Читать книгу In the Cold Dark Ground - Stuart MacBride - Страница 20

Calamity handed the mug to Logan, then nudged the door shut. ‘Sorry, Sarge, MIT’s had all the milk.’

Logan peered into the depths of his dark-brown tea. Still, it was better than nothing. Then he had a sip… Actually, no it wasn’t. A tiny shudder, and he put the mug down on the windowsill. ‘It’s the thought that counts.’

Even with the door closed, the sounds of a busy station seeped into the Constables’ Office. Banging doors. Heavy booted feet. Ringing telephones. Shouting.

Calamity settled into her chair. ‘It’s like a football match out there. Never seen so many people in the station at one time. And the stench!’

Isla bared her teeth. ‘Locker room smells like a tramp’s sock dipped in Lynx deodorant. It’s seeping along the landing like sarin gas.’ She thumped a can of diet Irn-Bru down on the worktop, setting loose a curl of ginger froth. ‘But do you know what really grips my shit? Someone’s done kippers in the canteen microwave. Kippers!’

‘Ooh, watch out,’ Calamity pulled her chin in, ‘the Ginger Mist is rising.’

‘Damn right it is.’ She jabbed a finger at the closed door. ‘What kind of antisocial, thoughtless—’

‘All right, that’s enough whingeing about the Moronic Idiot Team. Tufty?’

No reply. The wee sod was sitting with his back to the room, hunched over doodling something on a notepad.

‘Constable Quirrel!’

He swivelled around and grimaced, mobile phone clamped to his ear. ‘Right. Thanks, Lizzy, I owe you one.’ He hung up. ‘Social Services, Sarge. Apparently Ethan Milne’s had a fair number of bruises and scrapes. The broken arm’s the worst of it, but he’s been to the doctors and A-and-E so many times he’s got a frequent flier card. Lizzy says the kid’s probably eighty percent TCP by now.’

Logan picked up his mug again. ‘Suspicious?’

‘Don’t know. According to the teachers he’s about the clumsiest thing they’ve ever seen. Forever falling over in the playground and walking into doors and things.’

‘Right. Well, you can get on with the briefing then.’

‘Sarge.’ Tufty clicked the mouse and a pair of ID photos appeared on his computer monitor: Ricky Welsh with his shoulder-length hair, bloody nose, and split lip. He’d grown an elaborate Vandyke with twiddly handlebars on the moustache. What looked like a chunk of the Declaration of Arbroath wrapped around his throat in dark-blue tattooed letters. Laura Welsh was bigger; tougher; thickset; one green eye, one black; and an off-blonde perm. Bruises swelled across her left cheek like a tropical storm. Because, ‘It’s a fair cop, I’ll come quietly’ just wasn’t in Laura or Ricky’s vocabulary. They were more of a, ‘You’ll never take me alive, copper!’ kind of family.

Tufty checked his notes. ‘Inspector Fettes has got us the Operational Support Unit, a dog unit, and four bodies from Elgin to help dunt in the Welshes’ door. Watch yourselves, though: one of the Elgin lot’s a Chief Inspector doing his “in touch with the common folk” thing.’

Isla groaned. ‘Not again.’

Calamity covered her eyes with her hands. ‘Why us?’

‘You know fine well, why.’ Logan risked another sip of tea. Nope: still horrible. ‘Keep going, Tufty.’

‘ETD – that’s Estimated Time of Dunt – will be twenty-three hundred hours. Though with assorted dicking about, probably closer to midnight. I’ve called Fraserburgh and asked them to reserve two of their finest en suite rooms for Mr and Mrs Welsh. Something with a view and a roll-top bath.’

‘Hmm…’ Calamity dug into her fleece and came out with a tartan wallet. ‘Anyone want a fiver on how many people end up in hospital?’

Isla sucked her teeth. ‘Just our lot, or all in?’

‘Ours. I’ll kick off with two.’

A five-pound note was produced. ‘Three. Tufty?’

‘Fiver on …’ he squinted one eye, ‘four. Sarge?’

‘Can we get on with the briefing, please? Some of us have jobs to do.’

Calamity collected the bets. ‘Let us know if you change your mind.’

Tufty went back to the PowerPoint presentation, bringing up an aerial shot of Macduff ripped off Google Earth. A crude red arrow with ‘Raid Here!!!’ sat on top of the image, pointing at Ricky and Laura Welsh’s place.

Click, and it was replaced with a front-view of the house: a whitewashed cottage, sandwiched a third of the way down a terrace of identikit Scottish homes. The slate roof boasted a pair of dormer windows, which – along with the two downstairs windows and red-painted door – gave the place a slightly startled appearance. As if it didn’t approve of the things going on inside it.

Isla scanned the briefing notes, a wee crease forming between her eyebrows. ‘If Jessica “Ma” Campbell is the one supplying the drugs, are we expecting her or one of her minions to be there protecting their investment? If we are, I want to up my hospital number.’

‘It’s possible, but I’d be more worried about the Welshes’ dog.’ Click. A massive Saint Bernard replaced the house photo. ‘Looks cuddly, but we’re talking full-on Cujo here.’

‘Exactly.’ Logan pointed at the three of them. ‘So anyone not carrying Bite Back deserves all they get. Are we—’

A knock at the door, and Inspector McGregor peered into the room. ‘Ah, there you are.’ She pulled on a smile. It didn’t look very convincing. ‘Logan, have you got a minute? We need to chat.’

OK, well that didn’t sound ominous at all.

‘Guv.’ He gave Tufty a nod. ‘Finish up the briefing, then I want the Method of Entry paperwork sorted. And no spelling mistakes this time. Let’s be ready to rock first thing Sunday night.’ Then Logan followed the Inspector out into the corridor.

The smell of smoked fish hung in the air like a manky perfume.

Voices boomed out of the open canteen door – someone telling a joke about two nuns, a druggy, and a greengrocer.

This bit of the corridor was lined with street maps of Banff and Macduff, with all the sketchy houses marked in red. Then there was the tiny alcove lined with high-viz jackets on one side and a little sink on the other. The door to the gents lurked beyond the coats, the sounds of whistling coming from within. Past the alcove was the canteen, where, apparently, one of the nuns was doing something sacrilegious with a cucumber. Then the door through to the main office.

A plainclothes officer peered out of it into the corridor. She frowned at them. ‘Sorry, but has anyone seen DS Robertson? Anyone? No?’

Laughter burst from the canteen as whatever the punchline was arrived.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Never mind.’ Then marched across the hall into the canteen, where all hilarity immediately ceased.

‘My station is infested.’ Inspector McGregor glowered at the open door for a moment, then smoothed down her black police-issue T-shirt. ‘Logan, DCI Steel tells me you identified her murder victim and a possible suspect.’

‘She did?’ He pulled his chin in, backing away from the subject. ‘That’s a bit out of character. Normally you can’t prise credit out of her with laxatives and a crowbar.’

Especially given how they’d left things: him ditching her to come back here, her storming off to Whitehills with Rennie. And Steel was giving him credit?

‘Apparently your assistance has been invaluable in progressing her investigation.’

‘OK, now you’re scaring me.’

There was a thump and a rattle. Then the door to the tiny gents loo opened and a large bearded man in a baggy suit appeared, hauling his trousers up around his armpits. He pulled the door shut. ‘Sergeant. Ma’am.’ He turned the taps on above the little sink and washed his hands. ‘I’d give it five minutes if I were you.’

McGregor narrowed her eyes. ‘Infested.’ Then she turned and marched down the corridor. ‘Logan: heel.’

Logan followed her through the main office with its collection of new people – all bashing away at the phones and laptops – out and round into the stairwell – where a lumpy man in a lumpier suit was blethering away into his mobile – and up the winding wooden steps to the first floor. Where they had to squeeze past two officers womanhandling a desk along the landing.

McGregor led the way through a blue door that had ‘BANFF & BUCHAN INSPECTOR’ printed out on a laminated sheet of paper on it, mounted beneath a removable brass nameplate: ‘WENDY MCGREGOR ~ INSPECTOR’.

As soon as Logan was inside, she slammed it shut.

Just like the Fraserburgh Inspectors’ Office, there were a pair of corkboards mounted on opposite walls. One with a map of B Division, the other a street map of Banff and Macduff. But where Fraserburgh was all beech units and sleek modern lines, this one had the same high ceilings as the rest of the station, fancy cornices, and a moulded ceiling rose. Two windows sat in the corner of the room, the left-hand one giving a rain-streaked view of the street, the one straight ahead overlooking the car park and the bay.

She stamped across the blue carpet and hurled herself into the seat behind her desk. ‘They’re like … bloody … vermin! They’ve eaten all the Maltesers from the vending machine, we can’t keep milk in the fridge,’ she leaned forwards and jabbed a finger against her mouse mat, ‘and I had a whole malt loaf here yesterday. Now there’s nothing left but the wrapper. There’s not even crumbs; they licked it clean!’

Logan stood to attention. Kept his mouth shut.

Probably safest. Just in case she felt like lashing out at someone. Best not to give her an excuse.

‘I want them gone, Logan.’ She swivelled left and right in her chair. ‘I want them gone.’

Waves surged along the darkened beach.

She hissed out a breath, then spread her hands along the desk. ‘DI Steel has put in a formal request to the Area Commander. She wants you seconded to her Major Investigation Team for the duration.’

The crafty, conniving, manipulative, old bag. So that’s why Steel was so keen to share the credit for identifying Peter Shepherd and Martin Milne. She wanted Logan running around after her again, solving her cases, doing her job for her. Just like the bad old days.

That or she wanted to keep him close, so she could torture him.

‘Yeah… Erm… About that, Guv, I mean, I’ve got a division to run.’ He held up a hand. ‘I’m not saying Peterhead, Fraserburgh, and Mintlaw can’t look after themselves, but we both know they need a grown-up in charge to make sure they’re not all off eating Plasticine and sticking marbles up their noses.’

‘Steel says you’ve proven yourself a valuable resource in progressing the case.’

‘And then there’s the dunt.’ He shifted his feet on the standard-issue blue carpet tiles. ‘We need to get set for bashing in Ricky Welsh’s door and—’

‘She says your experience and local knowledge is an invaluable asset.’

‘It’s simply not possible. I need to be here so we can—’

‘I want them gone, Logan.’

‘But—’

McGregor leaned forward. ‘I – want – them – gone!’ Jabbing the desk with every word. ‘As I see it, letting the DCI borrow you means her bunch of noisy, messy, smelly, sticky vermin get out of my station that much sooner.’

‘But the division…?’

McGregor sat back in her seat. ‘Sergeant Stubbs will fill in for you as Duty Sergeant. She’s been moaning about getting more responsibility: let’s see how she likes having to supervise every station from Portsoy to Cruden Bay. That should shut her up for a bit.’

‘Great. So my job’s a punishment now?’

‘Hopefully. And someone needs to run your team here.’

Sod standing to attention. Logan slumped into one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘What about Laura and Ricky Welsh?’

‘I was thinking Nicholson could act up while you’re away. She’s done her sergeant’s exam, it’ll be a good development opportunity for her.’

He let his head fall back. There was a dirty big spider, wandering across the ceiling rose. ‘But it was my dunt.’

‘A major drugs raid is probably a bit much for Nicholson’s first full day in the role. You’d better hand everything over to Sergeant Ashton when she gets on at three. She can green-shift it.’

‘Gagh…’ Logan’s arms dangled at his sides, fingertips brushing the carpet. ‘Please?’

‘Oh don’t be such a baby. Get out there, find Martin Milne, and get him banged up. The sooner you do, the sooner my station gets fumigated.’

Calamity’s eyes widened as she settled into Logan’s seat. She ran her hands along the desk. ‘Really?’

‘Don’t get too comfy, it’s only till I can wriggle out of the MIT.’ Logan leaned back against the firearms store door. ‘Sergeant Stubbs is your new Duty Sergeant, she’ll keep you right. And Sergeant Ashton will run the dunt on Sunday night. Other than that: it’s all yours.’

A nod. ‘Stubby and Beaky, got you.’ Then she curled her lip and sniffed. ‘Has something died in here?’

Logan narrowed his eyes. ‘Not yet, but it can be arranged.’

She was right, though: the place did have a whiff of mouldy sausages about it. To be honest, the Sergeants’ Office wasn’t the nicest room in the station. It needed a coat of paint for a start: the magnolia was peeling off around the skirting boards and cornices, and the high ceiling had a suspicious coffee-coloured stain spreading out from one corner. Hopefully not from the male toilets on the floor above.

Two desks were jammed in, back to back, each with its own manky old computer, in-tray, and phone. A line of body-worn video units blinked away in the holder, lined up like dominos. The station’s only CCTV monitor lurked on its mount in the corner, with views of the empty cellblocks and public areas in ten little windows.

Not exactly homey.

‘If anything happens you can give me a ring. But as of now, you’re acting up.’

She stroked the desk again and lowered her voice to a hissing whisper, ‘My precioussssssssssss…’

‘And make sure you keep an eye on Tufty. He’s not had a complaint against him in four months, let’s keep it that way. And if he starts banging on about time and entropy, you have my permission to kick his—’ Logan’s phone rang and he pulled it out. ‘Hold on.’ Then pressed the button. ‘McRae.’

‘Yeah, hi, Mr McRae. It’s John?’

Took a moment, but then it clicked. John Urquhart. Wee Hamish’s designated driver. ‘Give me a minute.’ He held his hand over the microphone and grimaced at Calamity. ‘Got to take this.’ Then slipped out of the door, through the bedlam of the main office, past the stairwell, down the corridor, and into the old cellblock.

Pale blue walls, grey-blue floor, an ancient wooden desk/unit thing, and two cells.

No sign of Steel’s sticky minions.

Better safe than sorry, though. Logan pulled open the door to cell number two and slipped inside. It was a small magnolia box of a room, with a glass-brick window and grey-painted concrete floor. The blue plastic mattress had been propped up against the wall, one end resting on the ankle-high concrete sleeping platform.

He closed the cell door and took his hand off the microphone. ‘Mr Urquhart.’

‘You heard the news, right? Mr Mowat passed away last night.’ His voice sounded thick and forced, as if someone was choking him. ‘Doctor says it was pretty painless.’ A sniff. ‘He would say that, though. We find out it was anything but, and he’s going home without legs.’

‘Yes. I heard. I’m sorry.’ For more than one reason.

‘Yeah. Thanks.’ Urquhart cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, funeral’s at half twelve, Friday, Old Ardoe Kirk. No flowers. Be good to see you there.’

Logan let the silence grow.

Urquhart puffed out a breath. ‘And Reuben wants me to pass on a message. He says you’ve got one last chance to get with the team. Which is kinda unique, normally he goes from nought to wrath-of-God like that.’ A clicking noise.

‘I’m a police officer.’

‘There’s a guy called Stevie Fowler going to be in your neck of the woods next week. You collect a package from him and keep it somewhere safe till Reuben tells you who to hand it over to and where.’

Even though there’d been no one banged up in the cells for over a decade, the power was still on. There was a radiator hidden inside the ceiling – behind the render – and it belted out heat, making the tips of his ears glow. ‘What’s in the package?’

‘Don’t tell anyone you’ve got it, and squirrel it really out of the way. OK?’

‘What – is – it?’

‘No idea.’

Logan raised his chin. ‘And if I don’t?’

Urquhart sighed. ‘Then Reuben sends round the three guys in the Transit van, and you get to feed the pigs.’

Not much of a choice, was it?

Become a crooked cop or die.

Samantha’s voice was warm and soft in his other ear. ‘Or you could kill Reuben. You won’t have to do favours for him if he’s dead.’

Logan licked his lips. ‘I can’t.’

‘Mr McRae, you can… Look, it doesn’t have to be like this.’ A deep breath sounded in the speaker. ‘You can still take over from Mr Mowat, like he wanted.’

‘Kill him.’ She wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘Get that rifle from the firearms store and blow his big fat head off.’

‘If you took over, you could get the guys in the van to go pick Reuben up instead. Turn him into pig food.’

From Duty Sergeant in B Division to head of Aberdeen’s biggest criminal empire in one easy step.

Yeah.

Right.

Samantha’s lips brushed his ear. ‘One way or the other, he has to die.’

Logan closed his eyes and leaned forward until his forehead thunked against the cell wall. ‘Steve Fowler. When and where?’