In the Cold Dark Ground (17 page)

‘Sore.’

‘As long as it doesn’t make a mess, I don’t care.’ She curled a lip. ‘Been mopping up sick all evening. Why you lot have to arrest people with dodgy stomachs I’ll never know.’

The microwave dinners buzzed and hummed around in a circle.

‘Thought you didn’t allow drunks.’

‘Oh, he was very apologetic about it, but it didn’t stop him barfing everywhere.’

Buzz and hum.

She shuddered. ‘We had a cat once, soon as its shoulders started going you knew what was coming.’ Denise hunched her shoulders up and down a couple of times, then made ‘
ack
’ing noises. ‘All over the place. Couldn’t just stand still and throw up: much more fun to back away and make sure there was a big long line of the stuff.’

Buzzzzzzzzz…

‘Worst was when he got into the knicker drawer. Urgh… All over my thongs.’

Now there was an image to put you off your chicken curry ready-meal.

Hummmmm…

It’d be really nice to go now, but there wasn’t any room to squeeze past Denise and her pukey pants.

She produced a polystyrene cup and made some milky tea in it.

Buzzzzzzzzz…

Ding
.

Denise picked up the tea then pointed at the microwave. ‘Grab those for me, will you? There’s a tray over there.’

He tweezed them out of the microwave with sizzling fingers, dumping them on a round brown tray that looked as if it’d been half-inched from a pub.

She turned and marched from the room, leaving him to follow.

What was it with women? Why did they all expect him to run around after them? Did he have ‘
D
OORMAT
’ printed across his forehead in two-inch-high letters only they could see?

Logan picked up the tray and followed her.

Denise produced a bunch of keys, flipping through them as they walked past the entry corridor and right, past the female cells, and through into the new bit where two rows of big blue doors stretched away in front of them. They each had a slide-down hatch, safety notice, intercom, and a little whiteboard mounted on the metal surface. Someone had scrawled prisoner warnings on those, like: ‘
BEWARE
!!!
H
E
B
ITES!
’, ‘
D
IABETIC
’, ‘
S
PITS
’, and ‘
A
LLERGIC
T
O
W
HEAT
’.

She stopped outside one marked, ‘
N
EEDS
F
EEDING
U
P
’ and slid down the hatch. Peered through the plastic viewport. Then unlocked the door. ‘Felix? How you feeling?’

A stench of mouldering garlic and dead mice oozed out into the cellblock.

‘You hungry? Bet you are. Got you a lovely cup of tea too.’

What looked like a mound of dirty laundry stirred on the blue plastic mattress. Then Felix rolled over.

His skin was a mottled grey brown, the wrinkles darkened with dirt. There wasn’t much hair on his liver-spotted head, but what he had was yellow and straggly. He blinked at them with rheumy eyes. ‘Hmmm?’

‘Come on, Felix, see what we’ve got for you? All your favourite foods.’

Thin trembling fingers reached for Logan’s tray, a smile cracking the skeletal face.

Logan put it on the blue plastic mattress next to him. ‘Watch, they’re hot.’

He dug into the chicken curry with a plastic spoon. Shovelling it into his ragged mouth.

Denise smiled. ‘There you go.’

Logan leaned against the blue strip, painted halfway up the wall. ‘Anyone exciting in tonight?’

‘Usual collection of Thursday-night drinkers. Couple of druggies in for possession. A lovely young lady, in the other block, stabbed her granny in the leg because she wouldn’t buy her a new iPhone.’ A sniff. ‘“Stinky Sammy” Wilson’s back again. Thinking of giving that boy a season pass.’

Felix polished off the last chunk of curry, licked the plastic tray clean, then started in on the all-day breakfast. Getting bean juice all over his stubbly chin.

‘What did he do this time?’

‘Cheese and bacon, same as every other druggy.’ She shook her head. ‘Doesn’t even make any sense, does it? Shoplifting cheese and bacon. Who’s going to buy a slab of gouda and a pack of smoked-streaky from a smackhead in a pub? You’d have to be mental.’

Beans and sausages and potatoes disappeared.

Logan glanced out into the corridor, with its rows of heavy blue doors. ‘What about Martin Milne?’

‘Ah yes.
Mr
Milne.’

Felix slurped the last of the breakfast from the tray and polished it with his tongue. Only the shepherd’s pie to go.

‘Giving you trouble?’

‘I can understand why someone gave him a spanking, put it that way.’ She turned back to their resident garbage disposal unit. ‘There we go, is that nice?’

Felix kept on shovelling.

‘Which one’s he in?’

‘Course it is. You eat up.’ Then up to Logan. ‘Number five. If you want to fall him down the stairs a couple of times, let me know and I’ll nip out for a fag.’

Logan raised an eyebrow.

‘Joking.’ A shrug. ‘Kind of.’

He stepped out into the corridor and wandered across the hall to the cell door marked ‘M5’. The whiteboard had ‘
P
AIN
I
N
T
HE
H
OOP
’ scrawled on it. Logan slid the hatch down halfway – until it clicked into the viewing position.

Martin Milne sat on the edge of his thin blue mattress, with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. A shudder rippled across the shoulders, setting them quivering. He wiped a hand across his nose and stared at the silvery pink line it left on his forearm.

Then he looked up and round. Stared right back at Logan. Wiped his eyes dry.

Logan slid the hatch back up again.

Turned to go.

There was a knock on the other side of the door – three light bangs, muffled by all that metal. ‘
Hello?
’

Logan clicked the hatch into the viewing position.

Martin Milne stood on the other side of the little Perspex window, blinking at him with swollen bloodshot eyes. ‘Hello. You were there. At the house.’ He sniffed. Wiped away the tears. ‘Can I see him?’

‘See who?’

Milne turned his face away. ‘Peter. Can I see him?’

‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough, Mr Milne?’

‘I
need
to. They wouldn’t let me say goodbye.’ He leaned his bruised forehead against the window. ‘I just want to say goodbye.’

‘You want me to ask Detective Superintendent Harper if you can see the body of the man you killed? I can ask, but I know what she’ll say.’

‘I didn’t kill him. I…’ Deep breath. ‘I loved him.’ Milne cleared his throat. ‘About those photographs, at Pete’s place. My wife doesn’t need to find out about them, does she?’

‘They’ll probably be used in evidence.’

‘But…’ Milne looked up, straight into Logan’s eyes. ‘They’re not important. Pete liked to watch the slideshow while we… It’s not
illegal
. Everything was consensual. Everyone was over eighteen. If someone didn’t want their face on camera they could wear a mask.’ He bit his bottom lip. ‘It’d break Katie’s heart.
Please
?’

Should have thought of that in the first place.

Logan shook his head. ‘It’s out of my hands. You’ll have to…’ Wait a minute. ‘Who? Who wouldn’t let you say goodbye?’

‘Please. I’m begging you.’

‘No, you said someone wouldn’t let you say goodbye. You weren’t talking about Detective Superintendent Harper, were you? Who wouldn’t?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Milne turned around and slid down the inside of the door – still visible in the convex mirror mounted on the cell’s ceiling. ‘None of it matters any more.’

OK…

Logan went back to the other cell, where Denise was collecting up all the licked-clean ready-meal containers and humming ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’. Felix was curled up on his mattress with his back to the cell, looking like a pile of dirty laundry again.

‘Denise, have you—’

‘Shhh!’ She stuck a finger to her lips, then put the Styrofoam cup on the tray and crept out of the room. Eased the door shut behind her. ‘Only just got him off.’

‘Are you two…?’ Logan pulled his chin in and pointed at the cell.

‘The poor sod’s got dementia. He hates his care home, so he disappears for a couple of weeks at a time.’ She slid the hatch up, hiding the sleeping Felix away. ‘But he gets confused and too hot and takes all his clothes off – which is when we get a phone call from some distraught mother of two, because he’s done a strip in the local Post Office, or Asda. And he ends up in here for the night.’

‘Can you open up number five?’

‘Least we can do is feed him up. He’s skin and bones under them rags.’ She dug out her keys. ‘Why do you want into five? Seriously, I was only joking about the “falling down stairs” thing.’

‘Need to ask Mr Milne a couple of questions.’

There was a pause, then a shrug. ‘Don’t see why not. Long as you sign for him.’

‘No.’ Martin Milne hunched into himself on the other side of the interview room table. His fingers twitched themselves into knots and out again. ‘No recordings.’

Logan pressed the button on the machine, setting the digital camera running. ‘It’s for your own protection, Martin. This way everyone knows it’s all aboveboard and no one tried to make you say anything.’ The unit gave a bleep. ‘Interview with Martin Carter Milne, of number six, Greystone View, Near Whitehills. Present, Martin Milne and Sergeant Logan McRae. It’s …’ he checked his watch, ‘twenty-one forty, Thursday the twelfth of February—’

‘No comment.’

Great.

Try not to sigh. ‘Martin, if you don’t want to talk to me, why are we—’

‘No comment.’

Well, it was pretty obvious why they’d written ‘
P
AIN
I
N
T
HE
H
OOP
’ on his cell whiteboard.

‘Martin, can we—’

‘I said, “no comment”. I have no comment to make.’

Complete waste of time.

‘Interview suspended at twenty-one forty-two.’ He pressed the button and switched it all off. ‘Let’s get you back to your cell.’

The lines around Milne’s eyes deepened. He spread his hands out on the tabletop. ‘They’ll kill me if they find out.’

Here we go.

‘Who’ll kill you, Martin?’

‘They made me
watch
.’ His eyes glistened. ‘They wouldn’t let me say goodbye, but they made me watch.’ Tears sparkled on his eyelashes. ‘They said if I told anyone about it, they’d do the same to me and my family. To Ethan. They’re going to kill my wee boy.’

Logan sat back in his seat. Slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Felt for his mobile. ‘It’s OK, Martin, you’re safe here. Why don’t you— Damn it.’ He hauled his phone out and poked at the screen. ‘Sorry about that: got it on vibrate.’ Then placed the thing facedown on the table. ‘Should have switched it off earlier.’

Outside the room, the floorboards groaned like a dying dog, the noise fading as whoever it was passed down the corridor.

‘Why don’t you start at the beginning? Tell me what happened and we’ll try to sort it out together, OK?’

Milne nodded. Wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘It was just meant to be a meeting. We turn up and hand over the cash and everything’s done.’ He swallowed. ‘Only, when we got there, they started screaming about more money. They said two hundred and twenty-five thousand wasn’t enough. They wanted an extra hundred grand.’

‘The money you borrowed from the bank.’

A nod. Then a sniff. ‘We told them we didn’t have it. It’d take some time. And this big guy, he starts hitting Peter and screaming at him: “We want our money, Bitch. We want our money.” And I tried to stop him, but they jumped me and they’re kicking and punching…’

Milne hauled in a deep, rattling breath. Stared down at his twitching fingers. ‘Then this other guy comes in and he says that if we want to get out of this alive, we’re going to have to sign GCML over to them. We’re going to have to start doing
favours
.’

Sounded familiar.

‘Course Peter says, “No way. Deal was for a loan, not this.” And they start in on him again. They’re stamping on his chest and his head and he’s crying and…’ Milne ground tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘They tied his hands behind his back and stuck a bin-bag over his head. I promised them. I promised them anything they wanted, but they … they…’ He bit his bottom lip. ‘They taped it tight around his neck. And he’s thrashing against the floor, and he can’t breathe, and I can’t breathe, and they’re laughing, and…’

Milne folded forwards, until his forehead rested on the tabletop. He put his hands over his head, pressing down, as if he could force it through the scarred Formica. Muscles bunching in his thick arms. Shoulders trembling. Then the sobbing started.

Logan sat back and watched.

Somewhere outside, a patrol car’s siren burst into life. Then faded off into the distance.

He reached across the table and put a hand on Milne’s lurching shoulder. ‘Shh… You’re safe here. You’re safe.’

Milne didn’t look up, the words coming out jagged and torn. ‘If I … if I don’t do what … what they want, … th … they’ll
kill
me and my … my wife and my little boy.’ A wail grew from somewhere deep inside his torso. ‘Like … like they … they killed Peter.’

Detective Superintendent Harper scowled up from her desk. ‘This better be important,
Sergeant
, some of us have work to do.’ She pulled back in her chair. ‘What happened to your face?’

The office had the same bland, flat-pack elegance as the rest of the station. Two desks along one wall, one in the middle of the room. Harper had commandeered that one, while Narveer had the one nearest the door. Both of them poking away at fancy laptop computers, rather than the usual hamster-wheel-powered lumps of ancient plastic everyone else had to fight with.

Logan folded his arms, shoulders back. ‘Martin Milne claims he was present when Peter Shepherd was killed.’

‘Does he now?’

‘Their container business was failing, they needed new contracts. Peter Shepherd came up with the idea of bribing officials in Nigeria to let them bid for a bunch of oilfield logistic projects off the coast there. Only they needed the money in a hurry. So they went to one of Malcolm McLennan’s goons.’

‘Hmmm…’ Harper closed her laptop. ‘Narveer?’

Her sidekick swivelled his seat around to face them. ‘It’s a connection.’

‘Apparently Shepherd wasn’t just into true-crime books, he liked to kid-on he was connected. A little bit dangerous. When he bumped into someone he recognized from
The
Blood-Red Line
at a fundraiser, he let it slip they needed two hundred thousand for something dodgy.’

‘I see.’ She picked up a pen and wrote something in her notebook. ‘And we should believe you, because?’

Logan held up his phone. Pressed his thumb against the button marked ‘
P
LAY
’.

Martin Milne’s voice burst out of the speaker, slightly distorted and tinny. ‘
…from the bank, but he said we couldn’t get the money fast enough. We had to get these guys bribed by Wednesday or—’

He pressed ‘
P
AUSE
’.

‘I
accidentally
set my phone on voice-memo mode and left it on the interview room table. Might not be admissible in court, but that doesn’t mean we can’t act on the information till he agrees to make a formal statement.’

She tilted her head to one side and stared at him in silence.

Narveer adjusted his tartan turban. ‘So that’s why they needed those loans from the bank. They had to pay off Malk the Knife.’

‘Two hundred thousand, plus twenty-five grand interest. Only when they tried, the price went up another hundred thousand and they had to hand over the company. Shepherd refused and they killed him.’

Harper narrowed her eyes. ‘Hmm…’

Logan put the phone back in his pocket. ‘And now Milne has to use his containers and ships to shift stuff in and out of the country for Malcolm McLennan – lose them among the other manifests – or the same happens to him and his family.’

She pushed her chair back and stood. ‘Send the audio file to Narveer, Sergeant. We’ll take it from here.’ Harper waved at the door. ‘You can go now.’

You’re sodding welcome.

Steel spread her mouth wide, showing off rows of grey fillings in a jaw-cracking yawn. Then slumped and shuddered. ‘Where the hell have you been? Dropping off the spar, here.’

Logan grabbed his stabproof vest from the corner of the Sergeants’ Office and dragged it on, scritching the Velcro flaps together so the whole thing was tight. ‘I’m leaving now. You’re either in the car, or you’re walking.’ Equipment belt next, complete with the truncheon he could’ve done with when Nicholas Fife was on the rampage.

She stretched. Let him see her fillings again. ‘Pfff… I fancy some chips. Anywhere open for chips?’

‘It’s after ten. No. Now are you coming or not?’

‘All-night bakery?’

He snatched his high-viz jacket from the rack by the door – checked to make sure it actually
was
his, hauled it on and stormed out. ‘Stay here then.’

‘All right, all right.’ Steel hurried along behind, pulling on her coat. ‘Who poked a burning ferret up your bumhole today?’

Across the corridor and through the door at the top of the stairs. ‘I’ll tell you who – Detective Superintendent Holier-Than-Thou Harper, that’s who.’ Logan’s boots hammered down the steps. ‘Doesn’t matter what I do, that bloody woman treats me like something to be scooped up in a plastic bag and dumped in a park bin. Well, you know what? She can—’

‘Sergeant?’ Narveer appeared at the top of the stairs, mouth stretched out and down as if he was doing a sad frog impersonation. ‘Glad I caught you.’

Logan stopped. ‘Detective Inspector Singh: I’m off duty. And I’m going home.’

A sigh. Then Narveer closed the door and leaned his elbows on the handrail, looking down the stairs at them. ‘I wanted to say, good job. You did well. Milne wouldn’t talk to any of us, and you got him to open up.’

Was that
credit
?

Dear Lord, wonders would never cease.

He pulled his chin up. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘We’re going to offer Milne a deal. See if we can’t intercept one of Malk the Knife’s shipments.’ A smile widened Narveer’s face. ‘This is the closest we’ve come in
years
to pinning anything on McLennan.’

Tell that to Detective Superintendent Harper.

Narveer looked away, picking at the handrail with a fingernail. ‘Erm, Sergeant McRae? How did you get him to talk to you?’

No idea. But it wouldn’t do to let DI Singh know that.

Make something up.

‘Harper battered away at him, tried to grind him down. I treated him like a human being.’

‘Right. Good cop to her bad cop. Cool.’ The DI pulled on that big smile again. ‘Anyway, like I said: good job.’ He slipped back through the door, leaving Logan and Steel alone in the stairwell.

She sucked on her teeth, making squeaking noises. ‘Think he fancies you.’

‘Oh shut up.’ Logan turned and marched down the stairs.

‘Ooh, Sergeant McRae, you’re so
sexy
. Kiss me, Sergeant, kiss me like I’ve never been kissed before. Make a woman of me!’

He hauled the door open and stuck his hat on. Stepped out into the rain.

‘Oh come on, Laz, stop being such a Pouting Percy. You just got a pat on the bum from our new overlord’s sidekick.’ She followed him across the car park to where the Punto sagged under the weight of the drumming rain. ‘Which, on balance, maybe doesn’t sound all that impressive, but it’s better than nothing. And Narveer’s a nice boy: he’d probably take you to dinner before humpity-humpity.’

Logan unlocked the car and slid in behind the wheel. Chucked his cap in the back. ‘Are you coming or not?’

‘Still, going to be a longshot. Hanging about, hoping Malk the Knife will turn up and…’ A frown settled onto her face.

‘What?’

‘Shhh. Thinking.’ She dumped herself into the passenger seat. Then a smile bloomed across her face and she thumped a hand on the dashboard. ‘Of course! Why’d I no’ see it before? It’s
obvious
!’

‘You know how to get Malcolm McLennan?’

‘That big Asda we passed on the way in – we can get something to eat there!’

Moonlight speared down through the clouds, raking the fields as they slid by the Punto’s windows. Off to the right, the North Sea was a slab of polished granite. The world black-and-white beyond the car’s headlights.

‘Mmmnnnghph mnnnphh?’ Small beige flecks of pastry shone in the dashboard lights as they spiralled out from Steel’s mouth.

‘God, you’re disgusting.’

She swallowed. ‘Oh don’t be such a Jessie.’ Then took another bite of her pasty. Chewing with her mouth open. ‘I said, “Do you want the chicken curry or the steak-and-onion?” you grumpy old sod.’

Oh.

‘Steak-and-onion.’

The road wound along the coast, then headed inland, hiding the sea as Steel struggled with the packaging. ‘Ha!’ She handed it over. She’d even rolled the first inch of plastic down, so he could bite straight into it.

Logan did. Chewing on chilled soft pastry and cold meaty filling. It coated the roof of his mouth with a thin layer of waxy grease. Not exactly three Michelin stars, but better than nothing.

Steel polished her pasty off. Sucked the crumbs from her fingers. ‘When you doing it?’

He talked around a second mouthful. ‘Doing what?’

‘Tomorrow. With Samantha.’

Oh. That.

‘Don’t know. In the morning, probably.’ He puffed out a breath as stones and boulders gathered in his stomach, pulling it down. He cleared his throat. ‘Did you hear about Wee Hamish Mowat?’

She reached across the car and squeezed his leg. Second time that day. ‘You want me to come with you?’

The stones grew heavier. ‘Now he’s dead, we’ve got criminals from all over descending on Aberdeenshire. Looking for a chunk of the pasty.’ He took another bite, but it curdled in his mouth.

‘Give me a call, OK? You phone me when you’re heading over and I’ll dump everything and come sit with you.’ Another squeeze. ‘I mean it.’

He forced the greasy mouthful down. Blinked. Nodded. Then let out a long shuddery breath. ‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ She pointed at the pasty in his hand. ‘Now are you done with that, cos I’m still starving.’