter Shepherd, where did you go?’

He moved on to the next photograph. ‘Where did I go?’

‘You went missing for four days. Everyone was worried about you. Katie was worried about you.’

‘She’s never going take me back, is she?’

Of course she wasn’t.

‘Give her time.’

A nod. ‘After...’ He bit his lip. Sniffed. ‘I hid in the woods the first night. Too scared to sleep in case they came back. Next day it poured rain, I walked and walked and walked.’ Milne frowned. ‘An old man gave me a lift to Turriff in his van. Got myself a B-and-B and stayed in my room with the curtains shut.’ His chin came up. ‘And then I realized how selfish I was being. I had to go home and protect my family. Protect my son.’ The chin dropped again. ‘How am I supposed to protect him if she won’t let me in the house?’

Logan put a hand on his shoulder. Tried for a consoling smile. ‘Katie’s angry. Probably feels betrayed, lied to, used. It’ll take her a while to get past that.’

A nod.

‘You want to keep Ethan safe, don’t you?’

Another nod.

‘So look at the pictures and see if you recognize the men you and Peter spoke to.’

Milne took the printouts and frowned at the faces. Took his time.

Muffled voices came through the wall from the room next door, followed by the jingly sound of a cartoon on the TV.

Out in the corridor, someone marched past.

Milne pointed at one of the pictures. ‘This kind of looks like the guy they called Three.’

‘Anyone else?’

He shook his head. ‘Wasn’t really paying attention when I met them.’ A small laugh burst free, strangled and ragged. ‘Pete and me had been talking all morning about running off to Dubai together. They’re not keen on... you know, men being together, but Pete said we could make it work. If we were discreet. And the money was great.’

Logan stared at him. ‘And what about Ethan? While you’re off earning heaps of cash in Dubai, what happens to your son?’

Milne picked at the bedspread, keeping his eyes on his fingers. ‘We were going to take him with us.’

Aye, right.

‘There were only two visas, Martin.’

‘I got a ninety-day one for him online. See if he liked living with us in Dubai before making it permanent...’ A shrug. ‘Don’t suppose it matters now.’

Logan took the printouts back and drew a number three on the photo Milne had chosen. The man in the picture had swept-back brown hair and a proper soup-strainer moustache. As if he were channelling an Eighties porn-star.

Milne wiped at his eyes. ‘Don’t suppose anything matters now.’

Becky was waiting for Logan as he stepped back into the corridor. ‘McRae.’

He closed the door to Milne’s hotel room. ‘DS McKenzie.’

She jerked her chin towards the exit. ‘She out there, is she?’

‘What, Steel? No.’ He tucked the folder of mugshots under his arm. ‘Look, whatever the pair of you are fighting about, it’s got nothing to do with me. I just go where I’m told.’

‘Scrotum-faced old cow.’ Becky folded her arms. ‘All she does is shout and whinge and make sarcastic comments.’

‘Yup.’

‘You know she screwed up the overtime log for January? The whole month. Again. How am I supposed to put two kids through university and pay the bloody mortgage if she keeps screwing up the overtime?’

Logan held a hand up. ‘Preaching to the choir. You want some advice?’

‘No.’

‘Fine.’ He turned and walked to the exit. Got as far as the door before Becky thundered down the corridor after him.

She grabbed him by the arm. ‘OK, what?’

‘Steel can’t be arsed doing the paperwork, so she makes a mess of it till someone steps in and does it for her. You want your overtime paid? You’re going to have to take one for the team, or talk someone else into it.’

Becky’s face crumpled. ‘But it’s her job!’

‘I did it for nine years. Tell me about it.’ He pushed through into the hotel reception, a bland beige space with dying pot plants and an ugly carpet.

‘I hate being a police officer!’

Join the club.

Sleet spattered the windscreen. A couple of people hurried by the car, heads down, shoulders up, teeth bared. They didn’t look at the funeral home.

Logan propped the printout up against the steering wheel. ‘According to the National Crime Agency, it’s one Adrian Brown, AKA: Brian Jones, AKA: Tim Donovan.’

‘Hold on.’ Harper made rustling noises down the phone. ‘Right, got him. Adrian Brown; thirty-two; five nine; form for assault, assault, theft, more assault, and to keep things interesting — assault.’

A light came on inside Beaton and Macbeth.

‘Sounds lovely, doesn’t he?’

‘He’s meant to be with the Manchester Goon Squad, what’s he doing all the way up here?’

‘Might not be. Milne said it “kind of looked like” Number Three, so not a hundred percent on the ID.’

‘Hmmm... And how is our sacrificial goat?’

‘Milne? Wallowing in a great big tub of self-pity.’

‘Serves him right.’

She had a point. Milne was all set to abandon his wife and run off with someone else to a land faraway. And there was no way Katie would have let him take Ethan. No, that was probably going to be a midnight flit to the airport and off to Dubai before she woke up.

Still, at least Ethan would’ve had a father, growing up.

Yeah. Well.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Anything else, sir?’

‘Did you make it clear what would happen to him if he didn’t cooperate? If Malk the Knife, or Ma Campbell gets in touch and he doesn’t tell us, I’ll make damn sure he goes down for a long time.’

‘He’s already cracking under the pressure. Push him too far and he’ll break.’

‘Don’t try to teach your little sister how to suck eggs, Sergeant. This isn’t my first organized crime op. I need results, not excuses.’

‘Sir.’

And she was gone.

Were sisters always this much of a pain in the backside?

He folded the printouts and stuffed them in his pocket, along with his mobile phone, then dug into the glove compartment for the Jiffy bag. Took a deep breath, scrambled out of the car, and made a run for the funeral home.

Andy was waiting for him with the front door open. ‘Mr McRae.’ His black suit was immaculate, the shirt so white you could have used it in a washing powder advert. He stuck his hand out and Logan shook it.

‘Thanks for opening up, Andy. I appreciate it.’

A small shake of the head. ‘Nonsense. It’s no trouble at all.’ As if he usually wore a suit on a Sunday, on the off chance. ‘If you’d like to follow me?’ He led the way through the reception area to a gloomy room with a single spotlight.

It glowed down on an open casket — polished black wood with a red silk lining.

Something lodged in Logan’s throat, as if he’d tried to swallow a stone.

Samantha was laid out, on her back, hands folded over her stomach. They’d dressed her in all her finery, the leather corset, the skirt, the gloves.

He stepped closer.

Her head looked strange. Unfamiliar. As if... He reached out and stroked her forehead, where the dent should have been. ‘You fixed it.’

‘We wanted to do you proud, Mr McRae.’

‘She’s beautiful.’ Just like she was in the photo from Rennie’s wedding. Make-up perfect: warpaint and piercings. They’d even managed to make her skin look like living flesh again. Samantha’s tattoos stood out bright and clear, as if they were brand new.

‘Would you like a moment?’

‘Please.’

‘I’ll be right outside if you need anything.’ Andy turned and glided from the room, as if he was mounted on silent castors.

Logan pulled on a smile. ‘Alone at last.’

No reply.

He held up the Jiffy bag. ‘Present for you.’ He dug out the hardback copy of Stephen King’s The Stand and tucked it into the coffin beside her. ‘Got it online. It’s signed.’

He stood there. Shuffled his feet. Put a hand on her bare shoulder, then flinched that hand away. Samantha’s skin was cold to the touch.

Well of course it was. She might look like she was asleep, but that didn’t mean Andy hadn’t taken her body from the mortuary fridge while Logan was on the phone in the car park outside.

Not sleeping, just dead.

‘Sarge?’

Logan looked up from his computer. Blinked a couple of times. ‘Rennie.’

Rennie crept into the Sergeants’ Office, carrying two mugs of tea and a manila folder. ‘Tea.’ He put the mugs down on the desk, then checked over his shoulder before handing Logan the folder. As if they were spies meeting up in a car park to swap state secrets.

OK.

‘You don’t have to call me “Sarge”, we’re the same rank.’

‘Force of habit.’ Rennie settled into the seat opposite. Grinned. ‘Go on then, open it.’

Logan did. Inside were a wodge of printouts and a gold-and-red packet about the size of an old-fashioned video cassette. He raised an eyebrow. ‘That what I think it is?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Close the door.’

While Rennie was hiding them from the prying eyes of the outside world, Logan ripped his way into the Tunnock’s tasty caramel wafers. Tossed one onto the other side of the desk and helped himself to another. ‘To what do we owe the honour?’

‘She Who Must Be Feared And Obeyed. Says when we’re done with tea and treats we’re to sod off and grab some snooze-time.’ Rennie unwrapped his chocolate wafer and took a big bite, getting little flecks of brown all down his chin. ‘Make sure we’re all rested and ready for tonight.’

The wafer turned to blotting paper in Logan’s mouth. ‘Tonight?’

‘The drugs raid?’

‘Oh God.’ Logan curled forward and thunked his forehead on the desk.

‘What?’

Perfect, because having Harper and her sidekick tag along wasn’t bad enough.

Thunk.

‘What’s, “Oh God”?’

He left his head against the cool wooden surface. ‘You and Steel want in on my drugs raid.’

‘Yeah, well, you know. If it proves important to the investigation into Peter Shepherd’s death, Steel wants—’

‘To muscle in on any credit going.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly put it that—’

‘She’s out of luck. You can inform Her Royal Scruffiness that I’ve already got Detective Superintendent Harper, Detective Inspector Singh, and a Chief Inspector from Elgin on board. There’s going to be more top brass on this dunt than actual police officers.’ He straightened up. ‘I should’ve let Beaky have it.’ Logan frowned. ‘Wonder if it’s too late?’

Rennie tore another chunk off his wafer. ‘It’ll be like old times. You, me, and the Holy Wrinkled Terror — on the path of truth and justice. Kicking in doors and taking names.’

Thunk.

‘What? Why are you banging your head off the desk?’

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

35

‘...after the news. But first it’s nine o’clock and things are hotting up on Britain’s Next Big Star as Jacinta and Benjamin face sudden death—’

Logan killed the telly and swigged back the last dregs of his tea. ‘Right, you little monster — Daddy has to go dunt in someone’s door.’ He scooped Cthulhu off the sofa and turned her upside down. Gave her a kiss on her soft white tummy. ‘Whose daddy loves her? Is it you? Yes it is, your daddy loves— Not again.’

Cthulhu wriggled free as his phone blared out its anonymous ringtone. She jumped to the floor, all four feet making a loud thump as she touched down. About as graceful as a dropped microwave.

He pulled out his phone. ‘McRae.’

A sharp, loud voice stabbed into his ear. ‘How dare you call and leave abusive messages on my phone, Logan Balmoral McRae! I am your mother and you will not—’

He hung up. Then brought up his call history and blocked her number. Glowered at the screen for a bit.

Sod her.

Logan hauled his stabproof vest on over his police-issue fleece, got into his equipment belt, and topped the lot with his high-viz jacket. What every sharply dressed man about town was wearing this season. On with the hat, then out into the driving sleet.

His phone went again as he hurried across the car park.

Tough.

Logan pushed his way through the tradesman’s entrance and into the warmth of the station. Stamped his feet free of gritty grey snow.

Laughter boomed out into the corridor from the canteen. ‘Come on then, what did you do?’

‘Only thing I could — threw up on it.’

More laughter.

He kept going, through into the main office. No one around. And with any luck it would stay that way till everything was sorted.

Logan slipped off his jacket and stepped into the Sergeants’ Office. Stopped. Tried really hard not to swear.

Harper was sitting in his seat, an open file on the desk in front of her. ‘Sergeant.’

‘Sir.’

She pointed. ‘You’re supposed to leave your equipment in the locker room. Officers are not authorized to take police property home with them. Especially not extendable batons and CS gas!’

Logan hung his jacket up, leaving it to drip on the carpet tiles. ‘And it’s lovely to see you too, Niamh.’

‘Don’t you dare Niamh me, Sergeant, you’re—’

‘One: my shift doesn’t start for another fifty minutes, so I’m not on duty. You asked me to call you Niamh when I’m not on duty. Two: the Sergeant’s Hoose belongs to Police Scotland, so my equipment belt has remained on police property since I left here at five. And three: I do have permission. Check with Inspector McGregor.’ He scritched off his stabproof vest. ‘Now, is there anything else I can help you with?’

‘Hmmm...’ Harper pursed her lips and swivelled left and right in his seat for a moment. ‘Is everything organized for the operation this evening?’

‘Why do you think I came in early?’

The Operational Support Unit van rocked on its springs as another gust of wind punched it in the ribs. Every seat in the van was taken — Tufty, Calamity, Isla at the back; the three officers from Elgin and their Chief Inspector in the middle, the four-man OSU team in the front, which barely left standing room for Harper, Narveer, Steel, Rennie, Logan, and the Police Dog Officer. Which was a shame, because she absolutely reeked of wet dog and it was impossible to get away from the smell.

Everyone in the van was dressed in full armoured ninja black — with kneepads, gauntlets, and elbow guards. Well, everyone except Harper and Steel, who looked as if they’d just crashed a very strange fancy-dress party.

Five minutes and it was already getting muggy in here, thick with the smell of stale clothes, damp dog, and warm bodies. The windows fogging up.

Logan pulled out his plastic folder of paperwork and held it up. ‘One last time.’

A groan from one of the Elgin contingent.

‘I don’t care if you’ve heard it before, you’re hearing it again. Ricky and Laura Welsh have form for violence, so watch yourself. They’re unlikely to have firearms, but their Saint Bernard makes Cujo look like Basil Brush — anyone who doesn’t have their Bite Back with them will not be allowed in that house until the dog’s been made safe. Am I clear?’

A smattering of, ‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Good. Sergeant Mitchell, you’re up.’

The huge figure sitting in the passenger seat pulled his helmet on. It grazed the van’s ceiling — he was that big. ‘Mesdames et Messieurs, grab your bonce protectors and gird your loins. In the immortal words of the Bard: il est temps de mettre sur le maquillage, il est temps d’allumer les lumières!’

The other three members of his team gave a synchronized bark of, ‘Hooah!’ and fastened their helmets.

Logan cracked open the van’s side door. ‘You heard the man.’ He backed out onto the sleety road as everyone did what they were told.

Well, everyone except Steel and Harper. And Narveer, but then there was no way he’d get a crash helmet on over his turban.

The smell of soggy canine got worse for a moment as the Police Dog Officer picked her way past, heading for the other van and its contingent of Alsatians and Labradors.

Steel and Harper joined Logan out on the road.

‘You’re no’ serious about that Saint Bernard, are you?’ Steel’s words billowed out on a cloud of fog, turned a pale yellow by the streetlights.

‘Thing’s massive. Looks like someone crossed a velociraptor with a highland cow.’ He fastened on his own helmet — pulling the chinstrap tight — unlocked the Big Car, and slipped behind the wheel.

Steel stuck her hand up. ‘Shotgun!’ Then scrambled into the passenger side, leaving Harper with the back seat.

Soon as she climbed in, Logan clicked the button on his Airwave. ‘Shire Uniform...’ Ah, no he wasn’t. Stubby was duty sergeant for as long as he was seconded to the MIT. ‘Sorry, force of habit. Sergeant McRae to Sergeant Mitchell. Operation Kermit is on.’

‘Roger that, we’re rolling.’

The OSU van pulled away from the kerb and turned left at the end of the street. After a couple of beats, the dog van followed it.

Logan pulled on his thick leather gloves.

Harper leaned forward and poked him on the shoulder. ‘What are we waiting for, Sergeant?’

‘You to put your seatbelt on. Sir.’

Steel produced her e-cigarette and puffed on it. ‘Brother Sergeant and Sister Sir. Oh, the family fun you whacky kids have these days.’

‘I see.’ A click from the back seat. ‘Right, well, go ahead.’

Mitchell’s voice came over the speakers. ‘Easy now... Baz: Big Red Door Key. Davy, you and me are first in. Carole, you’ve got the hoolie bar.’

Logan eased the Big Car out and took the same left as the vans.

Most of Macduff was in darkness, just the ribbons of streetlights holding everything together. A right. Then another left onto Manner Street.

Not a living soul to be seen. The only blot on the stillness was the two big white vans in yellow-and-blue police livery.

‘Ready when you are, Sergeant McRae.’

He pressed the button again. ‘And we’re clear. Go, go, go!’ The Big Car roared forward as Logan rammed his foot hard down.

Granite cottages flashed by on either side, the North Sea a wall of solid black dead ahead. He slammed on the brakes and the Big Car slithered on the sleety tarmac, stopping with two wheels up on the kerb. He jumped out.

A swarm of ninjas burst from the OSU van — the huge figures of Sergeant Mitchell’s team taking the lead. One of them clutched a mini battering ram, another held an elongated crowbar with a dirty big spike sticking out of it. Everyone else piled up in a big lump behind them.

The Dog Officer’s van skidded to a halt, less than a foot from the other van’s bumper. She leapt out onto the kerb then hauled open the sliding side door as Logan joined the back of the queue.

One of Mitchell’s team swung the Big Red Door Key and BANG, the cottage door went crashing in.

The other one — Carole? — swung the hoolie bar, shattering the living room window with the spike, raking the pick around the frame to dislodge the loose glass. Ripping the Venetian blinds away from their mountings.

The Dog Officer charged past Logan, one hand wrapped around the lead of her massive Alsatian.

And they were in.

A dark house. Narrow corridor with doors leading off to either side and one at the end.

‘POLICE, NOBODY MOVE!’

Barks went off like gunshots in the confined space.

Then answering barks from deeper inside the house. Deep and huge.

Logan shouldered the door on the left and burst into a double bedroom. Unmade bed, wardrobe door lying open, socks and pants scattered on the floor. No sign of Ricky or Laura Welsh.

Back into the hall. Almost.

It was crowded with bodies in riot gear and the sound of elbow pads thumping off the walls. Then swearing as something kicked off at the front of the line.

‘GET THAT BLOODY DOG!’

‘AAAAAARGH!’

‘SHE’S GOT A KNIFE!’

Screw this.

Logan forced his way past Tufty, and out the front door. Grabbed Isla by the stabproof vest. ‘You, with me!’ He pounded down the pavement and skittered around the side of the terrace, nearly losing his footing on the sleet-crusted paving slabs.

There — an eight-foot wall with a wheelie bin in front of it.

He scrambled up and over, tumbled down the other side and crashed into a deformed snowman, knocking its head off. Got to his feet as Isla clattered down into the dark beside him, flat on her back.

‘Aaagh...’ Flailing arms and limbs.

Logan ran for the adjoining wall between this garden and the one next door.

‘It’s OK, I’m fine, I’m fine...’

Over the wall.

He landed and a security light blared on, illuminating a swing set and a shed.

One more to go.

He fought his way over a wooden fence and into Ricky Welsh’s back garden about two seconds before the kitchen door battered off its hinges. Someone in riot gear crashed out backwards, wrestling with a Saint Bernard the size of a hairy Godzilla. They rolled into the rectangle of yellow light cast through the kitchen window.

It was Claire, the huge woman from the Operational Support Unit, her mouth wide open in a snarling scream as the dog tried to take her head off.

Teeth flashed, saliva spattering her faceguard, huge paws pressing her into the lawn. Claire’s hands jabbed out, wrapping around the Saint Bernard’s throat, elbows locked, holding it back. ‘AAAAAAARGH! GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF!’

Ricky Welsh burst from the ruined doorframe, hurdled both dog and officer, and sprinted for the back wall — a six-foot-tall stretch of granite and crumbling harling topped with six inches of snow and ice.

Logan fumbled in his stabproof’s pocket for the tin of Bite Back. Pulled it out and sprayed half the can at the St Bernard’s muzzle. It blinked and made whimpery mewling noises. Backed away, shaking its head. Confused and disorientated.

Now, everything stank of cloves.

Isla thumped into the garden, landing on her feet this time.

Then the Dog Officer and her Alsatian exploded out of the kitchen, the big dog barking on the end of its lead.

Logan pointed at the back wall. No sign of Ricky Welsh. ‘That way!’

The Dog Officer battered past, going the long way around to keep her Alsatian away from the dissipating cloud of Bite Back. Over the wall. And away.

He sprinted after them, breath burning in his lungs. Sweat made tiny rivers down his back, between the shoulder blades, as he clambered up the wall. He paused at the top, one leg hooked over the other side.

Isla scrambled up beside him. ‘Where is he?’

Ricky Welsh had cleared the garden it backed on to, making for a break between two of the houses. One more fence and he’d be out.

Then the Dog Officer released the hounds. Well, hound.

Her Alsatian raced free of its leash and cleared the wall Ricky had just clambered over in a single leap. Crossed the lawn in a couple of bounds. Then lunged for Ricky’s flailing legs.

Its teeth snapped shut on an ankle.

Ricky screamed.

Isla cheered.

He tumbled backwards into the snow and curled into a ball, with his arms crossed over his face, flinching at every bark of the big dog.

The officer caught up with her Alsatian, shoved Ricky Welsh over onto his front and cuffed him. Then looked up, grinned, and gave them two thumbs.

Result.

It was about time something went right for a change.

36

Logan walked through the shattered doorway into Ricky Welsh’s kitchen. Not exactly the tidiest in the world. Certainly not now anyway.

He stepped over the battered remains of a chair. ‘You OK?’

‘Urgh...’ Claire, from the OSU, was hunched over the sink, splashing water on her face. ‘Covered in Saint Bernard dribble. How can one dog produce so much slobber?’

‘Told you it was huge.’

She raised her dripping face. ‘Thanks for spraying Cujo, Sarge.’

‘Nah.’ He left her to it and picked his way through the shattered remains of a small kitchen table and out into the hall. Muffled voices came from somewhere above his head. Lots of grunts and hissing. The occasional thump. Someone swearing.

The stairway was as narrow as the corridor. It doglegged around, emerging in what had to be an attic conversion. In the gap between two rooms, three officers in their riot gear were pinning a woman to the ground. Barely holding her in place. They piled on her back and legs, forcing her into the shabby carpet.

Laura Welsh was big, thickset. Ginger curls covered her face as she hissed and wriggled. Three small red hearts were tattooed between the knuckles of her right hand, stretched tight across her clenched fist.

The Chief Inspector from Elgin had his knee on her shoulder, jamming Laura’s other wrist against the floor with both hands. ‘I’m not telling you again — calm down!’

Nicholson lay across Laura’s legs. She grinned up at Logan. ‘I love knocking on doors.’

More wriggling.

The guy at the head of the piley-on scowled. ‘You’re not helping, Constable.’

‘Sorry, Guv.’

Logan whipped out his limb restraints and helped Nicholson secure Laura’s legs — one set binding her knees together, the other her ankles. Then he stood back as the others finally managed to get her hands cuffed behind her back. ‘Everyone OK? Anyone hurt?’

A flash of freckled skin, green eyes bulging, teeth bared, lipstick smeared. ‘I’LL KILL THE LOT OF YOU!’

The Chief Inspector flipped up the visor on his crash helmet, exposing a chubby face with a squint nose. ‘Are you honestly trying to make things worse for yourself, Mrs Welsh? Because threatening to kill four police officers isn’t going to look good when they haul you up in court.’

‘GAH!’ Then she pulled her head back and slammed it into the dirty carpet. Lay there, face against the floor, hissing breath in and out through her teeth.

‘There we go.’

Through the open door, behind Chief Inspector Chunky, lay a small bedroom. It was a shambles of clothes and cardboard boxes. Narveer sat on the edge of the bed with his head thrown back, one hand holding onto his turban, the other pinching the bridge of his nose. Blood made a bandit mask across the lower half of his face.

Logan poked his head into the room. ‘You OK?’

‘No.’ The word all bunged up and growly.

He wasn’t the only one in there — two of the Elgin officers were snapping the cuffs on a pair of men who were doing a lot more cooperating than Laura Welsh.

The bigger of the pair wore skinny jeans and a couple of hoodies, a blue one on over a red one. His hair was shorn at the sides and quiffed sideways in the middle. It went with the neck beard and horn-rimmed glasses.

Mr Hipster’s friend had a granddad shirt, braces, and a brown waistcoat — as if he was auditioning for a Mumford and Sons cover band. He even had the 1940s haircut.

Logan nodded at them. ‘Names?’

Mr Hipster licked his lips. ‘I know how this looks, but we were just...’

Mr Mumford blinked at his friend. ‘Yeah... there was... an advert in the paper for a mountain bike? We, erm, came round to see if it was any good.’

‘You know, to buy it and that?’

‘Mountain bike.’ Mr Mumford jerked his eyes towards the landing and lowered his voice. ‘No idea what’s going on here, but really don’t need a mountain bike that badly.’

‘Yeah, so if we could, you know, head off? That’d be cool.’

‘Completely cool.’

Smiles.

No chance.

‘Well?’ Harper hadn’t moved from the back of the Big Car, sitting there with her seatbelt on and her arms folded.

Logan closed the driver’s door and peeled off his gloves. ‘Drug dog’s going through the place now. Our friend the Chief Inspector has decided to supervise the search.’

Steel puffed a faceful of steam across the car at him, e-cigarette glowing from the corner of her mouth. ‘Which means the thieving git wants to take all the credit.’

‘And Narveer?’

Logan shrugged. ‘Don’t think his nose is broken, but better safe than sorry.’

‘Agreed.’ Harper unfastened her seatbelt. ‘What about our two house guests?’

‘Nick McDowell and Steven Fowler. Sticking to their mountain-bike stories.’ He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, frowning out through the windscreen. The sleet had stopped at last, giving way to a bitter wind that rattled the streetlights. A couple of houses had people at the windows, staring out, having a good old nosy at the police vehicles. ‘Don’t know why, but Steven Fowler rings a bell.’

‘So do a PNC check.’

Logan glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘I did actually think of that, sir. He’s got a couple of parking tickets: that’s it. Never been arrested. Far as I can tell, he’s never even been cautioned.’

But still...

Steven Fowler.

Steve Fowler.

Stevie... Oh crap.

Stevie Fowler — the guy Reuben wanted him to collect a package from. Collect a package and hide it until further notice.

Oh that was just great.

Logan’s ‘loyalty test’ was under arrest, and now—

‘Sergeant?’

He blinked.

Harper was leaning forward between the seats, staring at him.

‘Sorry.’

Steel was at it too. ‘You OK, Laz? Only you look like someone’s stuffed an angry hedgehog up your bum.’

‘Just a... twinge that’s all. From breaking up that fight yesterday.’

‘Tell me about it. Could barely get my bra on this morning.’ She untucked her shirt. ‘You should see my ribs, Detective Superintendent, they’re—’

‘Actually,’ Harper pulled in her chin, ‘I think I’d better go check on Narveer. Excuse me.’ She fumbled with the door handle and clambered out of the car. Hurried along the pavement towards Ricky and Laura Welsh’s place.

Steel grinned. ‘Think your sister fancies me.’

‘Yes. Because you’re so desirable.’

‘And don’t you forget it.’ She puffed on her fake cigarette. ‘While you were off playing policeman, I regaled her with the sexual conquests of my youth. Edited highlights, anyway.’ A sigh. ‘Did I ever tell you about Mrs Morgenstern? She was thirty-four, I was fifteen. She was my piano teacher and I was horny as a—’

‘Can we not do this?’

Steel sniffed. ‘Thought you boys liked a bit of hot girl-on-girl action?’

A gap opened up through the clouds, letting a cold slab of moonlight crash against the street, bathing it in frigid grey light.

Stevie Fowler.

What the hell was Logan supposed to do now? Never mind the fact that whatever Fowler should have handed over for safekeeping would probably end up in the evidence store; would Reuben expect Logan to let him go without so much as a slap on the wrists? Because there was no chance of that happening. Not with Harper and Narveer and Steel and the Chief Inspector from Elgin falling over each other to find someone to prosecute so they could take the credit.

Reuben already wanted him dead, this really wasn’t going to help.

Oh he was so screwed.

‘Anyway, so one day Mrs Morgenstern turns up for my lesson wearing this pencil skirt and silk blouse and — oh my hairy armpits, Laz, you should have seen her breasts.’

Urquhart. Call Urquhart and explain what happened.

‘Every time she bent over the piano it was like diving into Loch Cleavage. God, you could’ve drowned in there.’

This wasn’t Logan’s fault. Fowler had screwed up, not him.

‘So I tell her I’m having difficulty with my fingering and she says—’

Logan’s phone blared out its anonymous ringtone. He dragged the thing out. ‘Sorry, got to get this.’

Whoever it was, it had to be better than Confessions of a Teenaged Lesbian Piano Student.

‘McRae.’

‘Logan? It’s Eamon.’ A pause. ‘Your brother?’

He turned his back on Steel and climbed out of the car. ‘Let me guess, Mother’s been bending your ear.’

‘I don’t know why you’ve got to antagonize her the whole time, Logan. She phoned me in tears saying you’d shouted and sworn at her. How could you be so insensitive and—’

‘Did she tell you why I was swearing, Eamon? Did she let that tiny nugget of truth escape, or was it all lies like usual?’ He slammed the car door. ‘Well?’ His breath rolled out in a cloud of fog, before being torn away by the wind. Cold air nipped at his ears.

‘Logan, she’s your mother. You can’t—’

‘Dad didn’t die when he was shot. He got better and sodded off to Dunfermline with a nurse. Settled down and had another family. You’ve got a wee sister, Eamon: you’re not the youngest any more.’

Dark furious barks exploded inside the Dog Officer’s van. Difficult to tell if it was Cujo or the Alsatian. A second later it didn’t matter, because the other dog joined in — doubling the noise.

‘All those years she dragged us along to put flowers on his grave and he wasn’t even dead!’

Still nothing from the other end of the phone.

‘She lied to us, Eamon. We could’ve had a father growing up, but she lied.’

The barking was getting louder, each dog egging the other on.

Logan slammed his palm against the van’s cold metal bulkhead. ‘SHUT UP, THE PAIR OF YOU!’ It didn’t work. If anything, they got louder.

Curtains twitched in the house opposite.

Maybe it wasn’t the best of ideas to be ranting and raving in the middle of the street, where anyone could see him, film him, and upload it to YouTube. He turned his back on the van and marched back to the Big Car. ‘You still there?’

‘I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, Logan, but it’s not funny. Grow up, phone Mother back, and apologize.’

‘Don’t be such a mummy’s boy.’

‘All right, I’m hanging up now.’ And the line went dead.

What a shock: Eamon took her side. Well sod him too. Logan wiped the condensation from his phone’s screen and blocked Eamon’s number too.

He stood and glowered down Manner Street. The sea shone, down the end, between the buildings, like a polished headstone.

Thirty-four years.

Thirty-four sodding years.

Steel was still puffing away as he climbed back into the Big Car. ‘Aye, aye, Captain Cheery’s back.’

Logan slammed the door closed. ‘Don’t start.’

‘You ever wonder why you’re such a miserable git?’

He turned and stared at her. ‘Please, do tell me. Is it because I got the crap kicked out of me yesterday? How about: someone tried to slit my throat the night before that? Or maybe it’s because someone burned Samantha’s caravan down today?’ Getting louder with every word. ‘Oh, tell you what — and I’m going out on a limb here — how about it’s because I had to kill my girlfriend on Friday? YOU WANT TO PICK ONE?’ Spittle glowed in the dashboard lights.

Steel took a good long draw on her e-cigarette. Dribbled the steam out of her nose, long and slow. ‘Are we finished, or is there a wee bit more tantrum in there?’

‘I’m having a bad week, that OK with you?’ He folded his arms and thumped back in his seat. And that wasn’t even mentioning the guy he’d seen killed and the guy he’d killed himself. A long breath rattled its way free. Surprising he could even function at all. ‘This isn’t easy.’

She sighed, then gave his shoulder a squeeze. ‘You’re a silly sod, Laz, you know that, don’t you?’

And then some.

Tufty put a hand on Ricky Welsh’s head and pushed it down as he guided him into the back of the Big Car. Making sure he didn’t mess up those flowing shoulder-length locks of his by battering them against the doorframe.

Once in, Ricky sat all squinted over to one side, unable to sit properly because of his hands being cuffed behind his back.

Soon as Tufty had fastened Ricky’s seatbelt for him, Logan started the car’s engine and fiddled with the rear-view mirror until their new friend’s face filled the reflection. ‘You’re not going to give us any trouble, are you, Ricky?’

‘Bloody dog tried to rip my leg off.’

‘Your dog tried to rip my officer’s face off, so we’re probably even.’

‘I’m in agony here, OK?’

Steel wriggled down in the passenger seat as Tufty climbed in on the other side of Ricky. ‘How long till Fraserburgh?’

Logan turned on the windscreen wipers, grinding away a gritty swathe of ice. ‘Half an hour?’

Outside, two of Mitchell’s team were struggling Laura Welsh into the OSU van. They’d put a spit hood on her — it made her look as if she was wearing a baggy nylon condom on her head. The other two, Stevie Fowler and Nick McDowell were being loaded into a second patrol car.

‘Course you know what’s going to happen, don’t you, Ricky?’ Steel pointed as Harper climbed into the car with Fowler and McDowell. ‘That pair of hipster halfwits will spend the next thirty minutes spilling their guts to Detective Superintendent Harper. All the way from here to Fraserburgh, trying to cut a deal by landing you and your charming wife in the crap.’

The OSU van pulled away from the kerb, headlights scrawling their way across the granite houses as it did a three-point turn.

‘What do you think, Sergeant McRae? How long’s our Rickyboy going to get sent down for?’

Logan did a three-pointer of his own, following the van. ‘Good question. Had to be, what, sixty grand’s worth of heroin in there? Kilo of amphetamine. Plus nine thousand-quid bricks of resin...’ He sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘Fiver says eight years.’

‘Eight years? Aye, if the Sheriff’s in a really good mood. Five quid on twelve to fourteen.’

‘Deal.’

She reached across the car and shook his hand.

Ricky curled his lip. ‘Yeah, good try. I’m completely bricking it back here. Woe is me, etcetera.’ He shifted from side to side in his seat. ‘Amateurs.’

Ah well, it’d been a longshot anyway.

Logan took them out through the town limits, following the OSU van on the road to Fraserburgh.

One last go. ‘Ricky?’ Logan caught his eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘Hamish Mowat only died on Wednesday and you’re already climbing into bed with Jessica Campbell? Not very loyal, is it?’

No reply.

‘How do you think Reuben’s going to feel about that? Think he’s going to be happy?’

Ricky Welsh squirmed for a moment, then shrugged. ‘No comment.’

‘What do you think he’s going to do to you when he finds out?’

‘No comment.’

Maybe Harper would have more luck with Fowler and McDowell? Who knew, maybe Fowler would keep his trap shut about delivering a package for Logan? And maybe pixies and fairies would scamper out of DCI Steel’s backside and buy them all fish suppers for their tea.

Ricky Welsh was probably right, ‘no comment’ was the only way to go.

37

Steel yawned, showing off grey fillings and a yellow tongue, then slumped in her chair. ‘Time is it?’

Logan checked. ‘Nearly half one.’

Fraserburgh station was coffin quiet, not so much as the creak of a floorboard to break the spell. Wind battered the windows in the Sergeants’ Office, hail crackling against the glass. Outside, the streetlights bobbed and weaved, their pale-yellow glow blurred by the weather.

‘Half one...’ Steel slumped even further, trouser legs riding up to expose pale hairy shins. ‘Bored. Knackered.’

‘So go home.’

‘And my ribs hurt.’

He shut down his computer. ‘So — go — home.’

‘Feels like someone’s given me a going over with a lawnmower.’ At least that would explain the hairstyle.

‘There’s no point hanging around here. One: we have to wait for everyone’s lawyers to turn up. Two: then we’ve got to wait for them to coach their clients in the ancient art of denying everything. Three: Harper says she’s sitting in on all the interviews, so it’ll take hours before it’s done.’ He stood and stretched, wincing as it pulled at the bruises along his back. ‘Might as well Foxtrot Oscar, go home, and get some sleep.’

Another yawn. ‘Harper? You no’ on first-name terms yet? After all those years you spent swimming about together in your dad’s testicles, think you would’ve developed some sort of bond. Calling each other “Sir” and “Sergeant”. No’ natural.’

‘Why is every woman in my life a pain in the backside?’

Steel grinned. ‘Your own fault for being part of the oppressive patriarchal hierarchy.’ She scratched at her belly. Frowned. ‘I want chips.’

‘Good for you.’ He fastened his equipment belt, then Velcroed on his stabproof vest. ‘Now are you coming or not?’

‘Chips.’ Steel banged on the arms of her chair. ‘Chips, chips, chips, chips, chips!’

So this was what having a toddler was like.

‘Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t—’

A knock on the door, then Narveer poked his turban into the office. His eyes were swollen around the bridge of his nose, a circle of black flecks crusting each nostril. ‘Sergeant McRae? Detective Superintendent Harper would like to see you downstairs regarding the two gentlemen we arrested at the Welshes’. Interview Room Two please.’

Ah.

She’d found out about him and Stevie Fowler.

Well, it had to happen sooner or later.

‘Right.’ Deep breath. A nod. Then he followed Narveer out into the corridor, back straight, chin up.

All the way down the stairs, the Detective Inspector peered at him. Not saying anything.

At the bottom he stopped, put a hand on Logan’s arm. ‘Sergeant McRae, I understand this is probably very difficult for you.’

Now there was an understatement.

‘But I need you to see it from the Super’s point of view.’

Her brother was involved in organized crime. Yeah, that would probably be a bit embarrassing for her. But it wasn’t as if she didn’t have plausible deniability, was it?

‘Sergeant McRae, Logan, just because she’s known about you for years, it doesn’t mean she’s used to the reality of the situation.’

She wasn’t the one who’d end up doing eight years in HMP Glenochil with all the other dodgy police officers and vulnerable prisoners.

‘Give her time, OK? She’s a much nicer person when you get to know her.’

What?

Logan licked his lips. ‘You sure about that?’

‘She’s been an only child her whole life, well, except for the spectre of you and your brother. And now here you are,’ he poked Logan in the shoulder, ‘in the flesh.’ A shrug. ‘Given how much she hated you last week, she’s come a long way.’

Yeah...

‘Anyway, better not keep her waiting.’ Narveer led the way through the station, along its creaky galleon floors, to a bland door with a big ‘2’ painted on it and a laminated sign: ‘NO PERSONS TO BE LEFT UNATTENDED IN THIS ROOM AT ANY TIME’.

Narveer knocked, then opened the door.

Harper was sitting there, on her own. Violating the signage. She tried on a smile. ‘Sergeant McRae, I want you to sit in on the interviews with Fowler and McDowell. I need a result on this one. You did a good job bursting Martin Milne, let’s see if you can do it again.’

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: ‘FEEL FREE TO ACTUALLY CONTRIBUTE AT SOME POINT.’

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.’

Tiny creases appeared between her eyebrows. ‘Why are you still a sergeant?’

‘Say, fifteen minutes to grab something from the vending machines? Then I’ll get McDowell into number three.’

‘You should be a DI by now, at the very least. You’re three times the cop that wrinkly disaster is.’

Logan shrugged, then headed towards the stairs. ‘Tried being a DI once, didn’t like it. Either you’re a dick and make someone else do all your paperwork and rosters, or you’ve got sod-all time to do any investigating.’

She shook her head, following him up to the canteen. ‘You really do take after Dad, don’t you?’

‘No idea.’

38

Dark fields whipped past the Big Car’s windows, banks of grey snow lining the road.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Steel didn’t bother to stifle the yawn that made her head look like a flip-top bin. ‘Knackered.’

‘Well you should have gone home when I said, shouldn’t you?’ Logan pressed the button on his Airwave. ‘Sergeant McRae to Constable Nicholson, safe to talk?’

There was a pause, then, ‘Aye, aye, Sarge.’

‘How’s it going, Calamity?’

‘Like a grave. Not a creature is stirring, not even a druggy. Must be the weather.’

‘Good. Tufty behaving himself on his last night in nappies?’

‘He’s brought in fancy pieces. And I mean, really fancy.’

Steel thumped Logan on the arm. ‘Make sure they save some for us. I’m starving. Had nothing to eat but two packs of Wotsits and a Toffee Crisp since midnight.’

‘Wanted to check in and make sure everything was all right.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘We’ll be back in time for threeses.’ He let go of the button.

The tarmac glittered with frost that flared in the headlights then disappeared back into the night.

Steel dug her hands into her armpits. ‘Have you got a deep-fat fryer back at the house?’

‘No.’

‘Chip pan?’

‘No.’

‘What kind of Scotsman are you?’

More fields.

They drifted through the limits at Crudie, dropping to fifty. Not that there was much of it: the place was little more than a scattering of houses spread out along the road. If it weren’t for the dirty big signs at either end with ‘CRUDIE ~ PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY’ on them you’d barely know it was there.

Logan glanced across the car. ‘I saw the interview, by the way. You and Jack Wallace.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Seemed like a lovely man. You know, apart from all the sexual assaults and treating women like they’re punchbags.’

‘Wallace is a prince all right.’ She shook her head. Then turned and stared at Logan. ‘You’re Napier’s bitch now, aren’t you?’

‘Well what did you want me to do, refuse to help him? That wouldn’t look suspicious, would it? At least this way I’m on the inside, I can... finesse things.’

She slid further down in her seat, then plonked both feet up on the dashboard. ‘Blah, blah, blah.’

‘Look, Napier says he’d be just as happy exonerating you. And it’s not like you actually did anything, is it?’

No reply.

Logan glanced at her again. ‘Did you?’

‘Course I didn’t.’ She pursed her lips and hummed for bit. ‘Once upon a time, in the fabled granite city of Aberdeen, there lived a man named Jack Wallace. Now Jack Wallace wasn’t a very nice man, in fact he was a complete and utter bastard. He liked to attack women, beat, and rape them. It made him feel big and clever.’ Steel turned her face to the window. ‘One sunny evening in May, Wallace drugged and raped a seventeen-year-old girl called Rosalyn Cooper. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he filmed it on his phone and used it to blackmail her into a “relationship”.’ Steel made quote marks with her fingers. ‘So he could keep on raping and battering her without having to bother shelling out for drugs.’

Logan tightened his grip on the steering wheel. ‘He filmed it?’

‘Now Rosalyn thought her mother and father would blame her for the attack, and they would throw her out of the house and never speak to her again. And Wallace told her everyone would call her a slut and a whore and she’d never get a job or any friends ever again. And she was so scared and traumatized, she actually believed him.’

Steel dug out her e-cigarette and took a long slow drag, setting the tip glowing bright blue. ‘Then one day, a brave knight rode in on a big white horse with a sharny arse, and she said, “Come on, Rosalyn, you’re no’ to blame here. It’s that scumbag Wallace who’s at fault. We’ll do him for rape and make sure he gets locked away for years and years and years.” But Rosalyn was too scared to press charges, because if she did it would all come out and her parents would know and they’d never love her again. And the brave knight told her they could get round that. They could make it work. But she was too scared.’

‘What happened?’

Steel blew a line of steam at the windscreen. ‘It wasn’t even the first time he’d done it. The first poor cow he filmed ended up in a secure ward doped up to the ears because spiders kept crawling out of her fingertips. Completely — and utterly — broken.’ A small laugh broke free, but there was no humour in it. ‘So Rosalyn did the only thing that made sense to her: she climbed into a very hot bath with a bottle of vodka and a craft knife. Her little brother found her next morning. Apparently he sees a therapist twice a week now.’

More fields.

They passed the turn-off to Gardenstown.

Logan shook his head. ‘So get a search warrant, find the phone, and show the footage to the Procurator Fiscal! Get the scumbag charged.’

‘You really think I’ve no’ tried that? Can’t get a warrant on the word of a dead girl.’ Another line of steam hit the windscreen. ‘And even if I could, what’d that prove? She’s drugged in the video: she’s no’ fighting back, and it’s no’ as if she can testify in court, is it? We’d never get a conviction.’

More fields — wide, flat and rolling beneath the icy moonlight.

‘Tell you, Laz, I’ve never had a better day than when I turned up at Wallace’s house to give him a hard time and found a ton of kiddy porn just sitting there on his laptop.’ This time the laugh had a lot more joy in it. ‘I mean, a slideshow for God’s sake! Wee shite was probably gearing up for a good wank when I turned up and spoiled the romantic mood. And now he’s got six years of spanking his raping wee monkey cock in a prison cell. Assuming he can get it up without staring at images of abused kids, or beating the crap out of some poor woman. Serves him right.’

Hard to argue with that.

Steel grinned across the car at him. ‘You know what? I’m in such a good mood I’m even prepared to put up with oven chips, if you’ve got any?’

Logan peered out of the bedroom window at the street below. Steel wound her way along the road, having had to settle for cheese on toast and a large Balvenie instead. When she’d disappeared from view, he shut the curtains and pulled out his mobile.

Dialled John Urquhart.

The phone rang and rang and rang. Then finally, ‘Mmmph? Hello? What?’

‘You can tell Reuben the delivery’s off.’

‘What? Who’s...’ A cough rattled out of the earpiece. ‘Mr McRae? What time is it?’

Logan’s eyes flicked to the clock-radio — 03:32. ‘The delivery’s off. Stevie Fowler got himself arrested in a drugs raid four hours ago.’

Urquhart yawned, then swore. ‘He got himself arrested?’

‘He was never going to deliver the package, it was all a scam so he could steal the drugs and sell them to a local dealer.’

‘Oh, Reuben’s going to love that. Is there—’

‘And before you ask: no. He’s confessed in front of a detective superintendent from the Serious Organised Crime Task Force. There’s no way in hell he’s walking free.’

Urquhart made a noise like a deflating mattress. ‘That’s... unfortunate. And did Mr Fowler happen to mention where he’d got the package from in the first place?’

‘And where he was meant to deliver it. Good job he didn’t have my name, or I’d be in the cell next door by now.’

‘And the package is...?’

‘The kilo and a half of amphetamines? He’d already sold it. It’s evidence.’

A sigh. ‘Mr McRae, you know how Reuben’s going to react, don’t you? He doesn’t like people who steal from the organization.’

‘Really? Because I don’t like people who threaten my kids and SEND THUGS ROUND TO KILL ME!’ Logan slammed his palm into the wallpaper.

‘I understand where you’re coming from, Mr McRae, but you really have to put that behind you and move on.’

‘Move on?’

‘Seriously, dude, chill. I had a word with the Reubenator and smoothed things out. Told him he can’t kill you ’cause you’re the executor for Mr Mowat’s will. He bumps you off and everything’ll take forever to sort out.’

‘And what happens after the will’s executed, he sends someone else?’

‘That’s how the system works: the big dog eats the small dog. You don’t like getting bit? Be the bigger dog.’

Logan settled onto the edge of the bed. ‘I’m supposed to just forget about it?’

‘No, you’re supposed to bite back.’ A pause. ‘So, we’ll see you tomorrow?’

Tomorrow?

Oh, right, the reading of the will. ‘Don’t think I’ve got any choice.’

Not now.

Logan hung up and switched off his phone.

He stood there, frowning down at the bed. Then knelt beside it and fished out the polished wooden box. Should really give the gun a proper wipe down, make sure there were no fingerprints on it.

Tomorrow was going to be a big day.