In the Cold Dark Ground (13 page)

Rennie sloped off into the rain.

Steel waited till he’d disappeared back into the office building. Then took a long drag on her e-cigarette. ‘Who told you about Jack Wallace?’

‘Who is he?’

She shrugged. ‘A paedo. Caught him with a big wodge of kiddy porn on his laptop.’ Another drag. ‘It was Napier, wasn’t it?’

‘Wanted me to keep an eye on you. See if you mentioned Wallace.’

‘Gah.’ She worked a finger down into her cleavage and had a rummage. ‘Told you, didn’t I? Napier’s hit his thirty years and they’re chucking him out to pasture. Slimy wee sod’s been holding on by his fingernails since the re-org.’ Dig, rummage, fiddle. ‘How do you think it plays back home when we’ve got one Chief Superintendent in charge of the whole division, and there’s Napier, same rank, spodding about in Professional Standards? Big Tony Campbell’s been trying to get shot of him for ages.’

‘So why’s he interested in Wallace?’

‘He’s just on the sniff. Doesn’t want to slump off into obscurity without first screwing over one more poor sod.’

Logan stepped in front of her. ‘So there’s
nothing
dodgy going on?’

‘Sod, and indeed, all. Forget about it.’ More rummaging. ‘You know what I think?’

Logan waited.

Dig. Fiddle. Hoik. ‘I think this is Susan’s bra.’

Steel put the cap back on her marker pen. ‘Any questions?’

There weren’t as many people in the Major Incident Room as there had been for the morning meeting – about half of them were away doing things – but that still left a dozen plainclothes officers. They sat around the conference table, chairs all turned towards the whiteboard. Behind them, Logan leaned back against the wall, stifling a yawn.

Should’ve been home by now.

DS McKenzie put her hand up. ‘So are we treating this as a crime of passion, Guv? Or is it all about the cash?’

‘Crime of passion?’

‘Yeah, maybe Milne finds out Shepherd isn’t as faithful as he thought? Maybe he’s shagging someone else behind his back? Or maybe the bag over his head’s a kind of autoerotic asphyxiation thing?’

Steel stared at her. ‘Bit extreme for a stranglewank, isn’t it, Becky? Don’t know about
your
love life, but when I’m doing your mum I tend to draw the line at duct-taping a bin-bag over her head.’

Becky folded her arms across her chest, chin in the air. ‘So it’s money.’

‘Two hundred and twenty-five
thousand
pounds of it.’ She turned and underlined the figure on the board. It sat between a photo of Shepherd and one of Milne. One titled ‘
V
ICTIM
’ the other, ‘
S
USPECT #1
’.

A huge DC in an ill-fitting suit stopped doodling penguins on his notepad. It was Rennie’s friend from yesterday, the one with the awful teeth. ‘What about this gangland angle? We ignoring that now?’

Steel stuck her nose in the air. ‘
We
are ignoring nothing, Owen. We’re focusing our resources. And just for that, you’re searching Shepherd’s place again. You, Donna, and Spaver. Fine-toothed comb this time.’

His shoulders slumped. ‘Guv.’

‘Robertson?’

A whippet-thin man with horrible sideburns nodded. ‘Guv?’

She chucked a flash drive across the table to him. ‘Homemade porn from Shepherd’s house. Between wanks, I want you IDing everyone on there. Background checks and interviews.’

‘Guv.’

Then Steel held her arms out, as if she was about to bless everyone in the room. ‘Now get your sharny backsides out there and find me Martin Milne.’

Chairs were scraped back, and, one by one, the team shuffled out of the room.

Logan didn’t bother to hide the yawn this time as Steel shut the door behind them.

‘No’ boring you, are we?’ She dug out her phone and poked at the screen for a moment, then put it against her ear. ‘Make yourself useful and grab us a coffee will you? And some cake. Or biscuits. Crisps will do at a—’ She held up a hand and turned away from him. ‘Super? Yeah, it’s Roberta. Just wanted you to know we’ve got a suspect
and
a motive for the Shepherd murder. I’ve got a slot booked on the news, so if— … No. … Yeah, I know they think it’s the same MO, but listen, we— … No, sir. … Yes, sir. But we—’ Steel marched over to one of the room’s two windows and stood there, glaring out at the rain. ‘I
understand
that, sir, but we’re making progress here.
I’m
making progress. And— … No. OK. … Bye.’

Steel lowered her phone. Then swore at it.

‘Good news?’

She turned and glared at him instead. ‘Sodding Superintendent Sodding Young says we’re getting a sodding babysitter.’ Steel jammed her e-cigarette in her mouth and chewed on the end. ‘Some arsebag Central-Belt bumwarden from Forth Valley Division. Apparently she’s an expert on Malk the Knife.
Apparently
she’s very efficient and good at her job.
Apparently
she’s already on her way.’

Logan tried not to smile, he really did. ‘Not nice when someone waltzes in and takes over your case, is it?’

‘Oh ha, ha.’ Steel thumped herself down on the windowsill, rattling the blinds. ‘Any chance we can catch Milne and beat a confession out of him in the next,’ she checked her watch, ‘hour?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Well, look at you, all booted and suited.’ Sergeant Ashton leaned back in her chair and gave him the once-over. She’d had her hair done again, blonde highlights and brown lowlights giving her head the look of a humbug that’d fallen down the back of the sofa and got all fuzzy. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’

Piles of boxes littered the Sergeants’ Office, all of them tagged and sealed. Some used to contain crisps, some frozen peas. Some had willies drawn on the outside.

Logan settled into the seat opposite. ‘Aye, aye, Beaky. Foos yer doos, the day then?’

‘You’re getting better. But for maximum teuchterness it should be “i’ day”, not “
the
day”.’

He nodded at the boxes. ‘Has Mum been to Iceland?’

‘Confiscated them from a van in Macduff. Counterfeit handbags.’ She pointed. ‘Might have something that’ll go with your outfit, but you’ll need nicer shoes.’

‘Did Inspector McGregor speak to you about my dunt?’

She grinned. ‘It’s
my
dunt now, Laz. I’ll be getting all the credit.’

‘You remembering it’s Ricky and Laura Welsh?’

‘There is that.’ Beaky pulled her lips in and chewed on them for a bit. ‘I’ve got a fiver on no one gets hospitalized, which is about as likely as Scotland winning the next World Cup. But what can you do? Got to at least pretend it’ll all go to plan.’

‘Keep me in the loop though, eh?’

‘Anything else I should know about?’

‘Tufty’s got one shift to go till he’s a proper police officer. Try and keep him out of trouble on Sunday night.’

‘They grow up so fast, don’t they?’

‘Oh, and can you and your hired thugs do me a favour? Keep an eye on Portsoy tonight. Some wee sod’s been setting fire to people’s wheelie bins. Be nice to catch him before he graduates to houses.’

‘Think I can manage that. We’ve got—’

A knock on the door, then it opened. One of Beaky’s PCs loomed on the threshold, his shoulders hunched and his face in need of a shave. ‘Sorry, Sarge, but Sergeant McRae’s got a visitor.’

Beaky wafted a hand at him. ‘Tell whoever it is to park their bum. We’re doing important handovery stuff here.’

‘Yeah…’ He grimaced. ‘No offence, but Sergeant McRae’s visitor is
way
above my pay grade.’ The constable held a hand six inches over his own head. ‘Like
way
above.’

Logan raised an eyebrow. That would be Steel’s babysitter, the Superintendent, arrived from C Division ahead of schedule and itching to take over. Probably wanted to debrief him in person, after all, he was the one who ID’d the victim
and
the killer. ‘Ah well.’ He stood, stretched.

Sergeant Ashton tucked her hands into her fleece pockets. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of your team while you’re off playing cops and robbers.’

‘Thanks, Beaky, yir a fine quine.’

‘You’re a knapdarloch yourself, Laz.’

Whatever that meant.

The PC flattened himself against the doorframe, and pointed past the photocopier, at the corridor. ‘He’s in the canteen.’

He? Didn’t Steel say it was a she?

Still, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d got that wrong.

Logan crossed the corridor and into the canteen.

A table stuck into the middle of the room like a breakfast bar, with three chairs on either side and what looked like an empty box from the baker’s on top. Doughnuts, going by the crime-scene trail of blood-red jam on the black tabletop and the trails of castor sugar.

His visitor was in the corner, with his back to the room, pouring boiling water into a mug. Full Police Scotland black outfit – the shoes, the trousers, the fleece – but instead of the expected three pips on the epaulettes, there was one pip and a crown. His red hair was swept back, not quite covering the expanding bald patch at the back.

Not Steel’s babysitter after all. Something far worse.

Sod.

He was humming a wee tune to himself, away in his own happy little world.

It wasn’t too late. Could back away right now and sneak off. Get in a car and…

Chief Superintendent Napier turned around and raised his mug. ‘Ah, Sergeant McRae, the very man I wanted to see.’ His long thin nose twitched. ‘Do you have any milk?’

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Milk. Right.’ He crossed to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out the big four-litre plastic container of semi-skimmed. Gave it a shoogle. Empty. ‘Sorry, sir, the MIT must have drunk it.’

‘Oh now, that
is
disappointing.’ He poured the contents of the mug down the sink. ‘I think, in that case, we should go for a walk, don’t you? That might lift our spirits on a cold February afternoon. We could buy the station some more milk.’

‘Milk. Right.’

Napier’s smile wouldn’t have been out of place on a serial killer. ‘You said that already.’

‘Yes.’

Oh bloody hell.

He pointed a long thin finger at the windowsill, where a piggybank sat next to a white concrete gnome. Someone had painted angry black eyebrows on the gnome and stuck a little paper dagger in his hand. ‘Shall I put thirty pence in the bank, or do you think buying the milk will cover it?’

Logan licked his lips. ‘I’ll get my coat.’

Wind growled along Banff Bay, whipping the water into lines of white peaks. Bringing with it the smell of seaweed and death.

The tide was out, and Napier’s thin feet left bullet-shaped marks in the wet sand. ‘Bracing, isn’t it?’ He’d pulled on a peaked cap – complete with waterproof shower-cap-style cover – and a high-viz jacket. Rain pattered against the fluorescent yellow material.

Logan trudged along beside him, suit trousers rippling against his legs, water dripping from his own high-viz gear. No condom on
his
hat though, thank you very much. Might have been practical, but it made you look a complete tit. ‘No offence, sir, but you didn’t come all the way up here to walk about in the freezing rain.’

‘Perceptive as ever, Sergeant.’ A sigh. ‘I’ve spent most of my thirty years in Professional Standards, Logan. Oh, I did my stint in CID, the GED, on the beat, in the control room, even a short period seconded to the Home Office. But when I joined Professional Standards, I knew
this
was what I wanted to do with my career.’

A young woman in a stripy top went by the other way, long curly dark hair streaming out behind her like a flag, a wee Scottie dog bounding along at her side – its black fur clarty with wet sand and mud.

‘It was my first case that did it: investigating a sergeant who’d taken money from a local businessman to look the other way in a rape investigation. The businessman had broken a poor woman’s jaw and nose, cracked three of her ribs, and dislocated her shoulder. Then he raped her three times. She was nineteen.’

Out in the distance, the lights of a supply vessel winked, probably tying up to ride out the storm.

‘Imagine that. There you are, supposedly investigating a serious sexual assault, and you know who did it, but instead of building a case, arresting, and prosecuting the criminal, you stick your hand out and demand three thousand pounds. And three thousand pounds was a lot of money in those days.’

Napier stopped, and stared out to sea. ‘That’s what I’ve spent my career doing, Logan. Tracking down the bribe-takers, the constables that steal from crime scenes, the officers who think it’s perfectly acceptable to beat a confession out of someone, or to demand sexual favours in return for facilitating prostitution. Money. Drugs. Violence. Privilege.’

Logan turned his back on the wind, hunching his shoulders. The young woman was a faint figure in the distance, the dirty wee Scottie dog nearly invisible.

A smile twitched at Napier’s lips. ‘We police the police. We make sure the force can hold its head up high and say to the people, “Believe in us. Trust us. Because
no one
is above the law, not even us.”’ He shrugged. ‘And instead of being grateful that we weed out the rot in their midst, our fellow officers call us Rubber Heelers, and sinister bastards, and all sorts of pejorative nicknames. Make the sign of the cross when they think we’re not looking.’

There had to be a reason for this strange little heart-to-heart.

Logan’s stomach clenched.

Oh God. What if he’d found out about the trip to Wee Hamish’s deathbed? What if Reuben had decided to screw him over after all? What if Napier knew all about Urquhart buying Logan’s flat for twenty thousand pounds over the asking price? Or that he’d agreed to pick up Steve Fowler’s mystery package?

Napier turned and walked on. ‘Other officers look at us the way that junkies and thieves look at you, Logan. Waiting for the long arm of the law to fall upon their shoulders.’

And why here? Why do this out in the freezing cold not-so-great outdoors? Why not back at the station with a witnessing officer and a video camera?

Maybe he was going to cut Logan a deal? Something not quite legal: that was why he needed seclusion to do it.

The beach curled around to the right, where the bay became the River Deveron. But before they got that far, Napier stopped again. ‘Tell me, Logan, what do you know about Jack Wallace?’

Logan blinked. OK, wasn’t expecting that. ‘Not much. He’s a paedophile?’

‘Jack Wallace, thirty-two, currently serving six years for possession of indecent images of children.’

‘Good.’

‘Is it?’ Napier turned and marched up the beach, leaving the sand behind for a line of grass. ‘What if Jack Wallace isn’t a paedophile after all? What if evidence has emerged that suggests his conviction is unsafe? What if the images found on his laptop were planted there?’

Past a low wall topped with a brown picket fence, and out onto the pavement.

Logan grabbed his arm. ‘Why?’

‘The evidence used to convict Wallace all came from DCI Steel. No corroboration, no paper trail, just a laptop with images of child abuse on it.’ He peered over Logan’s shoulder, across the road. ‘Ah, look: a Co-op. We can get milk there.’

‘Are you saying Steel fitted him up?’

‘Jack Wallace had no history of child abuse. No hints. No warnings. No suspicions. And then, one day, all of a sudden his laptop is full of kiddy porn. Does that not strike you as suspicious?’