In the Cold Dark Ground (14 page)

‘Not really. He was good at covering his tracks. Some of them get away with it their whole lives.’

‘That’s true.’ Napier wandered across the road, past the boarded-up garage. ‘Tell me, Logan, do you think DCI Steel is the kind of officer who would fabricate evidence? Who’d bend the rules to get a result? Even if she had to bend them so far they shattered?’

‘No.’ Of course she would, but there was no way in hell he was telling Napier that.

‘I see.’

They passed the bus shelter, where a young man in a sodden hoodie slouched with a pushchair. Fag in his mouth as he texted away.

‘These are serious allegations, Logan. There has to be an investigation: a thorough one. If Detective Chief Inspector Steel’s done nothing wrong, then we’ll exonerate her. But if I find out that she’s perverted the course of justice, she’ll find herself on the receiving end of an eight-year stretch in Glenochil.’

Napier pulled a packet of fruit pastilles from his pocket, helped himself to one, then held them out to Logan. ‘This isn’t the 1970s, it’s not
The Sweeney
or
Life on Mars
. The modern police force has to be squeaky clean, or we’re no better than the thugs and politicians.’

The pastilles hovered between them.

‘What’s it got to do with me?’

‘You know DCI Steel. You’ve worked for her. You know her methods. You have her confidence. The people working for her now – the MIT – they can’t be relied upon, they’re in her thrall. But you’ve been all the way up here in B Division for over a year, beyond her grasp.’

‘How do you know I won’t go right back there and tell her everything you’ve just told me?’

‘Do you have any idea how many times I’ve investigated you over the last decade? Many, many, many times. And each time it’s turned out that you were in the right all along. No one’s
that
good at covering their tracks. You’re an honest man, Logan McRae.’

Logan’s fingers twitched, then drifted up towards the packet.

‘Of course, I could force the issue: get you formally seconded to Professional Standards, but I don’t want that. I want you to help because this is what’s best for DCI Steel
and
Police Scotland. A thorough investigation to either clear her name, or… Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

‘I see.’ The investigation was going to happen whether he helped out or not. And if he didn’t, it would simply give Napier an excuse to start grubbing about in Logan’s business too.

Yeah, that really,
really
wouldn’t turn out well.

And maybe Napier was right? Maybe this was for Steel’s own good? An investigation would clear her name and that would be that. And if Logan was involved he could make sure no one jumped to the wrong conclusions. Napier could retire and everyone else could get on with their disaster-ridden lives.

So why not?

Logan took the top pastille and popped it in his mouth. Lime. ‘Suppose I said yes, and I’m not, I’m only asking. But
if
I said yes, what would you want me to do?’

‘Ooh, here we go.’ Steel settled into one of the canteen chairs. ‘Turn it up, turn it up.’

Logan picked the remote off the table and pointed it at the TV mounted on a shelf above the recycling bins. Cranked up the volume. Then grimaced. The remote was all gritty and sticky. ‘For God’s sake…’ The thing was smeared with blobs of doughnut jam and a dusting of castor sugar.

‘Shhh!’

On the screen, a newsreader in a serious suit frowned for the camera. Behind them, Banff station lurked in the rain, water dripping from the curlicues and semi-balconies. ‘
Thank you, Stacy. Police Scotland have named the man found in woods outside of Macduff, Aberdeenshire, yesterday as Peter Shepherd. Mr Shepherd, a director at a support services company…
’

Logan dumped the remote on the draining board and washed the sticky off his hands. ‘Inspector McGregor’s right, it’s like sharing a station with vermin.’

‘Will you shut your yap, Laz? Trying to watch this.’

‘
…following statement.
’

The shot cut to the station front door, where Steel stood beneath an umbrella held by someone out of shot. ‘
We are anxious to trace the whereabouts of Martin Milne, a partner at Geirrød Container Management and Logistics.
’ Milne’s photo filled the screen – the one of him at the barbecue. ‘
We are very concerned for Mr Milne’s safety. If you have any information, you’ve seen him or spoken to him, we need you to get in touch.
’ Then she was back on the screen again. ‘
Mr Milne was last seen on Sunday night, wearing a green waxed Barbour jacket, red fleece shirt, blue jeans, and tan-coloured boots.
’

Out here, in real life, Steel pointed at the screen. ‘Do my boobs look perkier than usual?’ She stuck a hand down her shirt and fiddled with the contents. ‘Maybe I should wear Susan’s bra more often?’

A microphone popped into shot, clutched in a gloved hand. ‘
Chief Inspector, can you comment on rumours that Peter Shepherd’s death resembles a gangland execution?
’

‘
I’m no’ playing the speculation game, here, Sunshine, I’m appealing for witnesses.
’

Logan drew a breath in through his teeth. ‘Did you really just call the BBC News guy “Sunshine”?’

‘
Martin, if you’re watching this, it is extremely important you get in touch with us. Your family are worried about you.
’

‘I wonder if they do it in a balconette?’ Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle. ‘That’s always good for a bit of jiggly-wobbliness. Susan would like that.’

He shuddered. ‘Can we please not discuss your breasts?’

There was a knock on the doorframe, followed by, ‘I’d ask if I’m interrupting anything, but I think we all know the answer.’ A woman stood with her arms folded. Black suit. Black boots. Black shirt. Long blonde hair tucked behind one fairly large ear and cascading over the other. A strong jaw. The smile she pulled didn’t go anywhere near her eyes, or the bags underneath them. ‘Would someone care to tell me why we put out an appeal on national television?’

Steel gave up on her cleavage. ‘Because, Little Miss Undertaker, I’m trying to catch a murderer. That OK with you?’

The smile got colder. ‘That’s Little Miss
Superintendent
to you.’

Oh great. Their babysitter from C Division.

‘Superintendent, eh? Well, well, well. And you no’ long out of gymslips too.’ Steel held up a finger. ‘And before you go all feral on me: that’s a compliment. Empowered women, glass ceilings, role model to all the wee girls, blah, blah, blah.’

On screen, the reporter handed back to the studio.

Logan picked up the sticky remote and turned the TV off. Stood up straight. ‘Super.’

She didn’t even look at him. ‘Let me guess, you must be Detective Chief Inspector Steel.’

‘Guilty as charged.’

‘And probably a lot more besides.’ The Superintendent leaned against the doorframe. ‘Let’s be clear, DCI Steel, there will be no more maverick behaviour on this case. Your Major Investigation Team works for me now, it does what I tell it to do, and that includes you.’

Steel pursed her lips. ‘Oh aye?’

‘You will not release anything to the media without my authorization. Are we crystal?’

Outside in the corridor, someone coughed.

A phone rang.

The fridge and vending machines hummed.

Then Steel nodded. ‘Guess we are.’

A short man in a double-breasted suit appeared at her elbow. He was all hairy and fidgety, with a full wiry black beard and a Royal Stewart tartan turban. ‘Super? We’ve got the victim’s car. SEB are on their way.’

Logan put the remote down. ‘We’ve got Martin Milne’s car in lockup at Mintlaw, so if—’

The Superintendent pointed at him. ‘Did anyone ask for your opinion, Sergeant McRae?’

OK… How did she know his name?

‘I’m just trying to—’

‘And you’re out of uniform. That suit looks ridiculous. Change.’ She turned to her hairy friend. ‘Narveer, this whole operation smacks of ineptitude and indolence. Gather the senior officers in the incident room. Time to deliver a kick up the jacksie.’

‘Ma’am.’

Then she turned and stormed off, shouting instructions into her mobile phone.

Narveer puffed out a breath. Shook his head. ‘Sorry about that, she’s not usually like this. Don’t know what’s rattled her cage.’ Then he stuck his hand out. ‘DI Singh, I’m Detective Superintendent Harper’s minder, sidekick, and general dogsbody.’

Logan shook it. ‘Logan McRae. This is DCI Steel.’

She waved. ‘Like the turban, Narveer. Very sexy.’

A blush darkened the skin at his cheeks. ‘Right. I’d better … get on with it. Major Incident Room in, about fifteen minutes? That sound OK?’

At least it would give Logan time to change.

Rennie looked Logan up then down again. ‘Thought you were plainclothes now?’

The Major Incident Room bustled with muffled conversations as they waited for Detective Superintendent Harper to appear. Steel had taken the seat at the middle of the table, facing the whiteboard, flanked by two DIs in much better- fitting suits than Logan’s. Two DSs sat on one side, Becky on the other – not talking to anyone, poking away at her phone instead.

Logan straightened the epaulettes on the shoulders of his black Police-Scotland-issue fleece. ‘Our new Central-Belt overlord’s idea of making friends.’

‘Eeek.’ He bared his teeth. ‘Let me guess: bit of a ballbreaker? Tough woman in a man’s world, having to try harder than anyone else to get the same amount of respect?’

‘Or she was just being a dick.’

‘Point.’ He straightened up and dropped his voice to a whisper as the door opened. ‘Talk of the dick and she shall appear.’

Narveer was first in, carrying a stack of paper bags from the Tesco at the end of the road. He dumped them on the table as DSup Harper swept into the room.

She took up position directly behind Steel. ‘Ladies, gentlemen, glad you could join us.’ A bright smile. ‘Can someone get the lights please?’

Rennie scurried off to oblige, plunging the room into semi-darkness. Lit only by the glow of the streetlights outside.

‘Now, do help yourself to cakes while I get this set up.’

There was a rustling of bags and the occasional ‘Oooh!’ as the MIT dug into doughnuts, yumyums, raisin whirls, and custard slices. How to win friends and influence police officers, lesson one: bring cakes.

A roller screen hung on the wall opposite the whiteboard. Harper pulled it down to full size, then pointed a remote at the projector mounted to the ceiling. It hummed and whirred, then a PowerPoint slide appeared on the screen.

Motes of dust drifted in the beam.

Logan dipped into the last bag and came out with an Eccles cake. The rotten sods had taken all the good stuff.

‘
O
PERATION
H
OURGLASS ~
B
RIEFING
S
LIDES
’ blurred across the screen, until Narveer stood on a chair and fiddled with the focus.

Harper clicked the button, and a photo of her appeared. ‘In case you don’t know by now, my name is Detective Superintendent Niamh Harper. I work for the Serious Organised Crime Task Force, bridging the gap between Police Scotland and various local and governmental support agencies. I specialize in putting kingpin figures behind bars.’ That smile again. ‘Which is why you’ve been lumbered with me.’

It wasn’t exactly
Billy Connolly’s Greatest Hits
, but it actually got a chuckle or two from the assembled team.

Click
.

A man’s face filled the screen, taken with a long lens probably from a concealed location.

‘Allow me to introduce you to Malcolm McLennan, AKA: Malk the Knife.’

It was a much more candid photo than the one Steel had used at the morning briefing. Middle-aged, receding hairline cropped short. A strange, youthful look to his skin and cheeks, but his eyes peered out from hooded lids. As if he were someone much older wearing a mask.

‘Born twenty-third of April 1960, in a little mining village in Fife. Got into trouble as a kid – low-level stuff, nothing serious – then graduated to the armed robbery of a security van in Edinburgh when he was eighteen. He did four years, and when he came out he was a different man.’

Click
.

It was one of the crime-scene photos from the book in Shepherd’s bedroom. The one where a man slumped in a bathroom stall with his throat sliced open. Blood soaked the front of his frilly shirt.

‘Antony Thornton, one-time business associate of McLennan. Word on the street was that Thornton wanted to cut a deal with Lothian and Borders CID, McLennan slashed his throat so deeply the head nearly came off. Nothing could be proved.’

Click
.

Another man, this one floating facedown in the harbour, arms and legs spread as if he were playing at being a starfish. ‘David Innes. Drug dealer. Allegedly he was skimming off the top. McLennan gutted him. Again, no evidence, no prosecution.’

Click
.

A young man, sprawled across the back seat of a car, eyes wide open, hands curled in his lap. Everything from his chin to his lap was soaked in blood. ‘Edward Tucker—’

‘Aye, no offence,’ Steel brushed pastry crumbs from her cleavage, ‘but fascinating as the history lesson is, Super, when do we get to the bit that’s got anything to do with Peter Shepherd?’

Harper laughed. ‘A very good point, Roberta.’

Roberta? So she’d gone from ‘Do what you’re told’ to first-name terms in fifteen minutes?

She raised the remote. ‘Let’s fast forward a bit.’

Click
. Blood.
Click
. Death.
Click
. Blood.
Click
. Bodies.
Click
. Blood.
Click
. Death.
Click
. More bodies.

‘And then we arrive at Michael Webb.’

Click
.

Another young man, this one lying on his back, naked, with his arms behind him. Black plastic bag taped over his head. His torso was a mass of green and purple bruises, then porcelain skin, then a line of red where the blood had pooled nearest to the ground after death. Settling through the tissues.

‘Low-level drug dealer. His hands were tied behind his back, then he was beaten around the head, neck, and torso. Then they duct-taped a bin-bag over his head and watched him suffocate to death. The remains were dumped in woodland just south of the Forth Bridge and drenched in bleach to destroy any trace on the body.’

Click
.

Different body, different woods, but the MO was the same.

‘Daniel Crombie – used to smuggle cigarettes and alcohol in from the Continent.’

Click
.

And again.

‘Alex Ward – pimp.’

Click
.

‘Walter Gibson – retired police officer turned loan shark.’ Harper dumped the remote on the table. ‘I’ve got another dozen of these, spread over a space of twenty-six years. All our victims were rivals or inconveniences to Malcolm McLennan, but there’s nothing but rumour connecting him to the killings.’

She picked up one of the empty cake bags and scrunched it into a ball. ‘We’re pretty certain he doesn’t kill them personally, but he does order it. The actual murders are carried out by multiple, unknown, persons. No one has ever been arrested for these crimes, never mind prosecuted.’ Harper lobbed the bag into the bin from a distance of about eight feet. ‘Any comments?’

Rennie put his hand up. ‘What about trace
inside
the bin-bags? The bleach can’t get in there, if the seal’s reasonably tight. And black plastic bags are like static electricity hoovers for dust and fibres.’

‘Good question …’ she checked a sheet of paper, ‘Simon. No viable DNA from anyone other than the victim – which isn’t surprising, given the warm moist environment inside the suffocating hood. No fingerprints on the bags either. And there hasn’t been any correlation between fibres found on the various bodies. So no two of them were killed in the same place. And none of the fibres match anything at Malcolm McLennan’s home or place of work.’

Another hand.

Harper checked her paper again. ‘Yes, Becky, isn’t it?’

‘It’s all very flashy and unnecessary – leaving the bodies lying about when you could make them disappear. It’s sending out a message: this is what happens when you mess with Malk the Knife.’

‘Of course.’

‘So,’ Becky sat forward, ‘what we need to do is figure out who this is a message
for
. There’s no point killing Shepherd like this if the intended recipient doesn’t find out about it.’

‘Good idea.’ Harper gave her a smile. ‘I want you to produce a list of all the local villains running more than a one-man operation. Let’s see if we can rattle their tree a bit. Anyone else?’

Logan had a go. ‘What about our prime suspect, Martin Milne, ma’am? We’ve got him tied to Shepherd sexually
and
financially. They embezzled nearly quarter of a million pounds from their company. And Milne did a runner three days before we found Shepherd’s body.’

She stared at him.