In the Cold Dark Ground (34 page)

Logan walked through the shattered doorway into Ricky Welsh’s kitchen. Not exactly the tidiest in the world. Certainly not now anyway.

He stepped over the battered remains of a chair. ‘You OK?’

‘Urgh…’ Claire, from the OSU, was hunched over the sink, splashing water on her face. ‘Covered in Saint Bernard dribble. How can one dog produce so much slobber?’

‘Told you it was huge.’

She raised her dripping face. ‘Thanks for spraying Cujo, Sarge.’

‘Nah.’ He left her to it and picked his way through the shattered remains of a small kitchen table and out into the hall. Muffled voices came from somewhere above his head. Lots of grunts and hissing. The occasional thump. Someone swearing.

The stairway was as narrow as the corridor. It doglegged around, emerging in what had to be an attic conversion. In the gap between two rooms, three officers in their riot gear were pinning a woman to the ground. Barely holding her in place. They piled on her back and legs, forcing her into the shabby carpet.

Laura Welsh was big, thickset. Ginger curls covered her face as she hissed and wriggled. Three small red hearts were tattooed between the knuckles of her right hand, stretched tight across her clenched fist.

The Chief Inspector from Elgin had his knee on her shoulder, jamming Laura’s other wrist against the floor with both hands. ‘I’m not telling you again – calm down!’

Nicholson lay across Laura’s legs. She grinned up at Logan. ‘I love knocking on doors.’

More wriggling.

The guy at the head of the piley-on scowled. ‘You’re not helping, Constable.’

‘Sorry, Guv.’

Logan whipped out his limb restraints and helped Nicholson secure Laura’s legs – one set binding her knees together, the other her ankles. Then he stood back as the others finally managed to get her hands cuffed behind her back. ‘Everyone OK? Anyone hurt?’

A flash of freckled skin, green eyes bulging, teeth bared, lipstick smeared. ‘I’LL KILL THE LOT OF YOU!’

The Chief Inspector flipped up the visor on his crash helmet, exposing a chubby face with a squint nose. ‘Are you honestly trying to make things worse for yourself, Mrs Welsh? Because threatening to kill four police officers isn’t going to look good when they haul you up in court.’

‘GAH!’ Then she pulled her head back and slammed it into the dirty carpet. Lay there, face against the floor, hissing breath in and out through her teeth.

‘There we go.’

Through the open door, behind Chief Inspector Chunky, lay a small bedroom. It was a shambles of clothes and cardboard boxes. Narveer sat on the edge of the bed with his head thrown back, one hand holding onto his turban, the other pinching the bridge of his nose. Blood made a bandit mask across the lower half of his face.

Logan poked his head into the room. ‘You OK?’

‘No.’ The word all bunged up and growly.

He wasn’t the only one in there – two of the Elgin officers were snapping the cuffs on a pair of men who were doing a lot more cooperating than Laura Welsh.

The bigger of the pair wore skinny jeans and a couple of hoodies, a blue one on over a red one. His hair was shorn at the sides and quiffed sideways in the middle. It went with the neck beard and horn-rimmed glasses.

Mr Hipster’s friend had a granddad shirt, braces, and a brown waistcoat – as if he was auditioning for a Mumford and Sons cover band. He even had the 1940s haircut.

Logan nodded at them. ‘Names?’

Mr Hipster licked his lips. ‘I know how this looks, but we were just…’

Mr Mumford blinked at his friend. ‘Yeah … there was … an advert in the paper for a mountain bike? We, erm, came round to see if it was any good.’

‘You know, to buy it and that?’

‘Mountain bike.’ Mr Mumford jerked his eyes towards the landing and lowered his voice. ‘No idea what’s going on here, but
really
don’t need a mountain bike that badly.’

‘Yeah, so if we could, you know, head off? That’d be cool.’

‘Completely cool.’

Smiles.

No chance.

‘Well?’ Harper hadn’t moved from the back of the Big Car, sitting there with her seatbelt on and her arms folded.

Logan closed the driver’s door and peeled off his gloves. ‘Drug dog’s going through the place now. Our friend the Chief Inspector has decided to supervise the search.’

Steel puffed a faceful of steam across the car at him, e-cigarette glowing from the corner of her mouth. ‘Which means the thieving git wants to take all the credit.’

‘And Narveer?’

Logan shrugged. ‘Don’t think his nose is broken, but better safe than sorry.’

‘Agreed.’ Harper unfastened her seatbelt. ‘What about our two house guests?’

‘Nick McDowell and Steven Fowler. Sticking to their mountain-bike stories.’ He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, frowning out through the windscreen. The sleet had stopped at last, giving way to a bitter wind that rattled the streetlights. A couple of houses had people at the windows, staring out, having a good old nosy at the police vehicles. ‘Don’t know why, but Steven Fowler rings a bell.’

‘So do a PNC check.’

Logan glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘I did
actually
think of that, sir. He’s got a couple of parking tickets: that’s it. Never been arrested. Far as I can tell, he’s never even been cautioned.’

But still…

Steven Fowler.

Steve Fowler.

Stevie… Oh crap.

Stevie Fowler – the guy Reuben wanted him to collect a package from. Collect a package and hide it until further notice.

Oh that was just
great
.

Logan’s ‘loyalty test’ was under arrest, and now—

‘Sergeant?’

He blinked.

Harper was leaning forward between the seats, staring at him.

‘Sorry.’

Steel was at it too. ‘You OK, Laz? Only you look like someone’s stuffed an angry hedgehog up your bum.’

‘Just a … twinge that’s all. From breaking up that fight yesterday.’

‘Tell me about it. Could barely get my bra on this morning.’ She untucked her shirt. ‘You should see my ribs, Detective Superintendent, they’re—’

‘Actually,’ Harper pulled in her chin, ‘I think I’d better go check on Narveer. Excuse me.’ She fumbled with the door handle and clambered out of the car. Hurried along the pavement towards Ricky and Laura Welsh’s place.

Steel grinned. ‘Think your sister fancies me.’

‘Yes. Because you’re
so
desirable.’

‘And don’t you forget it.’ She puffed on her fake cigarette. ‘While you were off playing policeman, I regaled her with the sexual conquests of my youth. Edited highlights, anyway.’ A sigh. ‘Did I ever tell you about Mrs Morgenstern? She was thirty-four, I was fifteen. She was my piano teacher and I was horny as a—’

‘Can we not do this?’

Steel sniffed. ‘Thought you boys liked a bit of hot girl-on-girl action?’

A gap opened up through the clouds, letting a cold slab of moonlight crash against the street, bathing it in frigid grey light.

Stevie Fowler.

What the hell was Logan supposed to do now? Never mind the fact that whatever Fowler should have handed over for safekeeping would probably end up in the evidence store; would Reuben expect Logan to let him go without so much as a slap on the wrists? Because there was
no
chance of that happening. Not with Harper and Narveer and Steel and the Chief Inspector from Elgin falling over each other to find someone to prosecute so they could take the credit.

Reuben already wanted him dead, this
really
wasn’t going to help.

Oh he was so screwed.

‘Anyway, so one day Mrs Morgenstern turns up for my lesson wearing this pencil skirt and silk blouse and – oh my hairy armpits, Laz, you should have seen her
breasts
.’

Urquhart. Call Urquhart and explain what happened.

‘Every time she bent over the piano it was like diving into Loch Cleavage. God, you could’ve drowned in there.’

This wasn’t Logan’s fault.
Fowler
had screwed up, not him.

‘So I tell her I’m having difficulty with my fingering and she says—’

Logan’s phone blared out its anonymous ringtone. He dragged the thing out. ‘Sorry, got to get this.’

Whoever it was, it had to be better than
Confessions of a Teenaged Lesbian Piano Student
.

‘McRae.’

‘
Logan? It’s Eamon.
’ A pause. ‘
Your brother?
’

He turned his back on Steel and climbed out of the car. ‘Let me guess, Mother’s been bending your ear.’

‘
I don’t know why you’ve got to antagonize her the whole time, Logan. She phoned me in tears saying you’d shouted and sworn at her. How could you be so insensitive and—
’

‘Did she tell you
why
I was swearing, Eamon? Did she let that tiny nugget of truth escape, or was it all lies like usual?’ He slammed the car door. ‘Well?’ His breath rolled out in a cloud of fog, before being torn away by the wind. Cold air nipped at his ears.

‘
Logan, she’s your
mother
. You can’t—
’

‘Dad didn’t die when he was shot. He got better and sodded off to Dunfermline with a nurse. Settled down and had another family. You’ve got a wee sister, Eamon: you’re not the youngest any more.’

Dark furious barks exploded inside the Dog Officer’s van. Difficult to tell if it was Cujo or the Alsatian. A second later it didn’t matter, because the other dog joined in – doubling the noise.

‘All those years she dragged us along to put flowers on his grave and he wasn’t even dead!’

Still nothing from the other end of the phone.

‘She lied to us, Eamon. We could’ve had a father growing up, but she
lied
.’

The barking was getting louder, each dog egging the other on.

Logan slammed his palm against the van’s cold metal bulkhead. ‘SHUT UP, THE PAIR OF YOU!’ It didn’t work. If anything, they got louder.

Curtains twitched in the house opposite.

Maybe it wasn’t the best of ideas to be ranting and raving in the middle of the street, where anyone could see him, film him, and upload it to YouTube. He turned his back on the van and marched back to the Big Car. ‘You still there?’

‘
I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, Logan, but it’s not funny. Grow up, phone Mother back, and apologize.
’

‘Don’t be such a mummy’s boy.’

‘
All right, I’m hanging up now.
’ And the line went dead.

What a shock: Eamon took her side. Well sod him too. Logan wiped the condensation from his phone’s screen and blocked Eamon’s number too.

He stood and glowered down Manner Street. The sea shone, down the end, between the buildings, like a polished headstone.

Thirty-four years.

Thirty-four sodding years.

Steel was still puffing away as he climbed back into the Big Car. ‘Aye, aye, Captain Cheery’s back.’

Logan slammed the door closed. ‘Don’t start.’

‘You ever wonder why you’re such a miserable git?’

He turned and stared at her. ‘Please,
do
tell me. Is it because I got the crap kicked out of me yesterday? How about: someone tried to slit my throat the night before that? Or maybe it’s because someone burned Samantha’s caravan down today?’ Getting louder with every word. ‘Oh, tell you what – and I’m going out on a limb here – how about it’s because I had to kill my girlfriend on Friday? YOU WANT TO PICK ONE?’ Spittle glowed in the dashboard lights.

Steel took a good long draw on her e-cigarette. Dribbled the steam out of her nose, long and slow. ‘Are we finished, or is there a wee bit more tantrum in there?’

‘I’m having a bad week, that OK with you?’ He folded his arms and thumped back in his seat. And that wasn’t even mentioning the guy he’d seen killed and the guy he’d killed himself. A long breath rattled its way free. Surprising he could even function at all. ‘This isn’t easy.’

She sighed, then gave his shoulder a squeeze. ‘You’re a silly sod, Laz, you know that, don’t you?’

And then some.

Tufty put a hand on Ricky Welsh’s head and pushed it down as he guided him into the back of the Big Car. Making sure he didn’t mess up those flowing shoulder-length locks of his by battering them against the doorframe.

Once in, Ricky sat all squinted over to one side, unable to sit properly because of his hands being cuffed behind his back.

Soon as Tufty had fastened Ricky’s seatbelt for him, Logan started the car’s engine and fiddled with the rear-view mirror until their new friend’s face filled the reflection. ‘You’re not going to give us any trouble, are you, Ricky?’

‘Bloody dog tried to rip my leg off.’

‘Your dog tried to rip my officer’s
face
off, so we’re probably even.’

‘I’m in agony here, OK?’

Steel wriggled down in the passenger seat as Tufty climbed in on the other side of Ricky. ‘How long till Fraserburgh?’

Logan turned on the windscreen wipers, grinding away a gritty swathe of ice. ‘Half an hour?’

Outside, two of Mitchell’s team were struggling Laura Welsh into the OSU van. They’d put a spit hood on her – it made her look as if she was wearing a baggy nylon condom on her head. The other two, Stevie Fowler and Nick McDowell were being loaded into a second patrol car.

‘Course you know what’s going to happen, don’t you, Ricky?’ Steel pointed as Harper climbed into the car with Fowler and McDowell. ‘That pair of hipster halfwits will spend the next thirty minutes spilling their guts to Detective Superintendent Harper. All the way from here to Fraserburgh, trying to cut a deal by landing you and your
charming
wife in the crap.’

The OSU van pulled away from the kerb, headlights scrawling their way across the granite houses as it did a three-point turn.

‘What do you think, Sergeant McRae? How long’s our Rickyboy going to get sent down for?’

Logan did a three-pointer of his own, following the van. ‘Good question. Had to be, what, sixty grand’s worth of heroin in there? Kilo of amphetamine. Plus nine thousand-quid bricks of resin…’ He sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘Fiver says eight years.’

‘Eight years? Aye, if the Sheriff’s in a
really
good mood. Five quid on twelve to fourteen.’