In the Cold Dark Ground (16 page)

The room wasn’t much more than a cupboard, with a worktop down one side and a couple of creaky plastic chairs. A cluster of pixels were dead on the flatscreen monitor, darkening the top-right corner of the picture like a station ident. A couple of microphones were wired into the wall, on bendy stalks, the ‘
T
ALK
’ buttons dark and lifeless.

On screen, Martin Milne reached for the evidence bag. Picked it up and blinked at the contents. ‘
It’s a book?
’

Steel slumped. ‘Sod.’

Logan scooped both ten-pence pieces off the surface and stuck them in his pocket.

She folded her arms. ‘What kind of solicitor doesn’t tell their murdering scumbag client to “no comment” everything?’

‘Still, have to admire the guy’s speed. Got up here quick enough.’

‘
Very good, Mr Milne, it’s a book. Do you recognize it?
’

Steel dug out another ten. ‘No.’

Logan clicked one next to it. ‘Yes.’

The little version of Martin Milne lowered his head. ‘
It’s Peter’s. He’s reading it. He likes true crime.
’

‘Gah! Are you kidding me?’

Logan scooped them into his pocket too.

‘
Have you read this book, Mr Milne?
’

Mr Disappointed knocked on the interview room table. ‘
I don’t see what my client’s reading habits have to do with anything, Superintendent.
’

‘
Mr Milne knows. Don’t you, Martin?
’

‘
My client has had a traumatic ordeal. He’s just learned that his business partner and long-time friend has died. He’s cooperated with your inquiry, and now it’s time to let him get back to his family.
’

‘Aye, good luck with that.’

‘
We appear to have different definitions of the word, “cooperated”, Mr Nelson.
’ Harper counted off the interview on her fingers: ‘
Your client “can’t remember” where he’s been for the last five days. He “doesn’t know” when he last saw Peter Shepherd. He has “no recollection” of applying for a loan of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds and countersigning another for seventy-five thousand. He “can’t remember” where—
’

‘
All right, that’s enough. You’re badgering my client. If Mr Milne says he can’t remember, then he can’t remember.
’

Steel stretched out in her seat, arms behind her head. It made her shirt ride up, exposing a gash of pasty skin. ‘This is a complete and utter waste of time.’

‘
Tell me, Mr Milne, is there anything you
can
remember?
’

Logan jingled the stack of change in his pocket. ‘I had a visit from Napier today.’

‘Oh aye?’

Milne wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘
I can’t believe Pete’s dead…
’

‘Wanted to talk about Jack Wallace.’

‘Did he now?’

‘
I mean, Pete… He and I…
’ A sniff.

Harper leaned forwards. ‘
You were lovers.
’

‘He did.’

‘
What?
’ Milne shook his head. Wiped at his eyes again. ‘
No. Of course we weren’t. I’m married.
’

Steel stretched further, exposing more stomach. ‘He’s got it into his silly little ginger head that I fitted Wallace up on the paedo charge. And do you know why? Because Wallace is a nonce, stuck in HMP Grampian for the next five and a half years, who thinks crying “stitch-up” will get his sentence reduced.’ A hand reached down to scratch at the fishbelly flesh. ‘As if I’d ever do something like that.’

‘
Mr Milne, you are aware that Peter Shepherd photographed your sex sessions, aren’t you? He had them all set up as a slideshow on the TV in his bedroom. Or have you forgotten that as well?
’

Milne stared at her.

‘
I can have prints made, if you think that might jog your memory?
’

Steel narrowed her eyes. ‘That reminds me.’ She pulled out her phone and poked at the screen. Held it to her ear. ‘Robertson? Where’s my big list of everyone in Shepherd and Milne’s home porno pics?… No, I
don’t
think you can give it a miss now we’ve got Milne in custody. Finger out, you sideburn-wearing seventies-throwback waste of skin. … No, I want that on my desk tomorrow. … You heard.’ She hung up. Stuffed her phone away. ‘Anyway, I didn’t need to fit Wallace up, the dirty wee sod did it all himself. Didn’t even try to hide it either, like he was
proud
of his collection.’

‘
Nothing to say, Mr Milne?
’ Harper tilted her head to one side. ‘
Did Peter Shepherd tell you he loved you? Did he promise the photos were just for him?
’

‘
All right, that’s enough.
’ The solicitor knocked on the interview room table again. ‘
Martin, I have to advise you to answer these intrusive and insulting questions with “no comment” from now on.
’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake.’ Steel sat up straight. ‘
Now
he tells him!’

‘Anyone?’ Detective Superintendent Harper sat back against the desk, arms folded, as Logan eased in through the door.

Fraserburgh’s Major Incident Room had fancy interactive whiteboards on the walls and a long conference table down the middle – lined on either side with the MIT’s senior officers. AKA: everyone from the rank of sergeant up, dragged over here from Banff. They all had their notebooks out, serious expressions on their face.

Logan lowered his tray onto the table. Ten mugs clinked against one another, beige contents sloshing from side to side.

Join the police, see the world. Make it coffee.

Harper helped herself without so much as a thank you. ‘Come on, someone must have
some
idea. How are Milne and Shepherd connected to Malk the Knife?’ She took a sip, then grimaced. Spat it back into the mug. ‘This is revolting.’ Harper held the mug out towards Logan. ‘Do it again,
properly
this time.’

Don’t rise to it.

Count to ten.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

‘
Now
, Sergeant.’

Logan took a deep breath, then the mug. ‘Yes,
sir
.’

‘Try and get
something
right, Sergeant.’

A spit and bogie special coming right up.

He slipped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Then stuck two fingers up at it, before turning and stamping away down towards the canteen. The floorboards creaked and rocked beneath him, like an ill-fitting coffin lid.

The sound of laughter came from the other side of the canteen door. It died as soon as Logan entered. Two uniforms sat on the sofa in front of the telly with Martin Milne’s solicitor. At least they had the good sense to blush.

One of them – the lanky one with the side parting and pointy chin – stood. ‘Sarge.’

His partner nodded at the solicitor. She was a proper farmer’s daughter, with a ruddy complexion and arms that could probably bench-press a tractor. ‘We were just discussing a case with Mr Nelson. Dog fighting in Peterhead. Someone lost a leg.’

Logan marched over to the kitchen area. ‘Well, at least that explains the hilarity.’

‘Right.’ PC Lanky shuffled sideways. ‘Suppose we’d better get back to it.’

‘Yeah. No rest for the wicked.’

They bustled out of the room.

Milne’s solicitor – Nelson, wasn’t it? – took a pair of glasses from his pocket and polished them. ‘It’s not their fault. I was gasping for a cuppa and I forced them to make me one. At gunpoint.’

‘And where is this firearm now, sir?’ Logan tipped Harper’s coffee down the sink.

Nelson made a gun out of the fingers of his right hand, holding it up as if he was about to fire a warning shot into the ceiling. ‘I’ll come quietly.’

Logan turned his back and let a gobbet of spittle splash into the bottom of the mug. Then buried it with a teaspoon of coffee granules. ‘How’s Martin?’

‘Confused, frightened, grieving. Take your pick.’ Nelson slipped his glasses on. ‘I’ve been Martin’s solicitor for ten years. I held his hand when he was executor for his father’s estate. I helped him buy his house. I did the contracts when he and his friends set up GCML. I
know
him.’

Logan turned away again, slipped a finger up his nose, had a quick rummage, then wiped the results on the mug’s insides, below the high-tide mark.

‘There’s no way he killed Peter, it simply isn’t possible. He’s not that kind of person.’

The mug went under the boiling-water tap, steaming liquid going instantly brown as it hit the granules. Hiding all manner of sins.

‘And I’m not saying that because I’m his solicitor, I’m his friend too. He doesn’t even fiddle his taxes, for God’s sake.’

A dollop of semi-skimmed added to the lies. ‘You know he’s not doing himself any favours, don’t you? All this “I can’t remember” nonsense just makes him look guilty.’

‘Sergeant, he got me to draw up divorce papers last week. Martin wouldn’t kill Peter. He
loved
him.’

‘That’s what they all say.’

‘
Are you coming home tonight or not?
’ There was an edge to Samantha’s voice. Disapproval, mixed with resignation.

Logan stopped at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the balustrade, phone pressed against his ear. ‘Still waiting on Steel.’

The car park behind Fraserburgh station was full – Steel’s MIT convoy taking up the usually empty spaces. That thin drizzle was back, casting halos of yellow around the rear lights.

‘
How much life have you wasted waiting on that woman? She takes advantage of you, Logan, always has.
’

‘What am I supposed to do, abandon her?’

‘
She can get a lift back with the rest of the team. Why does it have to be you? Let someone else suffer for a change.
’

He let his head slip forward, until it rested against the cool glass door. ‘I know.’

‘
You don’t want to come home, do you? You want to string this out as long as possible.
’

A patrol car pulled into the car park, ignoring the only free space and stopping right outside the rear entrance to the cells instead.

‘Of course I want to come home, it’s not—’

‘
You don’t want to come home, because the sooner you do, the sooner you go to sleep, and then you wake up, it’s tomorrow, and you have to kill me.
’

The passenger door opened and the lanky PC who’d been watching TV with Milne’s solicitor scrambled out.

‘I’m not killing you. I’m…’ A sigh. Yes he was. Calling it a ‘decision to withdraw medical treatment’ didn’t change the facts.

‘
So you work through. Put off going to bed. It just means you’re knackered tomorrow.
’ Her voice softened. ‘
Think that’ll make it any easier?
’

Officer Lanky opened the back door and reached inside.

‘Probably not.’

A bellow from inside the patrol car was followed by a thud and swearing – then a pair of feet lashed out of the patrol car and
bang
, PC Lanky was lying on his back, peaked cap bouncing off into a puddle. A huge man erupted out of the car, shirt ripped on one side, spattered with blood on the other, hands cuffed behind his back. He wobbled. One leg still, while the other walked itself around in a little circle. Then he lurched forwards and slammed his boot into Lanky’s leg.

‘Got to go.’

Logan burst out through the door, into the rain. Reached for his extendable baton… Only his hand closed on thin air. Wonderful. Why did he have to take off his stabproof vest and equipment belt?

Because it was heavy and uncomfortable, and he was only meant to be lurking around the station, making cups of booby-trapped coffee.

Gah.

Mr Drunk-And-Huge landed another kick on Lanky’s thigh. ‘C’mn … hvago… Fnnnmgh … ME!’

‘You: on the ground now!’ Logan charged across six feet of rain-slicked tarmac and leapt. Curled his shoulder and slammed into the blood-spattered chest, sending the pair of them clattering backwards.

Crunch
, the guy slammed into the patrol car. ‘Aaagh… Fgnnn kll ye!’

A knee cracked up into Logan’s ribs, hard enough to shove him sideways, crushing the breath from his lungs.

The big sod whipped his head back, then forward again.
Fast
.

Logan flinched out of the way … almost.
THUNK
. The world whipped right, riding on a wave of hot yellow noise and the taste of AA batteries. He staggered. Lurched. His legs weren’t working properly, they wouldn’t hold him up. The left one folded, thumping him down on his knee.

Towering over him, the big lump spat. It splattered against the shoulder of Logan’s fleece.

‘Killlnnn fgnnn plsssssss bsssstrds…’ He lurched sideways a couple of paces and back again. Grinned a gap-toothed grin, the bitter-sharp stench of vomit leaking out. ‘Ha!’ Drew back his foot for a kick.

Logan blinked. Made a fist of his own. Then rammed it up into the guy’s groin, twisting, putting his weight behind it.

Bloodshot eyes bugged. The mouth fell open. ‘Nnnnnngh…’

Then he lurched forward and Logan scrambled sideways, out of the spatter zone as the big sod puked all down himself. Then folded over. Thumped onto the vomit-flecked tarmac, and curled around his battered testicles. Moaning.

‘Gnnn…’ Lanky’s partner wobbled out of the patrol car, one hand clutched over her nose, blood dripping from between her fingers. She tilted her head back. ‘Thags, Sarge.’

Logan pulled himself up the side of the car. Bracing himself against the bodywork as the car park jostled and whistled at him. He pointed at PC Lanky as he struggled upright. ‘You: get this vomity lump on his feet and processed.’

Lanky scooped up his fallen hat, and fondled the back of his own head. ‘Ow…’

‘Now would be good, Constable.’

A nod. A wince. Then he hauled the big guy to an almost-standing position, hissed through gritted teeth, and dropped him. ‘Nope.’

For goodness’ sake.

Logan grabbed the other arm and together they frogmarched the reeking lump through the customer entrance and into the cellblock. The grey terrazzo floor squeaked under the big guy’s trainers as they half-carried half-dragged him to the processing area.

The short desk, covered in posters, with a glass partition above it, made the place look more like the reception of a student hostel. And going by all the warning leaflets about rights, blood-borne diseases, drugs, and rape, a really manky one.

Voices came from somewhere within the cellblock, muffled by thick metal doors and concrete walls. Barely gone nine and it sounded as if they already had a lot of overnight guests.

Logan knocked on the processing desk. ‘Anyone in?’

A thickset woman with thinning hair and a squinty eye appeared from a side room and peered out at them. She sniffed. ‘What is
that
?’

Lanky heaved Captain Vomity forward. ‘Nicholas Fife. Breach of the peace. Assault. Urinating in a public place. Assaulting a police officer—’

‘Three police officers.’ Logan shoved Mr Fife against the desk. The man’s shirt left a little smear of what might have been pre-chewed doner kebab on a ‘
C
OMBATTING
R
ELIGIOUS
E
XTREMISM
’ poster.

‘Sorry,
three
police officers. Oh, and I think he may have crapped himself too.’

The Police Custody and Security Officer had another sniff. ‘Well you’re not leaving it here.’

Lanky jerked his chin up. ‘We’re not taking him home to live with us, he’s not a puppy!’

She slapped a clipboard down on the countertop. ‘Care and Welfare of Persons in Police Custody, Standard Operating Procedure. Part five, subsection three is perfectly clear: any suspect in need of immediate or urgent medical care
must
be taken directly to hospital until such time as they are no longer deemed at risk. And that includes head injuries, overdoses, and anyone who’s completely and utterly pished out of their…’ The PCSO scowled as a line of pale-yellow spittle fell from Mr Fife’s lips and sploshed against the regulations. ‘Urgh.’ She snatched her clipboard back, then grabbed a leaflet about fly-tipping and scrubbed at the dribble. ‘He is
not
choking on his own vomit in my cells. Get him up the hospital.’

‘Come on, Denise, don’t be a—’

‘I’ve never had a death in custody and I’m not starting now.’ Her arm jabbed out, pointing at the door. ‘Hospital.’

Lanky’s shoulders dipped. ‘Fine. We know when we’re not wanted.’ He turned. ‘Claire!’

His partner appeared. Thick tufts of green hand-towel poked out of each nostril, the paper darkened and browned with blood. ‘Whad?’

‘Grab an arm, we’re leaving.’

‘Soddig hell.
Towd
you we should’ve god straid to the hosbidal.’

They took hold of Mr Fife and steered him towards the exit. His testicles seemed to have recovered a bit, because he was able to limp along without having to be dragged.

Logan stayed where he was as the door clunked shut behind them.

‘The same argument, every Thursday night.’ The PCSO shook her head. Then frowned at him. ‘You all right, Sergeant? Only if you aren’t: would you mind buggering off and not bleeding on my nice clean floor?’

‘What?’

She pointed. ‘There’s a sink in the back if you want to wash up.’

Logan hunched over the sink in the tiny galley kitchen off the side of the custody processing area – barely enough room for a grown man to stand sideways without brushing the units on one side and the wall on the other. He splashed water on his face. Tiny pink droplets fell onto the stainless steel.

He prodded his left cheek – the skin was already tightening as it swelled, red flushing across the growing lump. A gash ran sideways across it, not far below his eye. Going to be a decent bruise. Nicholas Fife had a
really
hard head.

The water eased the stinging throb for a couple of breaths, then it was back again, digging its claws through Logan’s face and into his skull.

Sod this. Samantha was right: Steel could find her own way back to Banff.

He patted his face dry with paper towels. Then applied a sticking plaster from the first-aid kit. Little red dots showed through the beige plastic.

A thump behind him, and the PCSO was back. Denise looked him up and down. ‘You still here?’

‘Nope.’

‘Cupboard at your knees – dig in there and find us a red, a brown, and a blue.’

Logan bent down and something large and burny throbbed through his brain. He opened the cupboard, revealing stacks of microwave meals in coloured boxes. Red, brown, blue: shepherd’s pie, chicken and vegetable madras with rice, and an all-day breakfast. He turned the blue box over. ‘“Beans in a rich tomato sauce, with potatoes and two succulent pork sausages.”’ He handed it to Denise. ‘This lot eat better than I do.’

‘He doesn’t usually.’ She pulled the black plastic trays from the cardboard boxes, stabbed the film lids with a fork, and slid the lot into a battered grey microwave. ‘Don’t think the poor sod’s seen solid food since last time he was in here.’ Denise beeped the buttons. ‘How’s the head?’