In the Cold Dark Ground (42 page)

Logan nodded at the adjoining wall to the next hotel room. ‘How did Milne take it?’

‘You’d think we were asking him to swim the Atlantic.
Apparently
Mrs Milne is not the forgiving type.’

‘On the bright side, it means you’ll get to be in on the swoop.’

‘He’s such a bloody whinge. No one
made
him get a loan from gangsters, did they? Deserves all he gets.’

Logan peered out through the window at the car park below. An old man was out shovelling grit onto the snow, giving it dark brown streaks. ‘They going to put him in witness protection?’

‘You know what? I genuinely couldn’t give a toss.’ McKenzie crumpled up the wrapper and lobbed it at the bin. It didn’t even get halfway there. ‘Steel won’t let me do the overtime paperwork unless I do the shift rosters as well. Says it’ll be good practice for when I get promoted.’ Her top lip curled. ‘Lazy, useless, wrinkly, disaster area.’

‘Could always transfer out to another division.’

‘And let her win?’ Becky tore her way into another wee packet of shortbread. ‘You ever wonder why we bother, McRae?’

Every. Single. Day.

He left her to her sulk and headed next door.

A suitcase sat in the middle of the bed, an array of socks and pants and shirts arranged around it, all neatly folded and ready to pack. Milne stood with his back to the TV, arms crossed, jaw set, bottom lip poking out as Harper settled into the room’s only chair.

‘Come on, Martin, we’ve been over this.’

Narveer had taken up position by the en suite, leaning back against the wall. ‘Your family’s safer if you’re all in the one place.’

Dirty photos jumbled across the hotel desk – the stills from Shepherd and Milne’s sex sessions. Some had names written in the corner of the image in jaggy biro letters, others nothing but a row of question marks. It looked as if DS Robertson hadn’t wasted any time getting his finger out. At long last. Maybe it would save him an arse-kicking when Steel’s hangover passed, but Logan doubted it.

All those different women: blondes, brunettes, redheads, thin, not-so-thin, positively chunky, light skin, dark skin, olive skin, young-ish, middle-aged, old. Milne and Shepherd didn’t seem to have a type. Well, other than anyone who was prepared to say yes to a threesome.

A few of them looked familiar, but then B Division wasn’t exactly Greater Manchester. Rural area like this, you rubbed shoulders with everyone sooner or later. Pretty certain he’d stopped the school-teachery type, with the black bun and PVC stockings, for having bald tyres on her Fiat Panda. And the large woman with the knee-highs: was it her shed that had been broken into, or was she the wheelie-bin dispute with the next-door neighbours?

Milne shook his head. ‘I should never have got involved.’ His voice was about an octave higher than it had been, trembling at the end as if he was having difficulty keeping it under control. ‘I should’ve kept my big mouth shut. What if something happens?’

‘They’re going to be all right, Martin.’ Narveer gave him a wink. ‘Trust me: we’ve done this before, loads of times. There’s a car in front of the house right now, no one’s getting anywhere near Katie and Ethan.’

‘But—’

‘You’re doing the right thing, Martin.’ Harper pointed at the array of clothes. ‘This is for the best.’

A couple of others Logan couldn’t put a name to: a young blonde woman looking over her shoulder and grinning at the camera while Shepherd spanked her; a large woman with a Y-shaped scar on her top lip and a thing for black lace; and a grey-haired lady with an
Iron Maiden
tattoo all over her back… Wait, was that Aggie? Shepherd’s neighbour? It was. So apparently she did a bit more than just nip in and feed Onion the cat from time to time.

Milne ground a palm into one eye socket. ‘Katie
hates
me.’

Shock horror.

‘She needs time to adjust, that’s all. Now, come on, get packed and we’ll take you over there. OK?’

He stared at his feet. ‘I should never have said anything.’

A sigh, then Harper sat forward. ‘Sometimes it’s not easy doing the right thing, Martin. Sometimes there’s risks and there’s costs, but that doesn’t change anything – it’s still the right thing to do. And we have to do it, because if we don’t, then everything falls apart and everyone suffers.’ She smiled. ‘Do you see?’

Milne nodded, eyes still fixed on his shoes.

‘Good. Now, you get packed.’

Logan rested his forearms on the steering wheel as Narveer escorted Martin Milne up the drive to his house. No sign of the media today. The small development was buried under a couple feet of snow, everything anonymized by the rounded white blanket. The only thing not covered in snow was the other patrol car, parked up at the junction. Its occupants sat upright, making a big show of being vigilant, as if they hadn’t been reading newspapers and eating crisps when Logan had pulled up in the Big Car.

Reuben was pulling in favours. That meant whatever was coming his way, it was coming soon. Someone brighter might attack the people he loved first, destroy everything around him, but not Reuben. He wouldn’t have the patience. No, he’d want his revenge up close and personal. And he’d want to be there to see it happen.

Mind you, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t eventually get around to punishing the people Logan cared about… The patrol car parked outside the house would keep Susan, Naomi, and Jasmine safe for a while, but Police Scotland wouldn’t keep it there forever. And as for Steel…?

He cleared his throat. ‘Did you mean what you said?’

Harper looked up from her mobile phone, thumbs tapping away at the screen. ‘About what?’

‘Doing the right thing.’

‘Course I did.’ Back to the phone. ‘Look at Auschwitz, or Rwanda, or Somalia, all that human suffering because people didn’t do the right thing. They pretended it was nothing to do with them, they looked after number one. That’s how civilization dies.’

Milne and Narveer had reached the front door. They stood there, waiting on the top step.

‘No matter what it costs?’

‘No matter what it costs.’

The door opened and Katie Milne blocked their way, arms folded, face lined and heavy. She looked as if she’d aged ten years since Sunday.

Milne put his suitcase down and held out his arms, as if he was expecting a hug.

She slapped him.

‘What if it costs you everything?’

‘Then you do it anyway.’ Harper put her phone away. ‘But Milne’s not
losing
anything, he threw it all away when he cheated on his wife and decided to run away with his boyfriend.’

Katie landed another couple of blows before Narveer stepped in and broke it up. He grabbed both her wrists and spoke to her – the words inaudible from inside the Big Car. Whatever he was saying, it seemed to be working. Her shoulders dropped, then her head. Then she turned and walked into the house, leaving the door open behind her.

Narveer patted Milne on the back, watched him pick up his suitcase and shuffle inside, then followed him.

Then you do it anyway.

Logan checked the dashboard clock. ‘That’s it gone twelve. Do you want to—’

The phone in Harper’s hand launched into some hip-hop song and she swore. Held it to her ear. ‘Boss. How are you— Yes. … Yes, I know. … We’re all—’ She glanced across the car at Logan, then turned in her seat to face the window, showing him her back. ‘I understand that, sir, but everything’s in hand. Soon as they unload the boat at Gardenstown, we’ll arrest Malcolm McLennan’s people and— … Yes, sir. … That’s the plan. We’ll—’ She put her other hand over her eyes, fingers digging into her temple. ‘I know that, sir. Yes. … OK. We’ll keep you updated. … Bye.’ Harper lowered her phone to her lap. ‘Oh joy.’

Logan turned the key in the ignition. ‘Pressure?’

‘It never changes. Doesn’t matter how high up the tree you climb, there’s always another monkey further up trying to crap on you.’ She puffed out a breath. ‘Maybe we should head over to Peterhead and have another crack at Laura and Ricky Welsh? See if we can find something concrete linking them to Jessica Campbell.’

He made a seesaw motion with one hand. ‘Doubt they’ll say anything. They used to deal for Hamish Mowat’s operation, if it gets out they’re playing on Campbell’s team someone’s going to have a pop at them in prison. Doesn’t matter how tough you are if they stick a homemade knife in your back.’

‘Maybe you can work the same magic you used on Martin Milne and Steven Fowler?’

It was worth a go. ‘I can try.’

Anything to put off the phone call he had to make.

No matter what it costs.

Ricky Welsh had a scratch at the tattoo encircling his neck. Its ink had faded to a gritty blue on his yoghurt-pot skin. He tipped his head to one side, letting his hair swing. ‘No comment.’

Logan pulled the next photo from the folder. ‘I am now showing Mr Welsh a photograph of exhibit D, nine blocks of cannabis resin, each with an estimated street value of one thousand pounds.’ He slid the picture across the table. ‘Do you recognize these, Ricky?’

‘No comment.’

Sitting next to him, Welsh’s lawyer couldn’t have looked more bored if he’d tried. The bald patch on top of his head was spreading along with his waistline. His suit a bit shiny at the elbows. He’d gone to university for this? Where was the strutting about in front of the jury, making rousing speeches and jabbing his finger at things? Scoring points and rescuing the innocent from travesties of justice. Instead, he was trapped in a cramped over-warm room, on a snowy Tuesday afternoon, in Fraserburgh, with a client who’d probably spent more time in court than he had.

‘We found these in your living room, Ricky.’

‘No comment.’

‘If you didn’t put them there, who did?’

‘No comment.’

Harper sighed. Checked her watch. As if that was going to make any difference.

Logan put another photo on the table. A surveillance shot of someone’s mum, chunky and unthreatening, wearing a grey jacket over a floral dress. Her afro was streaked through with grey spirals, skin the colour of polished mahogany. ‘Do you recognize this woman, Ricky?’

His eyes flicked to the picture and away again. ‘No comment.’

‘No? We have information that the cannabis resin in your house belongs to her.’

The solicitor yawned. Sighed.

‘No comment.’

Yeah, this was going to take a while.

Logan ran a hand through his stubbly hair. Blew out a breath. It thickened in front of his face, turning into a cloud of white that slowly faded into the falling snow.

The prison car park had been ploughed and gritted, mounds of dirty white piled up in the far corner like a mini mountain range. A lot of effort for the half-dozen cars sitting there, their paintwork slowly disappearing under the fresh fall.

He shifted his phone from one hand to the other and blew onto his frozen-sausage fingers.

Come on: one last bit of good before Reuben came for him and took it all away. Make the call.

Can’t.

No matter what it cost, remember?

Yes, but—

Either it’s the right thing to do, or it isn’t. Pick one.

A big fat seagull waddled across the tarmac, glaring up at him as if he’d done something to offend it.

The phone in his hand rang, making him flinch so hard he almost dropped it. ‘Hello?’

Harper’s voice came from the speaker. ‘
Logan? That’s them bringing Laura Welsh up now. Maybe we’ll have more luck with her than Ricky?
’

‘It couldn’t go any worse, could it? I’ll be there in a minute.’

‘
OK.
’

The line went dead.

Logan scrubbed a hand across his face, setting the bruises and tiny punctures stinging. Then turned and marched inside.

‘No comment.’ Laura Welsh barely fit in the interview room chair.

Her solicitor was nearly sideways in his seat, trying not to get squished by those broad shoulders. A small man in a pinstriped suit that needed a bit of a clean. His fingers skittered along the edge of his notepad, the pen almost vibrating as he wrote ‘
N
O
C
OMMENT
’ in it. Probably wondering who he’d offended at the Scottish Legal Aid Board to make them lumber him with Laura Welsh.

Logan tried the photo of Jessica Campbell again. ‘Do you recognize this woman, Laura?’

‘Aye. Is it Oprah Winfrey?’ She grinned, showing off a couple of gold incisors. The patch where she’d thumped her forehead into the landing carpet had scabbed over, making dark parallel lines in the pale freckled skin.

‘Do you think Hamish Mowat would have liked you and Ricky switching sides? Getting your drugs from Jessica Campbell? That’s—’

‘I object.’ Mr Nervous sat up straight. ‘My client has…’

Laura Welsh stared at him, the grin turning into a growl.

He cleared his throat. Lowered his eyes to his trembling pen. ‘Yes.’

She smiled again. ‘Wee Hamish is dead. Did you no’ hear?’

Harper leaned forwards. ‘We found nine thousand pounds’ worth of cannabis resin in your house, Mrs Welsh. Do you know how many years that’ll get you?’

Laura didn’t even look at her, she raised a big hand and pointed instead. The hearts tattooed between her knuckles, flexed. ‘I don’t know you. Keep it that way.’

Silence.

Logan straightened the photograph. ‘So you’ve changed sides.’

‘See, soon as Wee Hamish Mowat died, that was it. Chaos.’

‘What about Reuben?’

‘Oh, he’s a great man with a knife, or a hammer, but running things? You imagine what it’s going to be like now Wee Hamish is gone? Going to fall apart.’

Mr Nervous fidgeted with his pen. ‘Mrs Welsh, I really think—’

‘See if I have to tell you again…’

He shrank about a foot. ‘Sorry.’

Laura nodded. ‘Sergeant McRae and me are just having a chat about general stuff. Putting the world to rights. Right, Sergeant McRae?’

‘Right.’

‘Way I hear it, everyone’s picking sides. Smart money’s on Glasgow.’ A shrug. ‘Or Edinburgh.’

‘What about the Hussain Brothers? Liverpool Junkyard Massive? Black Angus MacDonald?’

She curled one side of her face up. ‘Nah. On a hiding to nowhere with that lot. Black Angus couldn’t organize a piss-up at an AA meeting. Rest are all wannabe hardmen.’

‘Reuben’s not going to bow out gracefully.’

‘Scar-faced fat bastard wants to start a war. How’s he going to do that when all his troops have sodded off to Ma Campbell or Malk the Knife? Be nothing but him and a couple morons pissing into the wind.’ She flashed Logan those gold incisors again. ‘Desperate last gasps of a dying regime, Sergeant McRae. And there won’t be a civil war when it topples: Edinburgh and Glasgow will divvy up Aberdeenshire and that’ll be it.’

Until Jessica Campbell and Malcolm McLennan decided they wanted a bigger slice of the cake.

‘And Reuben?’

‘Sooner or later, he’s going to end up dead. Question is how many people he takes with him.’

Harper leaned in. ‘You seem to know a lot about the goings on up here, Mrs Welsh.’

A shrug. ‘I hear things.’

‘And did you hear who attacked Sergeant McRae and Detective Chief Inspector Steel on Friday night? Was it Jessica Campbell’s people, or Malcolm McLennan’s?’

Laura’s grin was back. ‘No comment.’

Harper tucked the folder under her arm, staring down the corridor as Laura Welsh was led away back to her cell. Then Harper turned and slammed her boot into the interview room door. ‘Damn it!’

‘Can’t say we didn’t try.’

‘No comment, no comment, no
bloody
comment.’ She took a deep breath and hissed it out. ‘Right.’ Shook her head and made for the exit, straightening her shoulders as she marched towards the double doors. ‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll find out who’s behind it all soon as they turn up to collect the cargo at six. We’ll still get a result.’

True.

She pushed through into the stairwell, and stopped, frowning at the window. Snow drifted across the prison car park, whipped into mini cyclones by the wind. Rattling the lights on their pillars and making them sway. ‘Better get the car warmed up, Sergeant. We’ll head back to Banff and make sure everything’s set for the swoop soon as I’ve updated the powers that be.’

‘Sir.’

She followed him down one flight, then pulled out her phone and disappeared into the admin block, leaving him alone in the stairwell.

Logan waited till she was
definitely
out of earshot. ‘Thanks a bloody heap.’

So he could freeze his ears off, marching outside in the snow to get the Big Car all warm and toasty for her.

Bloody Superintendents were all the same.

He thumped down the stairs, and signed out at the reception desk. Then shoved his way out into the snow.

It was like being machine-gunned with tiny white blocks of Lego, stripping the air from his lungs. The wind battered him, making him lurch like a Monday-morning drunk across the gritted tarmac to the Big Car.

Gah. Just because Peterhead was a hundred and twenty miles north of Moscow it didn’t have to show off about it. Polar bears had it warmer than this…

He fumbled his keys out with numb fingers and scrambled inside. Started the Big Car up and cranked the blowers to full, huffing warm breath into his cupped hands.

Barely half four, and it was more like the middle of the night out there. Snow hammered the car, rocking it on its springs.

He slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the outline of his mobile phone.

Do it.

No.

For God’s sake,
grow
a pair!

Harper was right: the only thing that stopped everything falling apart was people doing the right thing, instead of the easy thing.

Yes, but…

The blowers roared.

Steel had fitted Jack Wallace up. She’d manufactured evidence. Lied in court. Perverted the course of justice. She’d crossed the line. Yes, Wallace
deserved
to be in prison, but he deserved to be there for what he’d done, not for what he hadn’t. That was how it worked.

So do the right thing.
‘I don’t want to.’

No matter what it costs, remember?

A deep breath, then Logan pulled out his phone; called up his contacts list and dialled Napier.

It rang and rang.

Still not too late to hang up.

And rang and rang.

This was stupid. Hang up.

And rang and—

‘
Chief Superintendent Napier.
’

All the moisture evaporated from Logan’s mouth.

‘
Hello?
’

He clicked off the blowers. Licked his lips. ‘Chief Superintendent, it’s Logan McRae. I need to talk to you about Jack Wallace.’