In the Cold Dark Ground (29 page)

Someone walked by in the corridor outside, whistling something tuneless.

‘It was that Chief Inspector Steel.’ He pronounced her name as if it were made of battery acid. ‘She set me up. She stole my laptop and she put that disgusting filth on it so she could arrest me.’ He coiled forward, elbow on the tabletop, head in his hands. ‘She’s had it in for me for
years
. This is her idea of a joke. But it’s my
life
!’

‘Why?’

Wallace looked up. ‘What?’

‘Why would she do that? Why you?’

‘I don’t
know
.’ He scrubbed at his eyes again. ‘If I knew, I’d tell you, but I don’t. I’ve never done anything. I haven’t.’

Logan tilted his head on one side, stretching the muscles in his neck, pulling the strip of gauze tight across his throat. ‘What about Claudia Boroditsky?’

Wallace reacted as if he’d been slapped. Sat bold upright, blinking back the tears. ‘I never touched her. Never. You ask her – it was all lies. She dropped the charges and they threw it out of court.’ He poked the table with a thin finger. ‘I should’ve sued her. Had her done for making false claims. Trying to pervert the course of justice.
I’m
the victim here.’

Yeah, right.

‘It’s not fair.’ He reached across the table, but Logan kept his hands out of reach. ‘I didn’t rape anyone, and I didn’t download child porn. I swear on my mother’s grave, that wrinkly old
bitch
set me up.’

And there it was, a flash of the real Jack Wallace: aggressive, woman-hating, outraged and martyred, sexist scumbag. Lying and weaselling. Trying to escape justice yet again.

Well not this time.

Logan stood. ‘We’re done.’

Logan spread out a copy of the
Aberdeen Examiner
on the kitchen table, then unwrapped the semiautomatic from its plastic bags. Took another hit of Balvenie, holding it in his mouth till the warm sweetness turned into numbed gums and tongue.

The cagoule was long gone, stuffed into a bin somewhere between Peterhead and Banff.

His blue nitrile gloves squeaked on the metal as he disassembled the gun, turning it into a jigsaw of metal components. Each one with its place and purpose.

He’d only fired three test shots, but the barrel was furred with soot, outside and in.

A prooping noise came from the doorway, then a small furry body wound its way between his ankles. Tail up.

He reached down to ruffle her ears then stopped.

Had anyone ever been done because the Scene of Crime lot found gunshot residue on a suspect’s cat? Probably not. But it wasn’t worth the risk either.

‘Sorry, Kittenfish, Daddy’s busy just now.’

The semiautomatic came apart easily enough. Logan laid out its moving parts across a story about two school kids who’d found a homeless man floating facedown in the boating pond at Duthie Park. The photo of the pair of them – grinning away after their ‘traumatic ordeal’ – darkened with blotches of oil from the recoil spring.

Cleaning the gun only took a couple of minutes, so all that time spent on firearms training hadn’t been wasted. The gun clicked and snapped together again. Logan hauled back the slide and checked the action. All ready.

Assuming he had the guts to pull the trigger.

Shooting someone
had
to be easier than battering them to death with a snowglobe.

His hands trembled as he placed the semiautomatic back in its polished wooden box.

Soon find out.

He snapped off his gloves and bundled them up with the used carrier bags. Stuck the lot in another bag. Have to head out later, take a route away from the CCTV cameras mounted on the front of the police station across the road, drench them with bleach and dump them somewhere. Maybe in a dog-waste bin, or a random wheelie bin. Somewhere no one would think to look.

Then he bent down, winced, swore, and finally picked Cthulhu up. Held her warm purring body against his chest. Tried to breathe.

‘Daddy killed someone today.’

Why was it never like this in the books or movies? The hero gets attacked, the hero kills the attacker, throws out a smart one-liner, and moves on. They never looked like someone had carved a hole in their chest and filled it with frozen gravel.

He kissed the top of Cthulhu’s head. ‘Let’s get you something to eat.’

The Nurofen clicked out of their blister pack. Logan washed both of them down with some more whisky. Then dipped back into the cardboard box on the floor.

He placed Samantha’s dark-red skirt – with the black embroidered roses – on the bed, tucking it under the leather corset. Added the black-and-red striped holdups, and the knee-length kinky boots with the gold braiding that made them look like some sort of Napoleonic uniform. The black leather gloves. The only thing left was the Ziploc plastic bag containing all her rings and piercings. He placed it where Samantha’s head would have been.

‘There you go: the outfit you had on at Rennie’s wedding. You’ll look lovely in your coffin.’

He sat next to her. Took the glove as if it were her hand.

Stared at the wall. The outlines began to blur.

He laughed – short and strangled.

Ground the heel of his hand into an eye.

Laughed again.

‘I’m having a really, really,
really
crap week.’

Deep breath.

It trembled on the way out. Then he swore as the doorbell rang out long and heartless.

‘Yeah.’

No prizes for guessing who that would be.

The glove went back on the bed.

He knelt on the floor and pulled out the polished wooden box, took out the semiautomatic and racked a round into the chamber. Clicked the safety off.

Who cared if he got his fingerprints all over it.

The doorbell went again as he thumped down the stairs, gun up and ready.

If Reuben thought this was going to be easy, he was in for a nasty shock.

Wrench the door open, shoot him in the face.

Easy.

He could do this.

Logan’s left hand closed around the handle. He leaned forward and peered through the spyhole.

Oh.

It wasn’t Reuben, or even one of his thugs, it was Detective Superintendent Holier-Than-Thou Harper.

Perfect end to a perfect day.

The doorbell mourned.

Maybe he could pretend he wasn’t in? But then all the lights were on, and presumably you didn’t get promoted to detective superintendent by being a moron.

He tucked the gun into the pocket of his new hoodie and opened the door.

She stood on the pavement, her cheeks flushed, the tip of her nose a shiny pink – ears too. A thick padded jacket made her look about twice normal size, the collar turned up against the falling snow. Her breath streamed out in pale grey wisps. ‘Hello.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Are you going to ask me in, Sergeant?’

He stuck his hand in the pocket, obscuring the semiautomatic’s outline. ‘Do I have a choice?’

Harper flashed him a lopsided smile. ‘Detective superintendents are like vampires. We can’t come in unless you invite us.’

Oh God, she
was
coming on to him. Steel was right.

Not that she wasn’t attractive, in a perpetually angry, shouty, judgemental, girl-next-door, blonde, big-brown-eyed kind of way. Never really noticed how big her ears were before, but now that they were all pink and glowing they kind of—

‘Seriously, Sergeant, I’m freezing out here.’

‘Oh, right.’ He backed away and ushered her into the house. Shut the door behind her.

Harper had a good look around. ‘You live here on your own.’

Not that there was anything wrong with larger ears.

‘You want a cup of tea, or something?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fine.’ He pointed at the kitchen. ‘Kettle’s in there, help yourself. I’ll be down in a minute.’

She pursed her lips, then raised an eyebrow, before turning and wandering through into the kitchen.

As soon as she was gone, Logan charged upstairs and jammed the gun back in its box. Stood there for a moment, in the middle of the bedroom, staring down at Samantha’s clothes – laid out for their last hurrah. The last thing she would ever wear, forever and ever, amen.

At least he wouldn’t have to worry about Harper jumping him. Nothing killed the mood like a display of your dead girlfriend’s clothes in the middle of the bed.

The sound of cupboard doors opening and closing came up from downstairs. Either she couldn’t find the mugs, or she was having a nosy. Let her. She wasn’t going to find anything: the empty Glenfiddich bottle was safely hidden in the recycling bins behind the public toilets in Oldmeldrum, all she’d turn up were cheap dishes and cheaper tins of soup.

He headed down to the kitchen.

Harper had placed two mugs beside the grumbling kettle. She turned and frowned at him as he entered. ‘Rennie and McKenzie told me you’d been attacked last night, but they didn’t say someone had beaten the crap out of you. I thought you got away with a tiny cut?’

His hand drifted up to his face. The new collection of bruises and split lip. ‘Yeah. Had to break up a fight outside a pub this afternoon. You know what it’s like: never off duty.’

‘Hmm…’ She stepped closer, reached up and pulled his hand away. Staring straight into his eyes. Pursed her lips.

She was going to go in for a kiss.

Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad an idea to feel
alive
for a change.

He leaned forward.

Then she slapped him. It came from nowhere, fast and hard, leaving a stinging brand burned into his right cheek. ‘OW! What the hell was that for?’

‘You couldn’t even be bothered going to his funeral!’ She hit him again. ‘How could you be so bloody selfish?’

‘What?’ Logan backed away, out of slapping range. ‘You… Yesterday you were all pissed off
because
I’d gone to his funeral. You
saw
me there!’

‘Not Hamish Mowat, you insensitive dick, your own father!’

Logan curled his lip. ‘You’re off your head. Get out of my house.’

‘Did you just not
care
?’

‘Really: I want you to leave now. Before I throw you out.’

‘HE WAS YOUR FATHER!’ Harper closed the gap, hand flashing up. ‘He doted on you and you couldn’t even be bothered…’ She swung for Logan’s face. But this time he was ready for it. Grabbed the arm before anything could connect and shoved her backwards.

She stumbled and fell, thumping down against the kitchen units. Sitting flat on her bum glowering up at him. ‘Think you’re so special, don’t you?’

‘My father died when I was five, OK?
Five
years old. That’s why I didn’t go to his funeral. You happy now?’

She blinked up at him. ‘When you were five?’

‘Not that it’s any of your damn business, Detective Superintendent.’

‘But…’ Little creases formed at the sides of her mouth. ‘But he only died two months ago.’

And Logan was meant to be the one recovering from a concussion.

‘I think I’d remember my dad being alive for the last thirty-four years. Now get out.’

She shook her head. ‘He died two months ago, a fortnight before Christmas. I know, because he was my father too.’

Cthulhu sat on the coffee table, head tilted to one side, staring at the pair of them. They’d each taken opposite ends of the couch, a gap between them big enough to drive a motorbike through.

Harper cleared her throat. Fidgeted with the hem of her jacket. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘Look, I understand that you’re upset, but my father died when I was five. I’ve no idea who your dad was, but unless he came back from the dead they’re not the same man.’

She pulled out her phone and poked at the screen. Then held it out.

A photo of a grey-haired man with a beard and performance eyebrows grinned back at him, holding up a birthday cake. ‘This him?’ Logan swiped right and another photo appeared, this one of the same guy sitting in a deck chair in a T-shirt and shorts.

‘How can you not recognize your own father?’

Logan dumped the phone on the couch between them. ‘Could be anybody.’

‘Charles Montrose McRae, born sixteenth October 1954. Check.’

‘I don’t
need
to check.’

‘My middle name’s Findon, because that’s where I was conceived. It’s a McRae family tradition.’

Logan frowned at the man in the deckchair, as the screen went black. ‘Mine’s Balmoral. They were on a week’s caravanning holiday…’

‘So check.’

‘We visited his
grave
. Every twentieth of May, my mother would bundle me and my brother into the car and we’d go lay flowers on it. He got shot trying to arrest someone for aggravated burglary.’

A short bitter laugh. ‘Oh, he got shot all right. That’s where he met my mum, recovering in hospital. She was a nurse. Three weeks later they packed up and moved down to Dumfries.’

Logan stared.

‘Then she got pregnant with me. Your mother wouldn’t give him a divorce, so they couldn’t get married. I got to be “Harper the Bastard” all through school.’ She bared her teeth. ‘I hated you so much.’

‘What the hell did
I
do?’

‘He never stopped banging on about what a great wee boy you were. Logan this, Logan that. Then you joined the force and that was it: “Look at all these cases your brother solved”, “Look at this serial killer your brother caught”, “Look at this bit in the papers about your brother rescuing those people off
Britain’s Next Big Star
, isn’t he great?”’ She stopped fidgeting with the couch and held her hand up, thumb and forefinger about three inches apart. ‘Kept all the clippings in a scrapbook this thick.’

‘This isn’t funny.’

‘Oh he thought you were
perfect
. Well, if you’re so all-fired wonderful, how come you’re a lowly sergeant in some Aberdeenshire sheep-shagging backwater? I’m a
Superintendent
. Where’s my scrapbook?’

OK, sod this. Logan pulled out his phone and called Sergeant Ashton.

It rang for a bit, then she picked up. ‘
Fit like, min?
’

‘Beaky? It’s Logan. I need you to look up an officer for me: Charles Montrose McRae. Date of birth: sixteenth October fifty-four.’

‘
What, right down to business? No foreplay? No half-arsed stab at spickin’ the Doric?
’

He put the call on speakerphone so Harper could hear herself being proved wrong. ‘Please, Beaky, it’s important.’

Sergeant Ashton sighed. ‘
No one’s any fun.
’ There was some clicking of keys. ‘
You’ll be chuffed to hear we’ve got a full house for tomorrow night. I’m anticipating a most successful dunt with a big haul of drugs, and medals for everyone… Here we go: PC Charles McRae. Joined Grampian Police in 1977 … clean record … shot in the line of duty four years later. Was he a relative?
’

‘My father.’ And Detective Superintendent Harper was full of crap.

‘
Aw, min. I’m sorry.
’

‘It’s OK, Beaky. Thanks for—’

‘
Hold the horses a minute… That’s weird: got another PC Charles Montrose McRae coming up, same D.O.B. Joined Dumfries and Galloway Constabulary, 1982. Retired in 2007, but came back as a PCSO for four and a bit years. Some people are gluttons for punishment, aren’t they?
’

Sitting on the other end of the couch, Harper stuck her nose in the air.

Logan stared at his phone. ‘They’re the same person?’

‘
Bit of a coincidence if they’re not. ’Specially with a name like that. Now, anything else your lordship requires, or can I get back to my eightses?
’

‘Thanks, Beaky.’ He ended the call. Cleared his throat. ‘But…?’

‘See?’ Harper picked up her mug, swilling the dregs of tea round. ‘Now, we’ll still have to work together on the Shepherd investigation, so I expect you to be professional. There will be no favours or special treatment, just because we’re related. I’m still your commanding officer and I expect you to follow orders like everyone else. Are we clear?’