In the Cold Dark Ground (36 page)

‘And we
finally
have some good news.’ Standing with her back to the whiteboard, Harper pointed the remote. The screen on the wall opposite filled with a satellite image of the coast. Gardenstown was marked with a big arrow, as if no one in the room would know what the place was.

The two arms of the harbour made a broken triangle, poking out into the sea like a cartoon nose and jaw – with mooring jetties for teeth.

Harper pressed a button and a red laser dot appeared, then swept towards the harbour entrance. ‘We got a phone call from Martin Milne at half six this morning. Malk the Knife’s people have been in touch.’

A rumble of conversation went around the room.

Standing against the wall, by the door, Logan shifted from one foot to the other. Something hard and spikey was frolicking across his back, digging its claws into his spine. He took another swig of water from his mug. Didn’t seem to matter how much he drank today – his mouth was still like a desert, head throbbing like an overripe boil full of burning pus.

‘Narveer?’

Her sidekick stood and read from a sheet of paper, voice slightly rounded and mushy. Forced down a bruised and swollen nose. ‘At four o’clock this afternoon, the
Jotun Sverd
will leave Peterhead harbour and rendezvous with a private yacht sixty miles east of Bora in the Moray Firth. The crew will take on board a number of sealed crates and conceal them in containers already on board.’

The screen changed to a photo of a small supply boat – about a third as big as the usual neon-coloured monstrosities – with superstructure at the front and a railed loading bay at the back. Like a floating pickup truck. It probably would have taken two full-sized containers, but they’d managed to fit about eight of the smaller ones on it, each emblazoned with ‘
G
EIRRØD
C
ONTAINER
M
ANAGEMENT
A
ND
L
OGISTICS
’ and their angry Viking logo.

Logan took another swig.

It wasn’t as if he could blame a hangover. One whisky and that was it.

No, the churning sensation in his stomach and head was probably down to what he’d hidden beneath the passenger seat of his rusty old Fiat Punto. Sealed away in a freezer bag, sealed inside
another
freezer bag, with a brown-paper evidence bag over the top of that.

One semiautomatic pistol of Eastern European extraction, with a full magazine of bullets and a silencer.

All ready to bark in Reuben’s face.

‘The
Jotun Sverd
will then make its way north of Gardenstown and wait there until six o’clock tomorrow evening, when it’ll come into the harbour and be met by a Transit van. Malcolm McLennan’s men will then unload the merchandise and take it away.’

He ran a hand across his face, it came away damp.

‘Thank you, Narveer.’ Harper pointed the remote and the aerial view was back, but zoomed in so the harbour filled the screen. ‘We will be positioned here,’ the red dot swept to the left-hand side, ‘here,’ right, ‘and here. A secondary unit will cover the access roads in and out of Gardenstown.’

Everything had seemed so clear last night. He wasn’t doing it for himself any more, he was doing it to stop Reuben sending someone after Jasmine and Naomi. He was doing it to save Steel from another beating. He was doing it to stop a turf war between the Aberdeen mob and everyone else. He was doing it because no one else would and it needed to be done.

It really did.

It was all decided.

So why could he barely breathe?

‘You’ll get your team assignments tomorrow.’ Harper put the remote down. ‘Now, any questions?’

Steel sidled up next to him, kept her voice low. ‘You all right?’

Someone’s hand went up – Becky. ‘Did we get a result last night?’

‘Yes and no, DS McKenzie. Two individuals arrested at the Welshes’ house have confessed to selling class A drugs and are giving up their supply chain, thanks to Sergeant McRae.’

Everyone turned to look at him. Lots of nods and smiles.

His stomach lurched, saliva flooding his dry mouth.

Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick.

He swallowed it down.

‘As for Ricky and Laura Welsh, it’s “no comment” all the way. So far there’s nothing concrete to connect them with Ma Campbell or the murder of Peter Shepherd. That doesn’t mean we’re going to stop digging though.’

‘Seriously, Laz,’ Steel put a hand on his arm, ‘you look like you’re about to blow chunks.’

‘I’m fine.’ Liar.

Harper held up her hand. ‘Right, you all know what you’re doing, so go out there and do it.’

The assembled hordes shuffled from the room.

Harper and Narveer settled at the conference table, scrawling notes across piles of actions. Steel wandered over to the window, mobile phone clamped to her ear.

Logan blew out a shaky breath. ‘Well, if you don’t need me, I’m going to—’

‘No you don’t.’ A sniff, then Harper straightened up. ‘Sergeant, while I appreciate your assistance last night, I want you to get something perfectly straight: I expect members of my team to turn up for work sober and functioning.
Not
hungover and useless.’

‘I’m not hungover.’

‘How am I supposed to catch Peter Shepherd’s killers if my officers are the walking dead after last night’s binge drinking?’

‘I’m –
not
– hungover!’

‘And while we’re at it, what did I say about you coming to work in plainclothes? I was perfectly clear: you’re—’

‘Hoy!’ Steel held the phone against her chest. ‘Much though I hate to break up this family bondage session, your big brother’s telling the truth. Mr Grey-and-Sweaty here looks like a puddle of sick because he’s off to bury his girlfriend today. Hence the ugly suit.’

‘Ah.’ Harper closed her mouth.

‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to have phone sex with my wife here. I’ll tell you all about it later, if you like, Super? Blow-by-blow?’

‘No. Thank you.’ The muscles worked in Harper’s cheeks, clenching and unclenching, as she gathered up her actions and stuffed them into an awkward pile. ‘That won’t be necessary. Narveer, we’d better go … out.’

The DI kept his face expressionless. ‘Yes, Super.’ He followed her from the room, pausing only to throw a wink back at Steel from the doorway, before sealing the pair of them in.

Logan sagged against the wall. ‘Thanks.’

‘What time’s the funeral?’

He pointed at her phone. ‘Aren’t you keeping Susan waiting?’

‘Nah, it’s only Rennie – he’s away to the baker’s for breakfast butties. You want booby-trap or sausage?’

‘Sausage.’ Maybe it’d help settle his stomach? ‘Funeral’s at twelve.’

‘Brown or red?’

‘Red.’

A nod, then she was back on the phone. ‘Aye, and another sausage butty with tomato sauce. … Of course he wants both sides buttered, have you never seen MasterChef?… Good. … Get on with it then.’ She stuck her phone back in her pocket. ‘Susan’s coming, and she’s bringing Jasmine and Naomi. Apparently Jasmine insisted. Says you need her there to hold your hand.’

‘That’s … very kind.’

‘Tell you, Laz, she’s turning into a right little control freak.’ Steel settled on the edge of the conference table. ‘You OK?’

‘No.’

‘Know what you’re going to say?’

‘The eulogy? Yeah.’ He rubbed at his face, then sighed. ‘Got to head into town early. Make sure everything’s sorted with the church and the lawyers and the cemetery. And I’ve
still
got to sort out the insurance for the caravan.’

‘You know Susan and me are here for you, right? If you need someone to lean on, you’ve got people on your side, Laz. All of us. Even Rennie. I know he’s a useless wee spud most of the time, but he means well.’

Logan nodded. ‘Thanks.’

‘Now: have your butty, then sod off and go do what you’ve got to. I’ll clear everything with your wee sister.’ A grin burst its way across Steel’s face. ‘And if she gives me any trouble, I’ll tell her about the time I went caravanning in the Lake District with a dental hygienist, and the
Bumper Book of Lesbian Fun
. Ah, the glory days of youth…’

‘Sarge?’

Logan looked up from his sausage butty, and there was Tufty, hanging his head around the Sergeants’ Office door. ‘Officer Quirrel, I presume?’

He limped into the room. ‘And on the last and final night, verily didst the brave Probationer do battle with a ravening wolf and recover the fair maiden, Tracy Brown.’

‘You found Tracy Brown?’

Tufty leaned on the desk and raised his gimpy leg off the carpet an inch. ‘She was holed up with a married man in Strichen. His wife was off to Disneyland Paris with the kids for a week, so Tracy and him were having a nonstop humpathon till they got back.’

‘Typical. Too busy shagging to notice the whole northeast of Scotland is plastered in missing posters with her face on them. Why do we bother?’ He bit another mouthful of sausage and bun, tomato sauce making a dribbly bloodstain across the back of his hand. Chewing around the words, ‘What about the wolf?’

‘Bloke had a poodle. But it was massive. At
least
two foot tall with teeth like carving knives.’

Logan pointed a finger at the limpy leg. ‘Get that seen to.’

‘Course, soon as Big Donald Brown finds out someone’s been riding his wee girl like she’s the
Indiana Jones et le Temple du Péril
roller-coaster, he’s going to go
balistique
.’

‘Might be an idea to put a grade-one flag on the house. Just in case.’

‘Will do.’ Tufty puffed out a breath. ‘You hear we got a fatal RTC last night? Wee boy in his pimped-out Peugeot lost it in the snow on the Fraserburgh road.
Bang
, right into a telegraph pole. Little sod walked away, but his girlfriend?’ Tufty grimaced. Shook his head.

‘Every winter. They prosecuting?’

‘Bloody hope so.’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Anyway, you coming to Whitehills with us? Drookit Haddie, fish, chips, beer. They might even break out the karaoke machine.’

‘I’d love to, but I can’t. It’s Samantha’s funeral.’

Tufty’s eyes went wide. ‘Oh crap. I’m sorry, Sarge. It… Yeah. OK. I’m sorry.’

Him and everyone else.

‘Don’t worry about it. You go have fun. It’s not every day you get to become a proper police officer. We’re proud of you, Tufty.’

‘Sarge.’ He limp-shuffled his feet for a moment, then leaned forward and patted Logan on the shoulder. ‘If you need anything. You know.’ A shrug. A nod. Then Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Right, better go get my gaping wound seen to before they have to amputate my whole leg.’

‘You do that.’ Logan polished off the last bite of butty, wiped his hands on the napkin it came wrapped in, then sooked his fingers clean. Stood.

No point putting it off any longer.

By the end of the day there would be something much darker red than tomato sauce on his hands.

The song on the radio faded away, replaced by someone who sounded as if they’d not taken their medication that morning. ‘
Hurrah! Wasn’t that terrific? We’ve got the news and weather coming up at the top – of – the – hour with
Sexy
Suzie. Don’t miss it. But first, here’s a blast from the past: anyone remember H from Steps? Well—
’

Logan killed the engine and the rusty Fiat Punto pinged and rattled.

He checked his watch: nine fifty. Ten minutes.

Blew out a long rattling breath.

Come on. This wasn’t difficult. People did this all over the world every day. Gun. Forehead. Trigger. Bullet.

‘Yes, but I can’t do it in a solicitor’s office, can I?’

He glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror. ‘Well of course you can’t, Logan. That would be stupid.’

‘Not to mention all the witnesses.’

‘Exactly.’

He chewed on the ragged edge of a fingernail, working it smooth. ‘Have to get him somewhere private. Somewhere you can get rid of the body.’

‘Where though? Where’s he going to go with a police officer? A police officer he tried to have killed two days ago. He’s going to
know
something’s up.’

‘And what about the body? How do we get rid of it?’

Logan blinked at his reflection.

‘Are we really doing this?’

‘You know we’ve got no choice. Be the bigger dog.’

‘What about the pig farm? Kill two birds and one fat violent bastard with one stone. People die out there all the time. What’s one more meal for the pigs?’

‘True. Very true.’

‘But how do we get him out there? He has—’ A knock on the car window sent him flinching back in his seat. ‘Jesus!’

He turned, and there was John Urquhart, smiling in at him.

Logan undid his seatbelt and climbed out into the bitter morning air. ‘Mr Urquhart.’

‘Mr McRae. Glad you could make it.’ He stuck out his hand for shaking and nodded at the manky Fiat Punto. ‘Hope I didn’t interrupt your phone call.’

‘Phone call?’

‘Don’t know about you, but I always feel a right nutter talking on a Bluetooth headset. Everyone thinks you’re talking to yourself.’

‘Yes. Not a problem.’ Logan locked the car, as if anyone would be desperate enough to steal a rusty pile of disappointment when it was surrounded by all these Audis, Jaguars, and BMWs.

The car park was tucked off Diamond Street – which didn’t exactly live up to its name. Instead of sparkling, the road was lined with the backs of buildings: half facing out onto Union Terrace, the other half Golden Square. Leaving a dark narrow canyon of grey and old brick.

Urquhart patted the roof of Logan’s car. ‘Suppose you’ll be upgrading after today.’

It took a moment for that to sink in: Wee Hamish’s bequest. Two-thirds of a million pounds. ‘Probably not.’

‘Right. Got you. Don’t want to arouse suspicions. Clever.’

Logan put a hand in his pocket, steadying the gun. ‘Better get this over with. Got a funeral to go to.’

‘Yeah, totally.’ A nod. Then he led the way to a black-painted door in the corner of the car park, with an intercom mounted beside it. Pressed the call button. ‘Mr Urquhart and Mr McRae for Mr Moir-Farquharson. We have an appointment?’