In the Cold Dark Ground

44

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Urgh.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Thanks, sir.’

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

Harper grabbed a folder from the table and marched off.

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

Steel hadn’t moved.

‘Drink your Lemsip.’

‘Urgh...’

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

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

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

‘Be nice to me, I’m dying.’

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

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

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

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

‘No. Don’t remember that.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Only some?’

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

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

‘But Steel—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So was John Urquhart alive or dead?

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

‘Sergeant McRae?’

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

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

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

Logan patted her on the shoulder. ‘Take a deep breath. Then go upstairs and tell Steel she needs to put up the extra cash, or stop being a pain in your backside. She’ll appreciate the honesty.’

‘Really?’ Weatherford’s eyebrows went up an inch. Then she licked her lips and nodded. ‘OK. Honesty. Pain in the backside. I can do this.’

‘And if she shouts at you, try to think nice thoughts till she stops.’

With any luck, given the state of Steel’s hangover, any yelling would hurt her more than it hurt Weatherford. If nothing else it would keep the ensuing bollocking to a minimum.

‘Oh God...’ The DS turned and fidgeted her way back along the corridor.

Logan shook his head and stepped outside.

The air was crisp and harsh, biting at his ears as he unlocked the car and climbed in behind the wheel. Took out his mobile phone and called John Urquhart’s number.

Listened to it ring.

‘Yellow?’

‘John? It’s Logan.’

‘Mr McRae? You OK? Reuben said—’

‘Thought you might be dead.’

‘Nah, just a scratch. Didn’t get far enough away from the Reubenator’s shotgun. My own stupid fault. Couple of stitches and I’m right as rain.’ A sigh. ‘More than I can say for the Armani, though. Whole suit, completely ruined. Overcoat too.’

‘What about Reuben?’

‘Ah... Yes. Reuben.’ Urquhart made a hissing noise. ‘He’s a wee bit hacked off. You know, what with you shooting him and everything.’

‘I tried, I really did.’

‘Never seen him so angry. I mean, we’re talking Chernobyl in green overalls here.’

Of course he was.

Well, it wasn’t really that surprising, was it? If you shoot someone twice they were hardly likely to be your bestest friend forever.

‘Might be a good idea for you to get out of Scotland for a bit, Mr McRae. Somewhere far away, where Reuben can’t get his hands on you. Cos if he does, it’s going to be long and slow and horrible. Trust me, I’ve seen it.’

The side door to the station opened and Harper marched out with Narveer trailing in her wake. Today’s turban was a cheery yellow-and-black check, like Rupert Bear’s trousers.

‘And you better keep that gun on you till you go, you know what I’m saying? He’s pulling in favours.’

Not much chance of that. Harper and Narveer were hardly going to let him nip home for five minutes. What? Oh, nothing much: got to feed the cat and pick up a firearm in case a gangster needs shooting. Again.

Yeah, probably not.

Narveer opened the back door. ‘Morning, Logan.’

Logan gave him a wave, keeping his voice neutral. Nothing to see here, just a standard-issue innocent phone call. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go. But if you hear anything, let me know, OK?’

‘Stay safe, Mr McRae. Safe and far, far away.’

Logan hung up and slipped the phone into his pilfered stabproof vest as Harper climbed into the passenger seat. ‘All set?’

She nodded at him. ‘Let’s go pay Mr Milne a visit.’

DS McKenzie sat on the end of the bed, munching her way through a wee packet of complimentary shortbread, getting crumbs down her shirt. She’d released her hair from its angry pompom, letting it curl and coil around her scowling face.

Logan nodded at the adjoining wall to the next hotel room. ‘How did Milne take it?’

‘You’d think we were asking him to swim the Atlantic. Apparently Mrs Milne is not the forgiving type.’

‘On the bright side, it means you’ll get to be in on the swoop.’

‘He’s such a bloody whinge. No one made him get a loan from gangsters, did they? Deserves all he gets.’

Logan peered out through the window at the car park below. An old man was out shovelling grit onto the snow, giving it dark brown streaks. ‘They going to put him in witness protection?’

‘You know what? I genuinely couldn’t give a toss.’ McKenzie crumpled up the wrapper and lobbed it at the bin. It didn’t even get halfway there. ‘Steel won’t let me do the overtime paperwork unless I do the shift rosters as well. Says it’ll be good practice for when I get promoted.’ Her top lip curled. ‘Lazy, useless, wrinkly, disaster area.’

‘Could always transfer out to another division.’

‘And let her win?’ Becky tore her way into another wee packet of shortbread. ‘You ever wonder why we bother, McRae?’

Every. Single. Day.

He left her to her sulk and headed next door.

A suitcase sat in the middle of the bed, an array of socks and pants and shirts arranged around it, all neatly folded and ready to pack. Milne stood with his back to the TV, arms crossed, jaw set, bottom lip poking out as Harper settled into the room’s only chair.

‘Come on, Martin, we’ve been over this.’

Narveer had taken up position by the en suite, leaning back against the wall. ‘Your family’s safer if you’re all in the one place.’

Dirty photos jumbled across the hotel desk — the stills from Shepherd and Milne’s sex sessions. Some had names written in the corner of the image in jaggy biro letters, others nothing but a row of question marks. It looked as if DS Robertson hadn’t wasted any time getting his finger out. At long last. Maybe it would save him an arse-kicking when Steel’s hangover passed, but Logan doubted it.

All those different women: blondes, brunettes, redheads, thin, not-so-thin, positively chunky, light skin, dark skin, olive skin, young-ish, middle-aged, old. Milne and Shepherd didn’t seem to have a type. Well, other than anyone who was prepared to say yes to a threesome.

A few of them looked familiar, but then B Division wasn’t exactly Greater Manchester. Rural area like this, you rubbed shoulders with everyone sooner or later. Pretty certain he’d stopped the school-teachery type, with the black bun and PVC stockings, for having bald tyres on her Fiat Panda. And the large woman with the knee-highs: was it her shed that had been broken into, or was she the wheelie-bin dispute with the next-door neighbours?

Milne shook his head. ‘I should never have got involved.’ His voice was about an octave higher than it had been, trembling at the end as if he was having difficulty keeping it under control. ‘I should’ve kept my big mouth shut. What if something happens?’

‘They’re going to be all right, Martin.’ Narveer gave him a wink. ‘Trust me: we’ve done this before, loads of times. There’s a car in front of the house right now, no one’s getting anywhere near Katie and Ethan.’

‘But—’

‘You’re doing the right thing, Martin.’ Harper pointed at the array of clothes. ‘This is for the best.’

A couple of others Logan couldn’t put a name to: a young blonde woman looking over her shoulder and grinning at the camera while Shepherd spanked her; a large woman with a Y-shaped scar on her top lip and a thing for black lace; and a grey-haired lady with an Iron Maiden tattoo all over her back... Wait, was that Aggie? Shepherd’s neighbour? It was. So apparently she did a bit more than just nip in and feed Onion the cat from time to time.

Milne ground a palm into one eye socket. ‘Katie hates me.’

Shock horror.

‘She needs time to adjust, that’s all. Now, come on, get packed and we’ll take you over there. OK?’

He stared at his feet. ‘I should never have said anything.’

A sigh, then Harper sat forward. ‘Sometimes it’s not easy doing the right thing, Martin. Sometimes there’s risks and there’s costs, but that doesn’t change anything — it’s still the right thing to do. And we have to do it, because if we don’t, then everything falls apart and everyone suffers.’ She smiled. ‘Do you see?’

Milne nodded, eyes still fixed on his shoes.

‘Good. Now, you get packed.’

45

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

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

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

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

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

‘Doing the right thing.’

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

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

‘No matter what it costs?’

‘No matter what it costs.’

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

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

She slapped him.

‘What if it costs you everything?’

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

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

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

Then you do it anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was worth a go. ‘I can try.’

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

No matter what it costs.

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

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

‘No comment.’

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

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

‘No comment.’

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

‘No comment.’

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

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

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

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

The solicitor yawned. Sighed.

‘No comment.’

Yeah, this was going to take a while.

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

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

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

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

Can’t.

No matter what it cost, remember?

Yes, but—

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

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

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

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

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

‘OK.’

The line went dead.

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

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

Her solicitor was nearly sideways in his seat, trying not to get squished by those broad shoulders. A small man in a pinstriped suit that needed a bit of a clean. His fingers skittered along the edge of his notepad, the pen almost vibrating as he wrote ‘NO COMMENT’ in it. Probably wondering who he’d offended at the Scottish Legal Aid Board to make them lumber him with Laura Welsh.

Logan tried the photo of Jessica Campbell again. ‘Do you recognize this woman, Laura?’

‘Aye. Is it Oprah Winfrey?’ She grinned, showing off a couple of gold incisors. The patch where she’d thumped her forehead into the landing carpet had scabbed over, making dark parallel lines in the pale freckled skin.

‘Do you think Hamish Mowat would have liked you and Ricky switching sides? Getting your drugs from Jessica Campbell? That’s—’

‘I object.’ Mr Nervous sat up straight. ‘My client has...’

Laura Welsh stared at him, the grin turning into a growl.

He cleared his throat. Lowered his eyes to his trembling pen. ‘Yes.’

She smiled again. ‘Wee Hamish is dead. Did you no’ hear?’

Harper leaned forwards. ‘We found nine thousand pounds’ worth of cannabis resin in your house, Mrs Welsh. Do you know how many years that’ll get you?’

Laura didn’t even look at her, she raised a big hand and pointed instead. The hearts tattooed between her knuckles, flexed. ‘I don’t know you. Keep it that way.’

Silence.

Logan straightened the photograph. ‘So you’ve changed sides.’

‘See, soon as Wee Hamish Mowat died, that was it. Chaos.’

‘What about Reuben?’

‘Oh, he’s a great man with a knife, or a hammer, but running things? You imagine what it’s going to be like now Wee Hamish is gone? Going to fall apart.’

Mr Nervous fidgeted with his pen. ‘Mrs Welsh, I really think—’

‘See if I have to tell you again...’

He shrank about a foot. ‘Sorry.’

Laura nodded. ‘Sergeant McRae and me are just having a chat about general stuff. Putting the world to rights. Right, Sergeant McRae?’

‘Right.’

‘Way I hear it, everyone’s picking sides. Smart money’s on Glasgow.’ A shrug. ‘Or Edinburgh.’

‘What about the Hussain Brothers? Liverpool Junkyard Massive? Black Angus MacDonald?’

She curled one side of her face up. ‘Nah. On a hiding to nowhere with that lot. Black Angus couldn’t organize a piss-up at an AA meeting. Rest are all wannabe hardmen.’

‘Reuben’s not going to bow out gracefully.’

‘Scar-faced fat bastard wants to start a war. How’s he going to do that when all his troops have sodded off to Ma Campbell or Malk the Knife? Be nothing but him and a couple morons pissing into the wind.’ She flashed Logan those gold incisors again. ‘Desperate last gasps of a dying regime, Sergeant McRae. And there won’t be a civil war when it topples: Edinburgh and Glasgow will divvy up Aberdeenshire and that’ll be it.’

Until Jessica Campbell and Malcolm McLennan decided they wanted a bigger slice of the cake.

‘And Reuben?’

‘Sooner or later, he’s going to end up dead. Question is how many people he takes with him.’

Harper leaned in. ‘You seem to know a lot about the goings on up here, Mrs Welsh.’

A shrug. ‘I hear things.’

‘And did you hear who attacked Sergeant McRae and Detective Chief Inspector Steel on Friday night? Was it Jessica Campbell’s people, or Malcolm McLennan’s?’

Laura’s grin was back. ‘No comment.’

Harper tucked the folder under her arm, staring down the corridor as Laura Welsh was led away back to her cell. Then Harper turned and slammed her boot into the interview room door. ‘Damn it!’

‘Can’t say we didn’t try.’

‘No comment, no comment, no bloody comment.’ She took a deep breath and hissed it out. ‘Right.’ Shook her head and made for the exit, straightening her shoulders as she marched towards the double doors. ‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll find out who’s behind it all soon as they turn up to collect the cargo at six. We’ll still get a result.’

True.

She pushed through into the stairwell, and stopped, frowning at the window. Snow drifted across the prison car park, whipped into mini cyclones by the wind. Rattling the lights on their pillars and making them sway. ‘Better get the car warmed up, Sergeant. We’ll head back to Banff and make sure everything’s set for the swoop soon as I’ve updated the powers that be.’

‘Sir.’

She followed him down one flight, then pulled out her phone and disappeared into the admin block, leaving him alone in the stairwell.

Logan waited till she was definitely out of earshot. ‘Thanks a bloody heap.’

So he could freeze his ears off, marching outside in the snow to get the Big Car all warm and toasty for her.

Bloody Superintendents were all the same.

He thumped down the stairs, and signed out at the reception desk. Then shoved his way out into the snow.

It was like being machine-gunned with tiny white blocks of Lego, stripping the air from his lungs. The wind battered him, making him lurch like a Monday-morning drunk across the gritted tarmac to the Big Car.

Gah. Just because Peterhead was a hundred and twenty miles north of Moscow it didn’t have to show off about it. Polar bears had it warmer than this...

He fumbled his keys out with numb fingers and scrambled inside. Started the Big Car up and cranked the blowers to full, huffing warm breath into his cupped hands.

Barely half four, and it was more like the middle of the night out there. Snow hammered the car, rocking it on its springs.

He slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the outline of his mobile phone.

Do it.

No.

For God’s sake, grow a pair!

Harper was right: the only thing that stopped everything falling apart was people doing the right thing, instead of the easy thing.

Yes, but...

The blowers roared.

Steel had fitted Jack Wallace up. She’d manufactured evidence. Lied in court. Perverted the course of justice. She’d crossed the line. Yes, Wallace deserved to be in prison, but he deserved to be there for what he’d done, not for what he hadn’t. That was how it worked.

So do the right thing.
‘I don’t want to.’

No matter what it costs, remember?

A deep breath, then Logan pulled out his phone; called up his contacts list and dialled Napier.

It rang and rang.

Still not too late to hang up.

And rang and rang.

This was stupid. Hang up.

And rang and—

‘Chief Superintendent Napier.’

All the moisture evaporated from Logan’s mouth.

‘Hello?’

He clicked off the blowers. Licked his lips. ‘Chief Superintendent, it’s Logan McRae. I need to talk to you about Jack Wallace.’

46

Harper checked her watch. ‘They’re late.’

The harbour lights cast pale writhing shadows, distorted by the falling snow. Not a breath of wind. Thick white flakes drifted down onto the Big Car’s bonnet, melting away with the heat of the engine, even though it’d been turned off for nearly quarter of an hour.

Logan twisted the key far enough to get the windscreen wipers going. The view wasn’t that much better with the snow cleared. From here, tucked in between two bland grey buildings, the harbour walls made a lopsided triangle that sulked beneath the cold night sky. About two dozen small boats sat along the jetties jutting out into the water, not a single light between them.

He pressed the button on his Airwave. ‘All units, check in.’

‘DI Singh: no movement.’

‘DS Weatherford: no movement.’

‘DS Rennie: nada for us.’

‘DS McKenzie: no movement.’

Silence.

Logan pressed the button again. ‘DCI Steel, check in please.’

Her voice cracked out of the handset. ‘I’m bored, I’m tired, I’m cold, and Spaver here keeps farting. Other than that? Sod all.’

Harper shook her head. ‘And they made that a Detective Chief Inspector?’

He looked away. Fixed his Airwave back on its clip. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get anything out of Laura Welsh.’

‘At least you tried.’ She pursed her lips, frowning as if she could taste something sour. ‘It’ll be over soon. All we need is a result this evening and everything will be fine again.’

Narveer’s voice came over the speakers. ‘Hold on, we’ve got something. Lights on the water.’

‘About time!’ She scooted forward and peered out through the windscreen. ‘Can’t see anything.’

‘Yup, we’ve got visual — small container ship. It’s the Jotun Sverd.’

‘Hallelujah.’ Harper picked up her Airwave from the dashboard. ‘All right, everyone, listen up. We stay put till Malcolm McLennan’s goons offload the cargo. I want them red-handed, so no one moves before it’s all in their vehicle.’

Logan tapped his fingers along the steering wheel. ‘You wouldn’t think the harbour was big enough for a supply boat, would you? Will it even make it through the entrance?’

‘We’ll find out soon enough.’

The ship’s lights appeared through the snow, getting closer.

‘Logan?’ Harper kept her face forward and voice light and neutral. ‘When this is all done, do you want to come visit down in Dumfries? I think Mum would like to meet you.’

‘Erm... yeah, that would be nice.’ Assuming Reuben let him live that long. ‘I’ll need to find someone to look after Cthulhu, though.’

The boat got bigger and bigger, its orange hull standing out against the black water. It was nowhere near as big as the full-sized supply boats — the whole thing would have fitted into a tennis court, with room to spare. Spotlights bathed the small deck in a harsh white glow, picking out four offshore containers with the Geirrød Viking logo on them.

Its engines growled into reverse, slowing the thing to a crawl as it approached the harbour entrance. But instead of trying to squeeze in, the ship swung around, so its stern was facing Gardenstown, then backed up alongside the jutting arm of the sea wall.

One last growl, and the engines fell silent. A couple of men jumped up onto the wall and tied the ship in place.

It wouldn’t have been much use on a stormy night, but with the sea like a slab of dark marble, it would be good enough for offloading, even if it did block the harbour entrance.

Harper rubbed her hands together. ‘Not long now.’

‘Where the hell are they?’ Harper checked her watch again. ‘It’s been twenty minutes.’

‘Maybe they’re struggling through traffic somewhere? You know what it’s like when it snows — everyone drives like tortoises.’

She puffed out her cheeks. ‘Tell everyone to check in again. McLennan’s men have to be somewhere.’

Logan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and scowled out at the falling snow. Reuben was out there right now, plotting. Planning his revenge.

Question was: when?

Tomorrow? The day after? A week from now?

Tonight?

The flakes glowed for a moment as they passed through the sphere of yellow cast by the bulkhead light fixed to the building next to the Big Car. Then faded to blue-grey again.

Might be an idea to not be at home when he turned up. Maybe he could beg a bed at Calamity’s? Or Tufty’s parents’ house?

Or he could appropriate one of the cells in the station. Wasn’t as if anyone used them these days.

Cthulhu would hate it, but it was better than the alternative: the pair of them waking up at four in the morning to find three figures in ski masks looming over the bed with sawn-off shotguns and machetes.

Or they could get a B-and-B sorted for the night. Get another one for the night after that. And another after that. Keep moving so no one knew where they were.

On the run from now till Reuben’s thugs caught up with him.

‘Logan?’

‘Hmm?’ He blinked. Turned.

Harper was staring at him. ‘If you don’t stop drumming your fingers, I’m going to break them. OK?’

He took his hands off the wheel. ‘Sorry.’

Harper sagged in the passenger seat. ‘This whole thing’s a complete disaster, isn’t it?’

‘Give it time.’

‘Gah.’ She took her watch off and placed it on the dashboard, in a tiny sliver of streetlight. ‘Forty minutes. They should have been here, unloaded, and gone by now.’

True.

Logan shrugged. ‘They might be playing it cautious. Scoping out the harbour, making sure there’s nothing suspicious going on. Or maybe they’re running a bit late?’

Or maybe he’d been right in the first place, and this was all a set-up.

He looked across the car at Harper.

Yeah, probably best to keep that to himself.

‘I told you so,’ probably wouldn’t go down too well.

Steel’s voice growled out of the speaker. ‘Aye, no offence, Super, but are we planning on spending the night here? Cos if we are I want a sexy WPC instead of Spaver McFartypants.’

Harper picked up her Airwave. ‘This channel is for operational use only.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose and screwed her eyes shut. ‘Is DI Steel always this much work?’

‘Pretty much.’ Logan set the windscreen wipers going again, clearing two lopsided grey rainbows through the snow. Nothing had changed — the Jotun Sverd still sat at the harbour entrance, all lights blazing like an industrial Christmas ornament. ‘We should’ve brought a Thermos of tea.’

Logan sat forward in his seat, arms on the steering wheel. ‘Maybe we need to go back to the idea that we’re being screwed with.’

Harper reclined her seat and stared up at the ceiling. ‘Do you have any idea how much this operation is costing?’

‘It was always a bit too obvious, wasn’t it? Shepherd’s body is left lying about for us to find, it leads us to Martin Milne, which leads us to the money they owed, which leads us here.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s like someone’s handed us a join-the-dots picture and left us to get on with it.’

‘Only the picture’s a great big knob, wearing a police hat.’

‘So what do you want to do?’

She scowled. ‘Kick Martin Milne in the balls. Hard.’

Logan fiddled with his Airwave, taking it off the closed channel and back onto the normal one. ‘Sergeant McRae to Control. Have we got any suspicious activity reported in B Division tonight?’

A man’s voice crackled back. ‘How suspicious is suspicious?’

It would be something big, if it needed a distraction this size. ‘Banks, building societies, anywhere you’d get a big financial score. Luxury car showrooms, that kind of thing? It’ll be nowhere near Gardenstown.’

Harper clapped her hands over her face. ‘I’m going to look like a proper moron if they clear out a bank while I’m sat here twiddling my thumbs with twenty officers and a dog team.’

‘Hud on, I’ll have a lookie.’

The Jotun Sverd just sat there, all bright lights and shiny paintwork.

‘Do you think Milne knows? I mean, he had to arrange the boat.’ Logan frowned. ‘But they had to pick up the stuff from a yacht... Why go to all that trouble?’

‘Aye, Sergeant McRae? No sign of anything suspicious reported. You want me to give you a shout if something comes in?’

‘Thanks.’ He switched his handset to the operation’s channel again, then settled back in his seat to wait.

‘DS McKenzie: no movement.’

Logan wiped the windscreen. Still nothing.

Harper had the seat all the way back now. ‘They’re not coming, are they?’

He checked his watch. ‘Twenty to eight.’

‘Argh. Nearly two hours late. Why would you set all this up and not turn up for two hours?’ She reached into her jacket and pulled out her phone, dialling without sitting up. ‘Hello, Narveer?... Yes... Not a thing... Yeah, I’m coming to that conclusion as well... OK... We’ll give it till eight — if nothing’s doing by then, we’re going in. At least tonight won’t be a complete bust... Yeah, OK. Bye.’ She put her phone away and glanced across the car at Logan. ‘You get the gist?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘DI Singh: ready.’

‘DS Weatherford: ready.’

‘DS McKenzie: ready.’

‘DS Rennie: Geronimo!’

Then silence.

Not again.

‘DCI Steel, confirm.’

Nothing.

‘DCI Steel, I repeat: confirm.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And you are?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

That wasn’t right.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Everywhere. Even the bulkhead storage compartments.’

‘God damn it.’

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

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

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

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

‘Well... no. Not really.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Fish suppers?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harper ignored her, pointing a finger at Narveer instead. ‘What about the logs?’

He checked his notebook. ‘GPS says they never went anywhere near where Milne said the yacht would be. Assuming there ever was a yacht. And there’s CCTV on all decks too — they didn’t rendezvous with anything.’

‘BLOODY HELL!’ She gripped the console, shoulders hunched. Hissed out a breath. ‘Options?’

Narveer sighed. ‘Think we’re going to have to take this one on the chin. We were working on information we believed to be reliable. It’s not our fault.’

‘Oh aye, the top brass will buy that.’ Steel gave him a cheery grin. ‘Known for their understanding nature are our glorious overlords.’

Logan stepped up beside Harper. ‘What if Malcolm McLennan was telling the truth at Hamish Mowat’s funeral and his people had nothing to do with Shepherd’s death? What if it was Martin Milne all along?’

She turned and stared at him. ‘So, what: you were right in the first place?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Narveer, send everyone home. And tell the captain his boss won’t be turning up this evening, because he’s going to be in a sodding police cell.’ She turned and marched towards the door. ‘Sergeant McRae, you’re with me.’

47

Logan gave Narveer a shrug, then hurried after Harper, out into the snow, zipping up his high-viz jacket and pulling on his peaked cap.

McKenzie was down on the main deck, wandering back and forth in front of the containers, mobile phone clamped to her ear, breath trailing along behind her in the frigid air.

‘Sir?’ Logan reached out and grabbed Harper’s arm. ‘Are you sure you shouldn’t be taking DI Singh with you? He is your sidekick, after all.’

‘Narveer is a big boy, Sergeant, believe me, he’ll be fine. Which is more than I can say for Martin Milne.’ She climbed down the stairs to the main deck. ‘Grab DS McKenzie. Tell her I want Milne’s house locked down tighter than a pair of cycling shorts.’

‘Sir.’

She clambered up onto the dockside and stamped through the snow to the Big Car.

McKenzie was staring up at him, still on the phone, wearing an expression that suggested she’d just stepped in something.

Logan picked his way down the stairs, the metal treads clanging beneath his feet. ‘Becky?’ He pointed at the Big Car. ‘Harper needs you: we’re pulling Martin Milne.’

She put a hand over the bottom of her phone. ‘Why me? Robertson’s on babysitting duty.’

‘Because you ran the team looking after him. She wants a full lockdown till we get there.’

Her eyes narrowed. Then she went back to her phone call, turning her back on him and keeping her voice down.

‘Sometime tonight would be good, Becky. You know what detective superintendents are like if you keep them waiting.’ He crossed the deck and climbed up onto the harbourside. Stood there until she finished her call, and joined him.

Her curly brown hair was flecked with snow. ‘This has been a complete cocking farce.’

‘Yup, and now we get to go apportion blame.’ He climbed into the Big Car and started the engine. Set the blowers on full to clear the fogged-up windscreen.

McKenzie slipped into the back. Pulled out her Airwave. ‘DS Robertson, safe to talk?’

‘Fit like, Becky? How’d the swoop go, you get them?’

‘Shut up and listen. I need a sit-rep on the Milne house.’

‘All present and correct: no one in or out. No sign of any suspicious vehicles in the area.’

‘They up and doing?’

‘Lights are on, but the curtains are drawn. Think they’re watching telly and trying to kid on he never shagged his business partner.’

‘Good. Keep them on lockdown, we’re paying a visit.’ McKenzie put her handset away. ‘Everything’s set.’

Harper nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Then frowned. ‘Is there something else?’

She clicked on her seatbelt. ‘Thought I’d tag along for the ride.’

‘I think Sergeant McRae and I can handle it.’

‘Sure you can.’ A cold, unpleasant smile uncoiled across her face. ‘But I wasted days looking after Milne, and if the wee sod’s screwed us over I want to be there when he gets his collar felt. And if we’re really lucky, he’ll resist arrest for a bit first.’

‘Fair enough.’ Harper pointed at the windscreen as the fog finally cleared. ‘Let’s go see what he has to say for himself.’

Logan did a five-point turn, keeping their speed to a crawl and steering well clear of the sudden drop into the dark water. As they faced the right way, a set of blue flashing lights appeared on the road above the harbour, working its way down. ‘Sir?’

She reached across the car and put a hand on his arm. ‘Hold it here for a minute.’

The car got closer, then disappeared behind a squat row of cottages, before emerging again, driving onto the dock. It stopped beside the Big Car, and the driver’s window buzzed down. Logan buzzed his down too.

Oh no.

Napier looked up at him. ‘Sergeant McRae.’

Not now. Not here.

‘Chief Superintendent.’

‘Tell me, is Detective Chief Inspector Steel available?’ He wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t rubbing his hands with glee. Instead his shoulders drooped, mouth pulled down at the edges, a slightly pained expression on his face. ‘I’m afraid I need a word.’

‘She’s on the ship.’

‘I see.’ He bit his bottom lip and frowned for a moment. Then nodded. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

The window buzzed up and the patrol car pulled forward a dozen feet, until it was alongside the boat.

‘All right, Sergeant, we can go now.’

‘Actually,’ Logan unclipped his seatbelt, ‘I’ll only be a minute, OK?’ He scrambled out of the Big Car, and picked his way through the snow to the patrol car as two of Napier’s colleagues boarded the Jotun Sverd, leaving their boss on the dockside. ‘Sir?’

Napier turned and nodded at him. ‘Not the best of days, Logan. Not the best.’

‘What’s going to happen to her?’

‘We found a flash drive covered in her fingerprints. It’s got exactly the same set of images she discovered on Jack Wallace’s laptop. The “last modified” dates match.’ The tip of Napier’s nose was already going red. ‘A report has been submitted to the Procurator Fiscal.’

‘They’re going to prosecute?’ Logan marched off a couple of paces, then back again. ‘But she’s—’

‘This isn’t what I wanted, Logan, it really, really isn’t. Every time I have to arrest a fellow officer...’ He sighed, the breath turning into a cloud. ‘Well, there you go. That’s my problem, isn’t it?’

‘What’s going to happen to her?’

Napier wiped flecks of snow from the shoulders of his black police-issue fleece. ‘She’ll be charged with perverting the course of justice. Jack Wallace will be released from prison and his conviction quashed. In all likelihood, he’ll sue Police Scotland and win. And the next time he rapes someone we’ll have to start all over again, but it’ll be three hundred percent more difficult because his lawyers will be screaming “harassment”.’ Napier shook his head. ‘This is why we have rules, Logan.’

Up on the boat, Steel emerged from the bridge, slouching along with her hands in her pockets, e-cigarette poking out of the side of her mouth. Napier’s people were behind her. No handcuffs, no frogmarching.

Napier patted Logan on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t be here for this bit.’

No matter what the cost.

The two officers helped Steel up onto the dockside, then stood back.

She took a good long draw on her fake cigarette. ‘Well, well, if it’s no’ the Dark Prince of Professional Standards himself. What can we do you for, this sharny night, Nigel?’

Napier stared at her for a moment, then put his hands behind his back. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure — Scotland — Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment.’

She glanced past him at Logan. ‘Oh aye?’

‘Please, get in the car.’

‘What if I don’t want to get in the car? What if I want to kick off, right here?’

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. ‘Please, just get in the car.’

‘I’ve done sod-all and you know it.’

‘That’s for a court to decide.’

She jabbed a finger in Logan’s direction. ‘Tell him, Laz. Tell this lanky strip of gristle he’s got the wrong woman.’

One of Napier’s people stepped up and took hold of Steel’s arm. ‘Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be, OK?’

‘Laz?’

The other one stepped up, and between them they steered her towards the patrol car.

‘Laz, tell them!’

They opened the back door and eased her inside, one putting a hand on top of her head so she wouldn’t bash it.

‘LAZ! TELL THESE BASTARDS WHAT—’

Clunk. The car door shut, taking her angry voice with it.

The snow-covered landscape hissed past the Big Car’s windows, headlights glittering back at them from wet tarmac. Every time the windscreen wipers travelled across the glass, they squeaked and moaned, as if someone was murdering a lot of mice one at a time.

Harper was staring at him.

Logan kept his eyes on the road.

‘Well, Sergeant, are you going to tell us what that was all about?’

‘DCI Steel is consulting on one of the Chief Superintendent’s cases.’

Trees drifted by in the distance, their branches drooping under the accumulated frozen weight.

‘Hmmm...’

Sitting in the back seat, McKenzie kept her mouth shut, thumbs busy poking away at her mobile. Texting or playing Candy Crush.

Harper scowled out at the darkness. ‘I can’t believe we’ve been so stupid. There never were any gangsters, were there? All that rubbish about getting a loan from Malcolm McLennan — Milne made it up.’

‘He falls out with Peter Shepherd, they fight, it gets out of hand, and next thing you know, he’s got a body to get rid of.’ Logan changed down for the hill. ‘So he comes up with the idea of staging it to look like the photo in The Blood-Red Line and framing McLennan for it. Tells us McLennan loaned them two hundred thousand so we won’t do him for embezzling the cash — suddenly he’s the victim. A nice neat little package.’

‘And I should have listened to you in the first place.’ She banged a hand on the dashboard. ‘Idiot.’

Harper’s Airwave gave its four point-to-point beeps. ‘Ma’am, it’s Narveer.’

She pressed the button. ‘Go ahead.’

‘I’ve sent the Jotun Sverd’s crew on their way. No fish suppers for them.’

‘What about everyone else?’

‘There’s a couple of house fires in Peterhead, and a factory unit’s gone up in Fraserburgh. Sounds like wilful fire raising. Everyone on duty’s en route. I’ve disbanded everyone else. No point totally spanking the overtime budget.’

The road wound up, then plunged down like a rollercoaster.

‘Thanks, Narveer. We’ll need to get started on the paperwork first thing tomorrow. See if we can justify the almighty cock-up and expense.’

‘Will do. Do you... with—... isn’t for—... next...’ Then hissing. Then nothing at all.

Harper slapped the Airwave against her palm. ‘Work you stupid lump of plastic.’

McKenzie shifted forward. ‘It’s the hollow here. No reception.’

Through a gap between the hills, the sea was a slab of clay, framed by snow-flecked woods.

Logan took them around the corner, and slowed. A woman stood at the side of the road, wearing jeans, a Barbour jacket, and a knitted bunnet. She waved her arms over her head, caught in the on-again off-again flash of a Range Rover’s hazard lights.

He stopped and buzzed down his window. ‘Broken down?’

Her cheeks and nose glowed bright pink. ‘There’s been an accident — a car’s left the road. Please, you have to help them!’

‘Hold on.’ Logan pulled the Big Car up onto the verge, behind the Range Rover, then jumped down into the snow. Reached into the back for his high-viz jacket and peaked cap. ‘Becky, can you get the warning signs out of the boot and stick them up round the corners? Don’t want some idiot rallying their way into the back of us.’

McKenzie put her phone away. ‘OK.’

‘There’s a spare high-viz in there too.’

The woman tugged at his sleeve. ‘Please hurry.’

Logan took out his torch and crunched his way through the snow to the front of the Range Rover. A pair of tyre marks cut through the dirty white crust, heading over the edge. He played the beam down the ravine and across the trees, then stopped. Red tail-lights reflected the torchlight back at him.

He peered closer. It looked like a hatchback, about thirty feet down the gorge, tipped up on its side, crumpled between the trunks of two trees. Maybe a Clio or a Fiesta — something boy-racery with an oversized exhaust, the number plate half hanging off.

‘Right,’ he turned back to the woman in the Barbour jacket, ‘I need you to get back in your car and head up the hill. Soon as you get to the top, call nine-nine-nine. Tell them...’

She wasn’t looking at him, she was staring at the Big Car.

Someone lay in the road, on their front, not moving.

It was Harper. Facedown on the tarmac, as if she fancied a nap.

What, had she fallen out? Slipped on the snow?

Logan took a step towards her, then stopped as something hard pressed into his back.

A thick, dark voice sounded over his shoulder. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sergeant Logan McRae.’

He licked his lips. ‘Reuben.’

The Range Rover’s back doors opened and two men climbed out: one huge and solid, the other thin and knife-like. Smiler and Mr Teeth, AKA: Allan Wright and Gavin Jones. The remaining two-thirds of Reuben’s Transit van team since Eddy Knowles got his head caved in. They were both wearing black leather gloves. Both holding semiautomatic pistols.

So this was it.

Reuben jabbed him in the back again. ‘You’re supposed to be dead.’

Every inch of Logan’s skin fizzed, the hair stood up on his arms and head, his mouth was full of wasps. ‘Tried it once. Didn’t like it.’ He eased around.

Reuben had his sawn-off shotgun in one hand. The other held a crutch — stainless steel with a grey plastic cuff — keeping the weight off that leg. ‘Did you really think you were going to get away with it? Pulling a gun on me, like I’m some sort of prick?’

Funny, but now that the moment was here, it was almost calming. No need to worry about when Reuben would make his move, when he’d get his revenge, because it was now. There was something liberating about that.

Logan nodded back towards the Big Car. ‘Detective Superintendent Harper and DS McKenzie have nothing to do with this.’

‘What, you think you’re going to play the big hero? “Save them, it’s me you want?” That kind of crap?’

Someone crunched through the snow behind him, getting closer. Then another familiar voice. ‘Can we get this over with?’ It was McKenzie.

‘Oh for God’s sake. You’re working for Reuben? Seriously?’

‘Told you: I’ve got two kids to put through university and a police pension that won’t cover the mortgage when I retire.’ She stepped around him, putting herself behind Reuben and the shotgun. ‘If you’re working up to a lecture about loyalty, don’t bother. I know what you did to DCI Steel, McRae — she might be a useless old bag, but you wouldn’t know loyalty if it gave you a lap dance.’ Becky stuffed her hands in her pockets and sniffed. ‘Come on, Reuben, time’s wasting. Do him and get it over with.’

‘What?’ Reuben grinned. ‘And miss out on all this fun?’

The shotgun flashed up, the barrel smashing into the bridge of Logan’s nose. It sent him staggering backwards, arms windmilling as the snowy verge disappeared beneath his feet. And he was gone...

48

Hot yellow orbs flashed across the dark sky, screaming and jabbing as Logan went crashing through branches and bushes, tumbling over and over, their jagged limbs clawing at his face and hands.

Then a loud crump and he was on his front in the snow, head-down on the hill, tangled in the undergrowth.

Ow...

‘Oh for God’s sake. Are you happy now?’ McKenzie’s voice cut through the silence.

‘You listen up, you curly-haired wee bitch, you are here because I own you. Understand?’

Logan rolled over onto his back and tried to blink away the ringing in his ears.

Up.

Get up and run.

Yes, because being bright fluorescent-yellow in the woods wouldn’t get him shot at all, would it?

He unzipped his high-viz jacket and struggled out of the thing. Rolled away as the sawn-off barked. A rain of pellets clattered through the branches. One bit at his hand, but not hard enough to break the skin.

That was the trouble with a sawn-off, it was great for close quarters — you could clear a room with one with a single blast — but over longer distances? The shot spread out too far, too fast.

Logan scrambled behind the upturned Fiesta as the shotgun barked again, pinging and clanging against the dented bodywork. Everything tasted of hot pennies. He ran a hand across his mouth — it came away warm and slick and black in the moonlight. Blood dripped from his burning nose, the world stank of meat and peppercorns.

Reuben’s voice boomed out. ‘COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE, MCRAE!’

No chance.

He dragged out a hanky and wadded it against his bleeding nose.

Could head down the hill. Stick to the trees and make it as far as the sea. Might get a signal on the Airwave down there. Call in the cavalry.

‘LET’S MAKE THIS EASY, SHALL WE, MCRAE? YOU COME OUT AND TAKE YOUR MEDICINE LIKE A BIG BOY AND I WON’T KILL YOUR DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT FRIEND. HOW DOES THAT SOUND?’

Terrible. He’d probably kill them both anyway.

Logan peered around the Fiesta’s boot.

Reuben stood at the road’s edge, caught in the Range Rover’s headlights, using his shotgun as a pointer — directing Allan Wright and Gavin Jones down the slope. They were harder to make out than their boss, almost vanishing as they picked their way through the snow and bushes. Gavin Jones on the left, Allan Wright on the right.

OK, stocktake.

Logan patted his equipment belt: one set of limb restraints, one set of handcuffs, one extendable baton, and a can of CS gas. Throw in an Airwave handset that wasn’t getting a signal and that was it. God knew where the torch had got to, probably buried in the snow somewhere.

A hard crack sounded from the left, followed by a ringing thud that vibrated through the Fiesta’s bodywork.

A voice from the right, Wright: ‘YOU GET HIM?’

There was a pause, then Jones shouted back. ‘DON’T KNOW.’

What good were limb restraints against guns?

Should’ve listened to Urquhart and taken the semiautomatic with him.

Yes, because that worked so well last night, didn’t it?

‘That’s what you get for being a bloody wimp.’

Logan unhooked his CS gas. ‘Oh that’s helping, is it?’

‘If you’d killed Reuben when you had the chance, instead of fannying about, you wouldn’t be in this mess.’

‘Shut up.’

‘You shut up.’

Two men armed with handguns, one armed with a sawn-off shotgun.

Turn around and get the hell out of there.

Laughter echoed down the hill. ‘HEY, MCRAE, MCKENZIE TELLS ME THIS ISN’T ANY OLD DETECTIVE SUPER-INTENDENT: SHE’S YOUR SISTER! OH THAT’S PRICELESS.’

Another hard crack from the left, closer this time. The bullet sizzled through the air over his head.

‘WELL?’

‘DON’T THINK SO.’

‘MAYBE WE SHOULD—’ There was a crunch and the popcorn crackle of breaking branches. ‘AAAAAAAArgh!’ Then a thump.

‘AL?’ Jones crashed through the undergrowth off to the right. ‘AL? YOU OK?’

‘Argh...’ The sound of someone spitting. ‘THODDING HELL.’

‘WHAT HAPPENED?’

‘I BIDT MY TUNG!’

Reuben’s voice bellowed over the top. ‘YOU KNOW WHAT I’M GOING TO DO TO YOUR SISTER, MCRAE?’

The crunching sound of feet on frozen snow was getting louder. A minute or more and they’d be on top of him.

Don’t just crouch there — do something.

Logan took a deep breath and backed away from the Fiesta. The trees were thin and spindly, nothing thick enough to stop a bullet.

‘I’M GOING TO CARVE HER LIKE A SUNDAY ROAST AND FEED HER TO THE PIGS, ONE SLICE AT A TIME, WHILE SHE WATCHES.’

He ducked, creeping into a clump of whin. The dead seedheads hissed at him. Another six foot further on, the ground dropped away, plummeting into the darkness. Edge of the world.

‘YOU THEE HIM?’

‘HOW? DARK AS A BADGER’S ARSE DOWN HERE.’

‘YOU LIKE THAT, MCRAE? OR YOU GOING TO COME OUT AND BE A MAN?’

The guy on the left, Jones, had reached the overturned Fiesta. He was a vague dark outline against the bushes and patches of snow, sharp nose swinging from side to side, as if he were scenting the air. He whirled around three hundred and sixty degrees, his gun up at head level, twisted on its side — gangsta stylie.

Idiot.

No sign of idiot number two.

Logan ran a hand across the ground. Sticks. Twigs. Dirt. Rock. It wasn’t big — barely the size of his fist, but it’d do.

He threw it off to the right, deeper into the woods. It clattered and rattled through branches, its final thunk swallowed by the snow.

Jones spun around and a flare of light exploded from the end of his gun, illuminating him in all his thin and pointy glory. The crack echoed around the ravine.

Logan blinked. Blinked again. But the flash was a hard burst of yellow-white, etched across his eyes.

‘JONETHY: YOU GET HIM?’

‘MAYBE.’ Gavin Jones was even less visible than before, hidden by the shot’s afterimage. ‘YOU SEE ANYTHING?’

‘WHAT’S KEEPING YOU PAIR OF IDIOTS? FIND HIM!’

‘You think it’s that easy?’ Jones’s voice was barely a mutter. ‘You limp your fat arse down here and kill him yourself.’ He picked his way down the hill, crackling through the bushes.

Closer. Closer. And then he was level with Logan’s clump of whin... and then he was past.

Logan flipped the cap off his CS gas, pulling the canister from its holster. The coiled bungee cord holding it to his equipment belt tightened as he stood up and aimed. ‘Hello, Ugly.’

Jones span around. ‘Jesus—’

Logan mashed his thumb down on the trigger.

‘AAAAAAAAAARGH! AAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ He folded in half, both hands covering his face, the gun still clenched in one fist. ‘MY EYES! AH JESUS...’

Logan helped him take his mind off the CS gas by kneeing him in the groin.

‘JONETHY?’ Wright’s thick lispy voice wasn’t far away — slightly further uphill to the right. ‘JONETHY! YOU OK?’

‘WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON DOWN THERE?’

Gavin Jones crumpled to the ground not far from the cliff edge, moaning and whimpering.

The gun was easy enough to take off him. Logan dragged him into the whin bush, pulled his hands behind his back and cuffed them.

One down.

‘JONETHY!’

A quick frisk through his pockets turned up a spare clip for the semiautomatic.

That evened the odds a bit.

He gave Jones a kick, setting him off again, then crept uphill, using the swearing and crying as cover.

‘JONETHY?’ A shot rang out. Then another one. And another.

Logan hit the ground, scrambling on all fours back to the car.

Wright crashed through the bushes, firing off two more shots. ‘Thodding hell...’ He was downhill now, his silhouette crouching over his mate. ‘HE’TH GOT JONETHY!’

‘DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF?’ Up on the road, Reuben moved to the edge of the verge, the sawn-off glinting in the headlights. ‘WHERE IS HE?’

Logan stayed where he was. Not moving. Keeping his breath as quiet as possible.

McKenzie marched over to Reuben, hands jabbing out, emphasizing the words. ‘Are you happy now? He gets away and we’re all screwed!’

‘MCRAE?’

‘Oh give it up. I told you to kill him and get it over with, but would you—’

Reuben rammed the butt of his sawn-off into her face hard enough to lift her off her feet. She crumpled out of sight, groaning. Then he took a short limp forward, good leg swinging back then snapping forward. There was the crunch of boot meeting flesh. And another one. One more for luck.

He stood back. Bent down and rubbed at his bad leg. ‘You work for me, bitch. Understand?’

No reply.

‘UNDERSTAND.’ Another kick. Then he took his crutch and prodded something hidden by the verge. Probably McKenzie. ‘Oh.’

Allan Wright was still crouched over his mewling friend.

Logan took a deep breath.
Do it now, while they were both distracted.

One down, two to go.

He scrambled upright and charged, leading with his shoulder. Crashed through the whin, setting the seedheads rattling.

Wright almost made it to his feet before Logan battered into him, sending him sprawling. He hit the ground and bounced. Rolled over, snarling, then his eyes went wide — two big circles of white in the darkness — as he went over the cliff edge.

His hand flashed out, grabbing, wrapping around Logan’s ankle.

‘Aaagh...’ The world flipped backwards, crashing and rolling, and then they were falling.

Cold air rushed past Logan’s face, then something hard crashed into his side, flipping him over. And again. And again. Swearing and screaming his way down into the dark, surrounded by the clattering snap of breaking branches, thuds, and grunts.

One last crash and then a moment of agonizing silence followed by a deafening THUD.

Oh God...

Flat on his back, eyes screwed tight shut.

His arms and legs felt as if they’d been battered by crowbars, the whole of his chest screaming in pre-bruised agony.

Every breath was like being punched in the ribs.

‘Ow...’

Be lucky if he hadn’t broken his back. Probably going to die here, lying at the bottom of a gully, covered in gunk and dirt and broken bits of tree. Body eaten by foxes and crows. Nothing left but shards of bone and a tattered police uniform, to be swallowed by the cold dark ground.

A high-pitched whine filled his head, getting louder as the woods grew darker. And darker. Then silence.

At least if he was dead it wouldn’t hurt any more.

That would be something...

Logan exhaled one last broken-glass breath and let the darkness take him.

49

Cold.

Something wet rolled across Logan’s cheek. Then another cold kiss. And another.

He opened his eyes.

The world was grey, with little white spots drifting slowly towards him. Like a long dark tunnel filled with flakes of ash.

So, this was what death looked like?

Well, why not?

Last time he’d been unconscious for this bit. Or maybe, because the surgeons had managed to get his heart started again, he’d just never got this far?

Either way, surely it wasn’t meant to be this cold?

A tingle grew in his arms and legs, like the opening bars of a symphony for pins and needles. But instead of that hard itchy electrified wave, the melody was one of ache and pain. Getting louder with every second.

‘Buggering hell...’ The words came out on a cloud of white. He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘Ow...’

Not dead then. Dead people didn’t hurt this much.

Logan rolled over onto his side and everything snapped back into its proper place.

He wasn’t floating down a dark tunnel full of ash after all: he was lying at the bottom of the gully, the ground around him covered in snapped twigs and bits of broken branch. Trees reached up into the falling snow, their tops disappearing into the grey.

A dark voice boomed through the night. ‘WELL?’

The voice that replied was a lot closer. ‘I FOUND AL! HE’S NOT BREATHING!’

‘DO I LOOK LIKE I GIVE A TOSS ABOUT AL? WHERE’S MCRAE?’

Oh great. They’d come looking for him.

Get up.

Sod off, it hurt too much.

No: up.

Logan groaned his way onto his front and forced himself to his knees. The landscape swam. A gentle probe of the back of his head brought his hand away dark and sticky, his fingers smelled of raw meat. Probably cracked his skull.

Be dead for real in a minute, from intracranial bleeding.

That or Reuben’s thugs.

‘FIND THE BASTARD!’

Jones’s voice dropped to a mutter. ‘“Find the bastard.”, “Find the bastard.”’ He was getting closer. ‘Can barely see, never mind find anybody.’

One last heave and Logan was on his feet, one arm wrapped around a branch to keep himself upright.

‘Should’ve sodded off soon as Mr Mowat died. Should’ve taken that job with Doogie. Could’ve been driving lorries all over Europe by now, but no.’ There was a crash, then some swearing.

Logan ran his free hand over his equipment belt. The baton was still there, but all that was left of the CS gas was the coiled bungee cord. It ended in a frayed tuft where the canister had been ripped off on the way down through the trees. No idea where the gun had got to.

‘YOU FOUND HIM YET?’

‘Course I haven’t, you fat dick.’ Then, much louder, ‘HE’S PROBABLY SNUFFED IT!’

‘I DON’T WANT “PROBABLY”, I WANT DEFINITELY! FIND HIM!’

‘All over Europe, but noooo.’ Closer: couldn’t be more than twenty feet away. ‘You had to stay with the team, because Eddy said we should.’

Logan shrank back behind a tree that wasn’t really big enough. Mind you: the Police Scotland ninja-black outfit might be a liability in the height of summer, but here? At night, in the dark, when it was snowing? Couldn’t have camouflaged himself much better if he’d tried.

A thin figure emerged from the gloom, picking his way between the bushes and boulders that littered the bottom of the ravine. Gavin Jones. ‘Yeah, and did Eddy hang around? Course he didn’t.’

He wasn’t wearing the handcuffs any more — they must have got the keys off McKenzie — but he had got himself another gun. Or maybe it was Wright’s gun?

Logan unclipped his baton and slid it out, slow and quiet.

Couldn’t extend it, that would make too much noise, so he wrapped his fist around the handle and held the thing facing down against his knee.

‘No, the two-faced bummer legged it when the going was good, didn’t he? Talked us into staying then did a runner.’ Jones stumbled over something in the dark and nearly went headlong. ‘GAH! BLOODY SODDING ABOUT, IN THE BLOODY DARK, BASTARDS!’

‘YOU FOUND HIM?’

‘NO I HAVEN’T SODDING FOUND HIM!’ He shoved his way through a bush. ‘Sod this. And Sod you. Soon as I get back to the road you can shove your job. Don’t need this crap.’

One more bush and he was level.

His eyes were all swollen, the skin puffy and dark, shiny trails of snot glimmering on his top lip. But that was getting a face full of CS gas for you.

Logan flicked the baton up and the extendable section shot out with a clack over his shoulder. Then down again, hard, cracking it across Jones’s wrist. The gun clattered to the ground as Gavin Jones screamed — mouth open wide, full of those squint little teeth. ‘AAAAAAA—’

He snapped the baton up again. The vibration shuddered up his arm as the metal bar cracked into Jones’s face. There was a crunch like someone crushing a bag of crisps.

Gavin Jones crumpled to the ground, mouth still open. Only now the squint little teeth were nothing more than jagged stumps in ruptured gums.

Still breathing, but definitely unconscious.

‘WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?’ Reuben’s voice echoed into silence.

The snow fell.

‘JONESY, WHERE’S MCRAE?’

It settled on the boulders and the trees.

‘JONESY?’

Logan collapsed the baton against a boulder and put it away. Then knelt in the dark, running his hands over the cold earth till he found the gun.

‘MCRAE? I KNOW YOU’RE THERE!’

He turned and limped back towards the cliff face.

‘I’M GOING TO KILL YOUR SISTER! YOU HEAR ME?’

Leaned his cheek against the cold rock.

Took a deep breath.

Right, let’s try that again.

Logan eased himself over the top of the cliff and lay on his back, panting.

His arms were on fire, hands cut and scraped by the rocks and branches, punctured by long dead thistles. Both legs ached. So did his head, and his back.

Let’s face it, everything hurt.

His breath hung above his face.

Come on. Almost there.

He wobbled to his feet. Spat out a thick glob of white. Then lurched up the hill.

That crashed Fiesta lay a good forty or fifty feet off to the left.

Logan froze.

Reuben was still there. Still standing at the edge of the road, peering down into the darkness, clutching his sawn-off in one hand and his crutch in the other.

Moron. A sensible person would have sodded off by now, taken his hostage and his battered bent cop and worked on an alibi. But not Reuben. He was too busy getting revenge.

No wonder Wee Hamish didn’t want him taking over.

Logan climbed the slope, bent double, grabbing handfuls of cold damp grass to pull himself up. By the time he reached the road, he was on his knees, pulse thumping in his throat, keeping time with the drums in his skull.

The trees and snow and tarmac throbbed in and out of focus.

Be nice to lie down here for a bit. Three or four days, maybe.

The road curled around to the right, hiding the Big Car and Reuben’s Range Rover behind a massive clump of gorse.

Nearly there.

Come on.

Logan struggled to his feet and stood with his head back, arms hanging loose at his side, steam rising from his sodden black fleece. Then pulled the gun from his pocket and staggered on. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘Shut up, you idiot, he’ll hear you.’

Good point.

OK: here’s the plan. We walk up to Reuben and we shoot him in the head. No screwing about. No hesitating. No ‘accidentally’ shooting him in the leg instead.

Headshot.

Bang.

Blood and brains all over the road.

OK?

OK.

What about the body?

We can sort that when we get to it.

Right.

The Big Car appeared from behind the gorse bush’s spiny fronds, emergency flashers blinking orange light.

Not far now.

Logan flicked the safety catch off and stepped out into the middle of the road.

He raised the gun and limped past the Big Car. ‘Reuben.’

The big man stood with his back to the slope. He’d ditched the crutch — now his hand was wrapped up in a big fist of long blonde hair. The other held the sawn-off shotgun against Harper’s forehead. ‘Took your time, McRae. Been waiting ages.’

She was kneeling on the tarmac, her eyes narrow and wrinkled at the edges as if she were having difficulty focusing. Twin lines of dark red ran horizontally across her cheek. Arms behind her back. Which explained where Mr Teeth’s handcuffs had gone.

Logan aimed. ‘Let her go.’

‘Or what?’

‘I won’t miss this time.’ He kept limping, closing the gap, keeping the gun pointing at Reuben’s big fat scarred face. ‘Let her go.’

‘Nah.’

McKenzie’s body lay on the verge with its head turned to one side. There wasn’t much left of her features: the whole front of her face was a raw bloody pulp, screamingly red in the Big Car’s headlights. The woman with the knitted bunnet — the one who’d flagged them down claiming there’d been an accident — squatted beside McKenzie, going through her pockets.

Classy.

Reuben ground the shotgun’s barrels into Harper’s skin. ‘See, this wee bitch here? I’m going to paint the woods with her brains. BANG!’

She flinched, and so did Logan.

Reuben laughed, belly and chins wobbling. ‘Then I’m going to do the same to you. And then I’ll track down your kids and do them too. Because you’re weak.’

Logan pulled the trigger and the Range Rover’s rear window shattered. The handgun’s BOOOM reverberated back from the trees. ‘Let — her — go!’

The woman in the bunnet scrambled back, one hand on her chest. ‘Jesus...’

Reuben grinned. ‘Thought you weren’t going to miss?’

Harper raised her chin. ‘Shoot him.’

‘Shut up, darling, the grown-ups are talking.’ Reuben twisted the fist in her hair until she screwed her eyes closed, breath hissing out through her clenched teeth. It caught the headlights and billowed bright white.

‘Come on, Reuben. It’s not her you want, it’s me. She didn’t screw you over and make you look like a moron, did she?’ Logan limped closer. ‘That was me.’

Closer.

‘Think you’re getting a rise out of me, McRae?’

‘Wee Hamish didn’t think you had the brains to take over. He was right, wasn’t he?’

Closer.

‘You want to see brains? How about your sister’s?’

Closer.

‘It’s all falling apart, isn’t it? All your dealers are defecting to Malcolm McLennan or Jessica Campbell. You inherited an empire and now you’re king of sod-all.’

Closer.

Stevie Wonder couldn’t miss at this range.

‘Say good bye, McRae, you’re—’

Logan shot him in the face.

50

Narveer sucked on his teeth for a bit. Then shook his head. ‘A right cocking mess.’

Really? What gave it away?

A pair of ambulances blocked the road with their boxy white bodies, blue-and-white lights flickering on and off — catching the snow as it fell.

Logan ducked under the yellow-and-black cordon of tape: ‘CRIME SCENE DO NOT ENTER’. He pointed at the ambulance furthest away. ‘I’m going to take her home, if that’s OK?’

The DI puffed out his cheeks. ‘Professional Standards are on their way. Going to be the mother, father, and maiden aunt of all internal investigations.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Logan looked back along the road, where someone in a white SOC suit was photographing Detective Sergeant Becky McKenzie’s body. ‘Been a rough night all round.’

Torches swung along the slope below them, wielded by more figures in oversuits — ghosts in the dark, hunting for evidence.

A patrol car sat inside the cordon, behind the Big Car. The woman in the back seat glowered out at them, knitted bunnet wedged down over her ears. Not bright enough to do a runner before reinforcements turned up. Reuben certainly knew how to pick them.

She bared her teeth at Logan, through the glass.

He waved back. ‘Hope your handcuffs are so tight your fingers fall off.’

Narveer shook his head. ‘She can’t hear you.’

‘It’s the thought that counts.’

‘Yeah... You really need some time off, don’t you?’ He put a hand on Logan’s shoulder and steered him towards the ambulances. ‘Go. Get the boss home before she starts trying to take over the investigation.’

Logan ran a hand over his face. ‘Suppose we’ll both be suspended from active duty, till it’s dealt with.’

‘Probably.’

By which time he’d probably be in a cell looking at sixteen years.

Logan limped along the road, past the Range Rover with the shattered back window, and on towards the ambulances.

The one nearest had its back doors firmly shut, and he stuck up two fingers as he hobbled past to the other one.

Harper sat on the tailgate, a bottle of water in her hand and a silver blanket around her shoulders as if she’d just run a marathon. She blinked at him, then batted the paramedic away. ‘Get off.’

The wee man in the green overalls dumped a stained clump of cotton wool into a kidney dish, then pulled out another, using it to clean the blood off Harper’s cheek and forehead. ‘You’ve probably got concussion. Any idea how serious that can be? Because the answer’s very.’

The other ambulance growled as it pulled away. Accelerating as it passed them, its siren cutting through the snowy night.

Logan groaned to a halt. ‘Touch and go, but they’ll do their best.’

Harper sniffed. ‘Can’t believe you shot him in the head.’

‘Think I should’ve let him kill the pair of us instead?’

‘It’s going to take weeks to shampoo him out of my hair.’

‘Look into the light.’ The paramedic knelt in front of Harper and shone a pencil torch in her eyes. ‘Can you hear any—’

‘Seriously, if you don’t sod off right now, I’m going to arrest you.’

‘Fine. If that’s what you want.’ He put the torch away. ‘It’s your funeral.’

She climbed down onto the snow. The ambulance tyres had left four lines of black tarmac showing through, but everything else was slowly disappearing under a pall of white.

A roar of rotor blades whupped by overhead, a spotlight from the helicopter catching the trees in freeze-frame.

Logan led her over to one of the patrol cars arrayed along the road. ‘How’s the head?’

‘Sore. Yours?’

He touched the wad of gauze taped over the egg growing out of his skull. ‘Yes.’ He opened the door and helped Harper up into the passenger seat, then limped around to the driver’s side. Sagged for a minute, then started the engine. Clicked the headlights up full beam.

She turned in her seat, looking back towards the cordons and the vehicles and the ghosts. ‘What did you mean?’

Logan pulled the car away from the verge, one back wheel vwipppping on the snowy grass till the tyre took hold. ‘You can stay in the spare room tonight. Paramedics said you’re not supposed to be alone in case you die.’ At least it was safe to go home now, and he and Cthulhu were spared having to live out of a series of anonymous bed-and-breakfasts.

‘You told him, I wasn’t the one who screwed him over and made him look like an idiot.’

‘The paramedic?’

‘The big ugly fat guy with the scars.’ She tugged at a clotted coil of hair. ‘Mr Wash-And-Go.’

‘No I didn’t.’

A very clean grey van appeared over the crown of the hill, with ‘BEATON AND MACBETH’ in discreet lettering on the side. Andy and George waved at him as they passed. With one body at the foot of the cliff and another on the roadside, it was going to be a busy night for the duty undertakers.

Harper faced front again. ‘You did, I heard you.’

‘No, I said I made him look like a moron.’

‘And?’

As they crested the hill, Logan’s phone started dinging and bleeping — text messages coming in after all that time in the gully.

‘And I was trying to piss him off. Get him angry and distracted.’

‘Yes, but why pick that?’

‘Worked, didn’t it?’

‘You know there’s going to be an inquiry.’

And he was screwed whether Reuben regained consciousness or not. Gavin Jones would probably last about fifteen minutes before spilling his guts, and it would all be over for Sergeant Logan Balmoral McRae. ‘Good.’

He flicked the windscreen wipers up a notch, clearing the glass as the snowfall thickened.

The world was a swirling mess of white and grey — visibility down to a dozen feet. Logan dipped the headlights. It helped a bit.

She cleared her throat. ‘Thank you. For not letting him blow my head off.’

A shrug. ‘What are big brothers for?’

The wipers squealed and groaned.

The grey-white world slid by.

‘Logan? When—’ Harper’s Airwave handset gave four beeps.

‘DS Robertson to Detective Superintendent Harper, safe to talk?’

She sighed, then pulled it out and pressed the button. ‘Go ahead, Robertson.’

‘Yeah, listen, Boss: are you still needing us to lockdown the Milne place? Only my guys were meant to be off-shift half an hour ago. Someone coming to relieve us?’

Harper turned and widened her eyes at Logan, giving him a flash of teeth. ‘You stay where you are, Robertson — I’ll OK the overtime. Sergeant McRae and I are on our way.’

‘Boss.’

Logan sighed. ‘We’ve been involved in a fatal shooting. They won’t want us on active duty. We—’

‘Has anyone officially said you can’t take part in an active investigation?’

‘Not officially, no.’ He kept his eyes on the road. ‘Sure you don’t want to go home?’

‘Oh I’m absolutely positive. I’ve had a very bad day, and Martin Sodding Milne is going to find out what that feels like.’

Logan pulled up outside number six, Greystone View.

The lights of Whitehills were blocked out by the blizzard, thick sheets of heavy snow howling in on a wind that hammered the trees and gardens. A gust rocked the patrol car on its springs. He killed the engine.

Snow moaned and hissed against the roof.

Another patrol car was parked in front of them and the passenger door popped open, disgorging a skeletal lump in a high-viz jacket. DS Robertson hurried over, bent almost double by the wind. He rapped on the car window and Logan clicked the keys in the ignition far enough to buzz it down.

The wind growled.

‘Thought you’d forgotten about us.’ Flakes of white clung to his ludicrous sideburns, weighing them down.

‘Any movement?’

‘Sod all. Light’s been on all night, but the curtains have barely twitched. No one in or out, as per.’

Harper clunked her door open and climbed into the snow. Stuck her hand out. ‘DS Robertson, can I have your cuffs?’

A shrug. ‘Don’t see why not.’ He passed them over as Logan buzzed up the window and creaked his way out of the car. It was as if his joints had all rusted on the twenty-minute drive over here. The muscles in his arms and legs ached, his back complaining as he struggled his way into a high-viz jacket. He puffed out a breath and waited for the worst of it to pass.

‘You OK?’ Robertson was frowning at him. ‘Only you look like crap.’

‘Yeah. Hang on for ten minutes, OK? Just in case.’ He turned his shoulder to the wind and fought his way up the drive, cold leeching through his damp boots into his damp socks.

Harper stamped along beside him, using him as a windbreak.

Logan leaned on the bell. Turned his back on the blizzard. Snow thumped into his shoulders, threatening to tear the peaked cap from his head. ‘Samantha was right, I should have gone to Spain.’

‘What’s in Spain?’

‘Complications.’

The door remained firmly closed.

He tried the doorbell again, keeping his thumb on it.

Harper moved in closer, so she was sheltered from the snow. ‘Sod this. Not standing out here like a pair of idiots while Milne sits in there laughing at us.’ She nodded at the door. ‘Sergeant, I have reason to believe Martin Milne’s family is in danger and we should force entry. Agreed?’

Logan tried the handle.

Locked.

He mashed the bell again. ‘Don’t think I’m really up to kicking it down.’

‘Hold on.’ Harper put a hand on his arm as a shadow fell across the glass beside the door.

There was a click, and then the shadow faded again.

This time, when Logan tried the handle, the door swung open, letting a flurry of snow twirl into the hall.

They hurried inside, shutting the door behind them, just in time to see Katie Milne disappear into the kitchen, what looked like a bottle of champagne in one hand.

Logan followed her, pausing to check the lounge and the downstairs bathroom on the way. No sign of Milne.

Katie had her back to them as they entered the kitchen, putting two mugs down in front of the rattling kettle. ‘Is tea all right? I don’t have any coffee.’ Her voice was soggy — slow and muffled — as if her mouth wasn’t working properly. She raised the bottle of champagne and swigged from it. ‘Or there’s wine, if you’d rather?’

Logan unzipped his jacket. ‘Mrs Milne, where’s your husband?’

She turned. Her chin was covered in dried blood, bottom lip all swollen and cracked. Which explained the voice. A single white tooth sat on a saucer by the sink. ‘He’s in the garage.’ She pointed at the far wall, then took another swig. Blinked in slow motion. ‘Would you like biscuits?’

Harper nodded. ‘Sergeant, invite Mr Milne to join us.’

Logan limped back out into the hall, following the vague direction of the pointed finger down to a door at the far end. It opened on a breezeblock garage, with a dark-blue Aston Martin parked in it.

Milne was on the floor.

He lay face-down on the concrete, naked, with both hands tied behind his back. Torso and legs covered in bruises. Wine bottles lay scattered around him, a couple of them broken, the heady winey smell mingling with the butcher-shop tang of blood and offal. A black plastic bag was duct-taped over his head.

51

Katie Milne ran a finger along the countertop. ‘They came in the back way, over the garden wall. Didn’t see them till they were barging in through the French doors.’

Two cups of tea sat on the table, untouched.

Harper stared. ‘And they killed him? Right there, in front of you?’

‘They said I had to watch as punishment.’ She reached into a pocket and came out with a small white plastic tub. The kind that pills came in. ‘I had to tell everyone what happened to people who couldn’t be trusted.’

‘Notebook, Sergeant.’ Harper snapped her fingers at Logan. Back to Katie. ‘Can you describe them?’

She shook her head. ‘They were wearing... I don’t know, masks or something.’ Katie dropped the container into the bin. Took another swig of champagne then went to put the bottle down, but missed the worktop. It hit the floor and shattered, spattering out frothing wine that hissed and fizzed against the tiles.

Logan didn’t bother with the notebook. ‘And then you cleaned the kitchen?’

‘What?’ Katie turned towards the fridge and its display of childish drawings.

‘Where’s Ethan?’

‘Didn’t you hear me? They killed my husband.’

He pointed at the floor. ‘You say they came in from the garden, which is under about two feet of snow, but the tiles are bone dry.’ Well, everywhere except for the bit covered in champagne. ‘So’s the laminate in the hall and the garage floor.’

She took a picture of a cow jumping over a rainbow from the fridge door. ‘Ethan’s always been very sensitive.’

‘Mrs Milne? When all this happened, why didn’t you alert the patrol car parked right outside?’

‘They always tell you children are so resilient, don’t they? That they can get over anything, given enough time.’

‘Did you kill your husband, Mrs Milne?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Her voice was getting slower. More slurred.

‘Logan?’ Harper picked up four bits of paper from the kitchen table. It looked as if they used to be a single sheet, torn into ragged quarters, one side covered in neat blue handwriting. ‘Listen to this: “Dear Katie. I can’t go on like this. I’m tired of being scared all the time, I’m tired of the threats and the violence. I’m tired of never knowing what’s going to set you off. By the time you read this, Ethan and I will be long gone.”’

Katie shook her head. ‘No.’

‘“I should never have lied for you. As soon as we’re out of the country I’m going to tell the police that gangsters didn’t murder Peter, it was you. I’ll tell them I only helped you cover it up because you threatened to kill yourself and my son.”’ Harper looked up from the torn letter. ‘“You need help, Katie. You need to tell the police what you’ve done. Ethan deserves better than this.”’ She lowered the fragments to the table. ‘“Martin”.’

‘How could he be so selfish.’ Katie held the picture against her chest. ‘Taking my baby from me. My baby.’

Logan’s eyes flicked to the bin. The empty tub of pills.

Oh no...

‘Where’s your son, Mrs Milne? I need to see him right now.’ Logan waved a hand at Harper. ‘Go: search the bedrooms.’

‘You should have seen Ethan’s face when he found out about his father.’ She stared down at her hands. ‘Broke my heart.’

Harper scrambled out into the hall, pulling out her Airwave. ‘DS Robertson, I need you in here!’

A copy of the Aberdeen Examiner sat on the worktop, by the kettle. Someone had been having a bash at the crossword. Katie flicked it over, exposing the front page. ‘HUNT CONTINUES FOR STUDENT EMILY’S KILLER’ above a photograph of a young woman in a leather jacket grinning away outside a pub somewhere.

Katie picked it up and knelt by the broken champagne bottle, spreading the newspaper out beside her and dropping shards of green glass onto it. Wine soaked into the paper, darkening it. ‘He told me it was only the one time. That it was a mistake, he loved me. We were a family.’

‘Mrs Milne, please: where’s Ethan? Is he safe?’

‘I mean, Peter Shepherd? Martin and Peter, together? He’d been in my house so many times. He was Ethan’s godfather. How could they do that?’ She shook her head. ‘They were going to take my baby from me.’

‘LOGAN!’ Harper’s voice boomed out from somewhere deep inside the house. ‘LOGAN, CALL AN AMBULANCE!’

Katie Milne wadded up the newspaper and dumped it in the bin. Then put the drawing back on the fridge. ‘He was always so sensitive.’

52

‘Here.’ Logan held out a plastic cup full of vending machine coffee, topped with a scummy disc of foam masquerading as milk.

Harper took it. ‘Thanks.’

‘They were out of KitKats, so I got you a Double Decker.’ Logan eased himself into the plastic seat next to hers, groaning and grunting all the way. ‘Gnnn...’

‘You OK?’ She ripped the top off the orange-and-purple wrapper and took a bite of chocolate.

‘No.’

‘Me neither.’

A man in light blue hospital scrubs squeaked his way down the corridor and stopped in front of them. Checked his clipboard. ‘Detective Superintendent Harper? Good. Yes. Well, I’m happy to say that Mrs Milne’s going to be fine. We pumped her stomach and it looks like she didn’t take anywhere near enough Loprazolam to cause any real damage.’

Logan took a sip of his own horrible coffee. ‘What about her son?’

‘Ah.’ The nurse clutched the clipboard to his chest and pulled on a pained smile. ‘Unfortunately, Mrs Milne gave Ethan a lot more sleeping pills than she took herself. We’re doing everything we can.’

Harper stood. ‘Is she fit to be discharged?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Good.’ She dumped her coffee, untouched, into the bin. ‘Logan, get the car. Mrs Milne’s got some answering to do.’

Harper walked back up the corridor, the squeal and groan of the station’s floorboards accompanying her like an ominous soundtrack. She stopped in front of Logan and sagged against the wall. ‘Still with her solicitor. Don’t know what she thinks she’s going to achieve. Maybe cop a plea for diminished responsibility?’ Harper stifled a yawn. ‘Anything from the hospital?’

‘Not yet.’ Logan checked his watch. ‘Twenty past two.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘We should really sod off. Been a long, long day.’

‘I’m going nowhere.’ She wrinkled her top lip and sniffed. ‘Urgh... Why does everything smell of black pudding?’

He pointed at the dark clots of Reuben in her hair. ‘That would be you.’

A shudder. ‘Right, that’s it: I’m off to find the station showers. Gah...’ She marched away, stiff-backed, arms held out from her sides as if she were wading through something horrible.

Katie Milne’s solicitor could do worse than go for diminished responsibility. Clearly the woman was off her head. Killing her husband was bad enough — and maybe understandable in the circumstances — but what she’d done to her son? No sane person gave their six-year-old child an overdose of sleeping pills.

So yes, diminished responsibility.

A good lawyer could probably get her six years, an honest lawyer would make sure she never set foot in the real world again. But a great lawyer?

A great lawyer would make sure it never got to court in the first place.

Logan turned and headed to one of the empty admin offices. No furniture, no filing cabinets, nothing but uneven carpet tiles and the peppery smell of dust. He closed the door and pulled out his wallet.

Sandy Moir-Farquharson’s business card was wedged in between Logan’s library card and a receipt for high-strength painkiller. He called the emergency contact number on the back and listened to it ring.

Twenty past one in the morning, and the lawyer sounded wide awake: ‘Hello?’ No rest for the wicked.

‘Mr Moir-Farquharson, it’s Logan McRae.’ Deep breath. ‘I’d like you to represent a friend of mine. She’s in custody right now.’ And yes, she was guilty, but... But what? He’d done worse things himself? He felt ashamed? He wanted a shot at redemption?

Probably far too late for that.

Still, it was worth a try.

‘I see. Well, before I make a decision, Mr McRae, I shall need to know who this friend is and what they’re alleged to have done.’

‘Her name’s Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel.’

The microwave dinged and Logan fished out his bowl. ‘Ow! Ow! Ow!’ It clattered onto the worktop. ‘God, that’s hot.’ The stolen beans glooped and bubbled. He smothered them with stolen hot sauce and stolen cheddar. Then buttered his stolen toast and took the lot over to the line of tables.

A serious-looking woman frowned out of the canteen’s TV, mouth moving silently while the ticker below her scrolled: ‘19 DEAD IN DAMASCUS CAR BOMB ATTACK... GOVERNMENT MINISTER RESIGNS OVER “HOSPITALGATE” SCANDAL... BENJAMIN AND JACINTA LEAVE BRITAIN’S NEXT BIG STAR...’

Logan left her on mute and dipped a bit of toast into his spicy cheesy beans. Chewed as he turned the page. Mrs Milne’s police record was restricted to two parking tickets, one for speeding, and a caution over a trolley rage incident in the Peterhead Asda six months ago.

The canteen door opened, then clunked shut. Followed by a sigh. Then the sound of the vending machine whirring into life. A rattle, hiss-click, then more sighing. Narveer settled on the opposite side of the table, clutching a tin of Irn-Bru and a bar of Dairy Milk. ‘Logan.’

‘Inspector.’ Another bite of bean-dipped toast.

‘What a nightmare...’ He clicked the top off his fizzy juice and stifled a yawn. ‘Anything from the hospital?’

‘Nothing they can do but wait and see.’

‘Poor wee soul. I remember when our eldest was that age — came down with meningitis. Thought we were going to lose him.’ Narveer shuddered, then clunked a bite of chocolate. ‘Never been so scared in my life. Can you imagine forcing sleeping tablets down your wee boy’s throat? Doesn’t bear thinking about.’

And the whole thing cast Ethan’s being the clumsiest kid in school in a different light. All those bruises, cuts, and scrapes. The broken arm. How much of that was Mummy? How much of it done to punish Daddy?

Next up was the manila folder full of dirty photographs. Logan spread them out on the table, making a fan around his bowl.

Narveer pointed. ‘Catching up on the case?’

‘Yup.’ He scooped out another mound of beans.

‘Have I done something to offend you, Sergeant?’

‘No. Sorry. It’s been a long, long, long horrible day.’ Logan sat back. ‘I’m doing interview prep.’

‘Let me guess, Niamh won’t let you go home?’

‘Be a shame to abandon the whole thing now.’ More beans. ‘Far as we can tell, Mrs Milne found the note before Martin could disappear. He was all packed and ready to go — two suitcases for him and a backpack for Ethan. Probably thought he could sneak out the back way while we were all hanging about Gardenstown harbour like a bunch of morons.’

‘Hmph.’ Narveer polished off his chocolate, then wiped his hands down the front of his jacket. Pulled over the photos. ‘This DS Robertson’s work?’

A nod.

‘God, his penmanship’s appalling. What’s this say?’ He held out a picture of Milne, Shepherd, and a woman who had her hands wrapped around Milne’s throat as she brought the full length of her strap-on to bear.

‘“Diane McMillan” That’s a D.’

‘It is? Oh. “No police record, works as a learning support coordinator. At home with her husband when PS went missing — Alibi confirmed.”’

Logan finished his pilfered beans and wiped the bowl clean with the last of his pilfered toast. ‘At least he checked.’

‘True.’ Narveer flicked through the rest. ‘You think these will help?’

‘Probably not.’ He stood and walked his empties back to the kitchen area. Dumped the bowl and plate in the sink. ‘You want a tea?’

‘Please. Then maybe we should...’ He stood. ‘Niamh.’

Harper slouched into the canteen, rubbing a towel through her hair. ‘Inspector Singh.’ She’d ditched the bloodstained suit, replacing it with a black police T-shirt and standard-issue trousers.

‘Sergeant McRae’s making tea, if you want one?’

‘Not the way he makes it.’ She dumped the towel on the back of a chair. ‘Katie Milne’s solicitor says we can interview her now.’

Logan dumped his teabag back in the box and returned to the table. Gathered up the PNC report and the photographs, stacking them up into a... pile. Wait a minute. He frowned, tilted his head to one side and stared.

Then spread the top three photos out again.

One was Aggie with her Iron Maiden tattoo; one was the redhead in the stripy stockings; and one was the young blonde woman, looking back over her shoulder at the camera — three biro question marks were lined up in the bottom corner. Identity unknown.

‘Logan?’

No.

Couldn’t be.

Could it?

‘Sergeant: I said it’s time to go interview Katie Milne.’

He span around. ‘Paper. I need a newspaper.’ There were a pile of them on the coffee table, in front of the TV with its mute newsreader. Daily Mail, Telegraph, Press and Journal, Scottish Sun. The front pages were a mix of political scandals, showbiz gossip, and atrocities in the Middle East.

Damn it.

‘Sergeant McRae, are you—’

‘Ah!’ Logan lurched over to the recycling bins, lined up between the kitchen area and the vending machines. He knelt, ripped the cover off the paper bin and rummaged inside — throwing hand towels and printouts and sandwich wrappers and cereal boxes and scrunched-up envelopes over his shoulder.

‘Have you gone mad? Narveer, stop him!’

Where the hell was... Ah. Perfect.

Logan stood holding a copy of that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner aloft as if it were Excalibur itself. ‘Got it!’

He slapped it down on the table, face up: ‘HUNT CONTINUES FOR STUDENT EMILY’S KILLER’ above the photo of Emily Benton. ‘You see?’

Narveer held up his hands. ‘OK, Sergeant, I think it’s maybe time you went home and got some sleep.’

‘Look.’ He poked the newspaper with a finger, then the photo from Shepherd’s collection. ‘That’s why she looks familiar.’ The young woman getting spanked was grinning back over her shoulder, half of her face hidden. But it was her.

‘Yeah... No. Don’t see it.’

Logan dragged out his Airwave. ‘Control, I need to speak to someone about the Emily Benton post mortem. Right now.’

‘Hold on...’

Narveer grimaced, looking across the explosion of paper debris radiating out from the recycling bins. ‘You said it yourself, it’s been a long day. You’ve been through a lot and—’

A broad Doric accent thumped out of the Airwave’s speaker. ‘Aye, fa’s this?’

‘Sergeant McRae, B Division. You got Emily Benton’s PM photos?’

‘Aye.’

‘I need any distinguishing features.’

‘We can have a bash... Tum-tee, tum-tee, tum-tee... Right, here we go: scar on outside of left ankle, strawberry birthmark inside of right thigh, crown on second molar lower left.’

Harper picked up the photograph and squinted at it. Then held it out to Logan. ‘There.’ A strawberry birthmark, just visible on her inner thigh, below Shepherd’s spanking hand. If you didn’t know what it was, it could easily be mistaken for a shadow. ‘You were right.’

She didn’t have to sound so surprised about it.

Katie Milne shifted on the other side of the table, setting her white oversuit rustling. ‘When will I get my clothes back?’

‘When our forensics lab are finished with them.’ Harper gave Logan the nod.

The interview room was far too hot. Beads of sweat glistened on the forehead of Katie’s lawyer — the same saggy disappointed man who’d represented her husband last time they were in here. He moved his notebook out of the way as Logan laid out the photographs from Shepherd’s bedroom porn collection. One at a time. Slow and deliberate, as if he were dealing tarot cards.

‘Do you recognize any of these women, Mrs Milne?’

She blinked at him, then at the images, then at her lawyer. ‘Barney?’

‘Superintendent Harper, are you deliberately trying to distress my client?’

‘We’re trying to get at the truth, Mr Nelson. Please continue, Sergeant McRae.’

More women joined the ranks on the tabletop. ‘How about now?’

‘Look, this has nothing to do with the unfortunate events surrounding Martin’s death. Please move on.’

The very last picture was Emily Benton, looking back over her shoulder.

Katie flinched.

Harper sat forward. ‘So you recognize her?’

‘I...’ She licked her lips. ‘No. I’ve never seen her before.’ But she didn’t seem to be able to look away.

Logan put the other faces back in the folder, leaving Emily Benton in the middle of the table. ‘Do you want to tell us about her?’

Katie wrapped her arms around herself, rocking back and forwards. ‘I didn’t... It... I don’t know.’ She stared at the photograph. ‘I mean, she could—’

‘One moment, please.’ Her lawyer put a hand on her arm. ‘I think, in the circumstances, my client and I need to have a further discussion. We—’

‘He lied to me. When Ethan was born, Martin swore he’d never cheat on me again. He swore.’

‘Katie, I really don’t think this is a good—’

‘I got a text meant for her. He sent it by mistake. There was a... an intimate photograph.’ She ground the palm of her hands into her eyes. ‘He was screwing her.’

‘Katie, please. Let’s take a minute and—’

‘So I did what any good mother would do: I confronted her. Told her she had to stop seeing him. He was my husband. He loved us, not her.’

Harper went to say something, but Logan nudged her with a knee under the table. She closed her mouth.

‘The little bitch laughed; rubbed it in my face.’ Katie bared her teeth, eyes narrowed as she glared at the woman in the photo. ‘Him and her. And she laughed.’ Katie reached out with one hand, placing it flat over the picture. Then crumpled it into her fist. ‘She laughed at me and my family.’

Logan kept his voice low and neutral. ‘And what did you do, Katie?’

‘I made her stop.’ A frown. ‘I don’t know how. One minute we were in the car park, and the next we were in the woods. Her head was all broken and there was a wrench in my hand. It was all... sticky.’ Katie let go of the photograph. Emily Benton’s face was creased and distorted. ‘I left her there.’

Logan nodded. ‘Is that what happened with Peter Shepherd, Katie?’

She blinked at him. ‘I started going through Martin’s pockets. Checking his email. Checking his phone. I needed to know he wasn’t doing it again.’

The radiator growled away to itself, pumping out heat into the already oppressive room.

No one moved.

Then Katie shrugged. ‘I found a receipt for three business-class tickets to Dubai. Him, Ethan, and Peter Shepherd. They were going to work for some firm building roads and bridges on the other side of the world. Martin was going to leave me.’ She bared her teeth. ‘Peter Shepherd was going to take my family away from me.’

Her solicitor sighed. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t say anything more, Katie?’

‘You wouldn’t believe how he cried. Pleading and bawling, all covered in bruises on the forest floor. And Martin begging me to stop...’

‘Katie. Please.’

‘Then all that stuff in the papers. The Emily bitch wasn’t a one-off mistake, there were dozens of them. And him and Peter. The sex. The dirty filthy lying bastard. He promised me. He swore!’

Logan leaned forward. ‘Whose idea was it to pretend that gangsters killed Peter Shepherd?’

She frowned at him. ‘You’d have found his body sooner or later: Martin said we had to make it look like someone else did it. That he could make it look convincing. That he could lie about some Edinburgh heavy lending Peter money and you’d jump to all the wrong conclusions.’

And he’d been right.

‘Where’s the money now?’

‘I knew GCML was in trouble, but I didn’t know it was going bankrupt. Not till then.’ She laughed, short and bitter. ‘Two hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds embezzled from the company. They thought they could run away to Dubai and set up house before anyone noticed what they’d done. Can you believe that? Oh yes, they’d be fine, but what about me?’ Katie curled her top lip. ‘When the bank forecloses on the company and repossesses our home? What was I supposed to do?’

Katie dug her nails into the tabletop. Stared at them as the quicks went white. ‘All those lies about how much he loved me. I’d be homeless. Poor. What kind of man does that?’

‘What happened to the money, Katie?’

She turned and blinked at her solicitor. ‘Barney?’

‘I’m sorry,’ her solicitor shook his head, ‘but I don’t think I can represent you any more.’

‘OK, let’s forget about the money for now.’ Logan eased his hand across the table, until it lay next to hers. ‘Do you want to tell us what happened in the house tonight?’

Outside, someone thumped along the corridor, setting the floor creaking.

The radiator pinged and gurgled.

Harper shifted in her seat.

Then Katie Milne brought her head back around and sighed.

‘It’s OK.’ Logan took her hand. It was cool and dry. ‘You can talk to us.’

‘No comment.’