Читать книгу In the Cold Dark Ground - Stuart MacBride - Страница 12

Even with the window open, Interview Room Two stank. The cause sat on the low bench on the other side of the small white table. Fidgeting.

Lumpy Patrick’s arms stuck out from the sleeves of his T-shirt like dirty pipe cleaners. They were little more than bone, the muscles knotted bungee cords, stretched taut and thrumming. Skin peppered with dark pocked scars where the needles had tracked time and time again. His hands had taken on a brown-grey tinge, a mixture of dirt and … more dirt. Ragged black crescents for fingernails. Sunken cheeks and eyes the colour of Tabasco – fringed with clumps of yellow. And when he spoke, the smell of a thousand backed-up toilets spewed into the room. ‘I want you to let us off on the shoplifting.’

Logan pulled as far back into his seat as possible. Breathing through the side of his mouth. ‘And why would we do something silly like that?’

‘Cos it’s just bacon and cheese, yeah? Not like it’s anything major.’

He picked up a clear evidence bag and held it in front of Lumpy’s face. ‘For the tape, I am now showing Mr Hay the two wrappers of heroin found in his pocket when he was arrested.’ Logan put them back down again. ‘And before you deny it: we know they’re heroin, because we tested them.’

‘Ah…’ A nod sent greasy wisps of hair rocking. ‘Well, supposing I told you where you could, like, get a whole lot more of that stuff? Yeah, right?’ His pale tongue crawled out between his chapped lips, glistening. Then Lumpy leaned forward, enveloping Logan in his stench. ‘Way I hear it, Ma Campbell’s got herself a shipment coming up from Weegietown. Yeah?’ He held his filthy hands up, about two feet apart. ‘Big shipment. You like that?’

Calamity leaned back against the wall by the open window. ‘Who’s the delivery for?’

‘Oh no. We do us a deal first, yeah? I tell you stuff, we forget all about the shoplifting and that. Deal?’

‘Depends on whether you’re telling us the truth or not.’ Logan pulled out his pen and pointed it across the table. ‘Who’s it for?’

The smile that bloomed on Lumpy’s face was like watching something rot, it exposed a set of grey gums almost devoid of teeth. ‘You know Ricky Welsh?’

That got him a groan from Calamity. ‘Oh God. Not Ricky and Laura…’

‘Yeah. Big shipment coming in from Glasgow. All them Weegie drugs.’

Logan tapped his pen against his notebook. ‘Not meaning to be funny, Lumpy, but are you seriously sitting there clyping on Ricky and Laura Welsh? After what happened to Abby Ritchie?’

When Lumpy shrugged, his whole body slumped to the side, until the ends of his hair made little oily marks on the table. ‘Me civic duty, isn’t it? Can’t have Weegie imports ruining it for local businessmen. Not right.’

Yeah, because Lumpy Patrick was a fine upstanding member of the Banff and Macduff Chamber of Commerce.

Logan clicked his pen out. ‘When and where?’

‘Noooo. First we gotta talk my reward for being civic. I get…’ He tilted his head, coiling more hair on the tabletop. ‘Three thousand quid and you get me off on the shoplifting and possession. Yeah?’

Outside, a car grumbled past.

The rain hissed down on the world outside, the sound clear through the open window as the vertical blinds swayed in the breeze.

A phone rang somewhere in the depths of the station.

Calamity was the first one to crack, spluttering out a snigger that exploded into a full-on laugh.

Logan wasn’t far behind, rocking back in his chair, hooting. Letting it ring out.

Lumpy just stared at them.

Eventually the laughter rattled to a halt.

Logan sighed. Wiped his eyes. ‘Priceless.’

‘Three grand, Lumpy?’ Calamity shook her head, still grinning. ‘You’ll be lucky if we don’t bang you up for wasting police time. Remember the last red-hot tip of yours?’

He shifted on his bench. Lowered his voice and his gaze. ‘Wasn’t my fault.’

‘Any idea how many crimes we could’ve been solving, instead of traipsing round the countryside trying to find your non-existent dealer from Newcastle?’

‘Wasn’t my fault.’

‘And now you’re giving us this rubbish about Ma Campbell and the Welshes?’

Logan tapped the pad again. ‘Who do you owe three grand to?’

No answer.

‘Come on, Lumpy. You didn’t come up with that figure out of the blue, you owe someone, don’t you? Let me guess…’ Logan bit down on his bottom lip for a moment. ‘It wouldn’t be Ricky Welsh, by any chance, would it? That’d be a coincidence. You owe him a big chunk of cash, and here you are dobbing him in.’

Calamity sucked a breath through her teeth. ‘Lumpy, Lumpy, Lumpy. Clyping on someone you owe money to, just so we’ll bang them up and you won’t have to pay them back. Should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘No!’ Lumpy’s bottom lip wobbled for a bit. Then he shrugged his way down to the tabletop, so his cheek was resting against the chipped white surface. ‘Civic duty…’

‘OK. Well, we’re done here.’ Logan stood. ‘Good luck sorting things out with the Welshes. I’m sure Laura will be very understanding when she finds out you tried to weasel out of paying by informing on the pair of them. She’ll probably bake you a cake. She can send it to you, care of HMP Grampian, where you’ll be spending the next four to six months.’

‘Noooo…’ The thin arms came up over his head.

‘Officer Nicholson will show you back to your cell.’

She snapped her fingers. ‘Come on, Lumpy, on your feet. Maybe we can ask the Custody Sergeant to hose you down before beddy-byes?’

‘All right! All right, I’ll tell you.’

‘What do you think?’ Logan sat back in the visitor’s chair.

The room’s dark-blue carpet was getting a bit scuffed near the door. Large corkboards covered the two walls either side of the desk, one with a street map of Fraserburgh covered in little red, green, and yellow pins; the other with a map of B Division, surrounded with memos and official leaflets. And a poster of a kitten peeking out of an old boot.

‘And you’re sure it’s Ma Campbell?’ Inspector McGregor swivelled from side to side in her seat, chewing on one leg of her glasses. ‘Hmm…’ Her heart-shaped face creased itself into a frown, pulling wrinkles around her eyes. A thick streak of grey hair reached back above each ear, disappearing into a no-nonsense bun that matched the two no-nonsense silver pips on each epaulette fixed to her black Police Scotland T-shirt. She stopped swivelling and pointed her glasses at the only other person in the room. ‘What do you think, Hugo?’

‘What do I think?’ Inspector Fettes shrugged. Standing beneath the overhead strip light, his hair was a spectacular mop of fiery curls. As if Little Orphan Annie had a sex change and joined the rozzers. He folded his arms, hiding a pair of huge hands covered in freckles, like the ones that spattered across his nose and cheeks. ‘Honestly?’ He screwed one side of his face up. ‘I think Logan needs to go on a diet. Crashing through a garage roof? That’s too many pies, that is.’

Logan reached down and rubbed at his swollen ankle. ‘I am not fat.’

A smile twitched at the corner of McGregor’s mouth. ‘I meant, what about Patrick Hay?’

Fettes checked the clock mounted on the desk. ‘You’re still Duty Inspector. Not my problem for five more minutes.’

‘Thanks a heap.’

‘Hey, what happens on dayshift stays on dayshift. When it’s Backshift’s turn to worry about it, I’ll worry about it.’

‘Hmm…’ She went back to swivelling. Picked up a sheet of paper from her desk on the way past. ‘Ma Campbell, real name Jessica Kirkpatrick Campbell. Runs all the drugs, prostitution, and protection rackets from Paisley to East Kilbride.’ McGregor dumped the paper back on her desk. ‘I could do without this woman taking an interest in Banff and Macduff. Assuming Lumpy Patrick isn’t talking out of his crenulated bumhole again.’

Logan just shrugged.

‘It’ll take a lot of money and manpower to dunt in the Welshes’ door, and the budget’s tight enough as it is. If we don’t get a result…’

Inspector Fettes settled on the edge of the desk. ‘Well, if you want my opinion: anything that gets Ricky Welsh and his homicidal wife off the streets has got to be a good thing. It’s worth a punt.’

‘Agreed.’ She checked her watch. ‘Two minutes. Logan, anything else I need to know?’

‘Canteen vending machine’s out of chocolate.’

Fettes’s eyes widened. ‘OK, that I’m going to get right on.’

‘Wise choice.’ Inspector McGregor pulled the keyboard of her computer over and poked at it. ‘And when you’re done, be a darling and get some spare bodies and the Operational Support Unit organized so we can pay Ricky Welsh a visit, OK? Logan, do you have a date in mind?’

‘No way we’ll get it all sorted for tomorrow, not with the MIT barging about all over the place hoovering up resources, and we’re off Friday–Saturday, so … Sunday nightshift? We go in about half ten, eleven, something like that? Give ourselves plenty of time to ransack the place.’

McGregor nodded. ‘Agreed.’ Another glance at her watch. ‘And we’re done for the day. Bravo India is off to do the shopping, long live Bravo India.’ She stood and shuffled out from behind the desk. Picked up a framed photo of two boys, a girl, and a Jack Russell terrier, and slid it into a rucksack as Inspector Fettes settled into the vacated seat.

‘Mmm, still warm.’ He raised his eyebrows at Logan. ‘Right, Sergeant McRae, off you sod. I’ve got important police business to attend to.’ He grabbed the phone and pressed a button. ‘Sophie? Get me the number for those vending machine people…’

Rain pattered against the back door, making streaks on the glass, blurring the view of the car park behind the station. The doorway sat at the bottom of the back stairs, next to the tradesman’s entrance to the cellblock. A pile of Method of Entry equipmant was heaped in the space under the stairs – mini battering rams, hoolie bars, arm, shin, elbow, and kneepads, those horribly uncomfortable helmets with the neck guard that always smelled like someone had peed in them. All sitting behind a sign proclaiming, ‘DO NOT PUT ANYTHING IN THIS AREA!!!’

Inspector McGregor pulled on her gloves. ‘I don’t like it, Logan. I don’t like it one little bit.’

A shrug. ‘I know. But what are we supposed to do, ignore it?’

She turned and frowned. ‘Ignore what?’

‘Lumpy Patrick’s info.’

‘No, not Lumpy. The body in the woods.’

Ah. Logan jerked a thumb up the stairs. ‘Calamity thinks it’s a serial killer.’

‘That’s all we need. We’ll never get rid of the MIT if it is.’ A shudder. ‘I don’t like Major Investigation Teams stomping all over my division, causing trouble. They’re like locusts.’

OK…

‘She might have a point, though. What about the young woman found outside Inverurie ten days ago?’

‘Nothing like it.’ Inspector McGregor shook her head. ‘Emily Benton was beaten to death with an adjustable wrench. She didn’t have a bag over her head. And she wasn’t naked. So unless the Northeast’s answer to John Wayne Gacy is a bit confused about his MO, it’s not exactly likely, is it?’

‘Probably not.’ Logan checked his watch. Still no sign of Calamity. ‘We were a bit surprised to see you here.’

‘Think I’m welded to my desk back at Banff, do you? Office-bound? There’s more to my job than counting paperclips, Sergeant, thank you very much.’

‘OK, OK…’ Logan backed off, hands up. ‘Only making conversation, Guv. Didn’t mean anything by it.’

She sighed. ‘I was here for a MAPPA meeting, if you must know. Multi Agency Public Protection Arrangements my shiny backside. More like Morons And Police Pricking About.’ McGregor dug out her car keys. ‘Four agencies represented, and do you know what startling insight we came to? Apparently Charles Richardson still represents a very real danger to little old ladies who don’t like being raped. Two hours it took us to come up with that.’

Footsteps rattled on the stairs above. Then Calamity appeared, zipping up her high-viz jacket. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

‘Thought you’d fallen in.’

The Inspector pulled her peaked cap on and pushed the door open, letting in the shhhhhhhhhhhh of rain on tarmac. ‘Do we have any idea who the victim is? The one with the bag over his head?’

‘Nope.’ Logan followed her out into the downpour. ‘PF won’t let them take the bag off till the post mortem. Steel was all for ripping it off then and there, but you know what the Fiscal’s like.’

McGregor stopped beside a shiny grey BMW with mud spattered up around the wheel arches. ‘Suppose it’s just as well. No point compromising any trace evidence left inside the bag.’ She pointed her keyfob and the car’s lights flashed. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance we could solve the whole thing on our own tomorrow, is there? I don’t want to get back to work on Sunday night and find the MIT have moved in permanently. Like ticks on a dog.’

‘First they’re locusts, now they’re ticks?’

‘And leeches, and cockroaches, and fleas.’ She popped open her door then slid into the driver’s seat. ‘I don’t like my station being infested, Logan. I don’t like it at all.’ Then clunk, the door shut and she drove off.

Calamity hunched her shoulders up around her ears, rain bouncing off the brim of her bowler and the shoulders of her high-viz. ‘Is it just me, or is the guvnor getting weirder?’

‘Probably.’ Logan limped towards the Big Car. ‘Come on then: hometime.’

‘Night, Maggie. Night, Hector.’ Logan zipped up his fleece and stepped out into the rain. Pulled the blue door shut behind him. Squeezed between the two patrol cars that sat outside the tradesman’s entrance – one with a flat tyre, the other with a cracked windscreen – and onto the road.

Banff Police Station loomed in the orange sodium glow: three storeys of rain-slicked stone, with fancy gables, cornicing, twiddly bits over the windows, and urns on the roof. A small tree had sprouted in the thin fake balcony that jutted out over the main door. Water dripped from its leaves, ticking down onto the illuminated police sign. Making little sapphire splashes.

Lights shone from the bottom-left windows, but the rest of the place was in darkness. Much like the street. Four in the afternoon, and the whole town had been swallowed by gloom.

From here, Banff Bay gleamed like a slab of pewter, hissing and spitting against the beach. Nothing between him and the North Sea but a small car park, a stretch of tarmac, and a chest-high wall of speckled concrete.

He hunched his shoulders, turned, and limped along the road, heading past the ancient buildings, their pastel-coloured walls slick with rain. Every step sent needles jabbing into his ankle. Stupid garage roofs…

There weren’t many people on the streets, just an old woman fighting with the umbrella in her left hand and the Doberman attached to her right. Both of which seemed determined to go in opposite directions.

Left at the discount store with its racks of high-viz jackets sitting out the front, dripping. Up the road and out into what passed for a town square at the end of Low Street, where the squat sandstone lump of the Biggar Fountain looked like an evil gothic cupcake, complete with buttresses and crowned cap.

Someone had wedged three traffic cones into the structure, adding to the general pointiness.

Logan’s phone launched into ‘The Imperial March’ again. Brilliant. Should never have turned the damn thing back on.

He ducked into the doorway of the takeaway and pulled his mobile out. Hit the button. ‘For God’s sake, what now?’

‘Been calling you for ages. Where the hell have you been?’

‘Doing my job. Try it sometime.’

‘You think your job’s tough? Try leading a Major Investigation Team in a sodding murder case, when the sodding pathologist and sodding SEB won’t let you take the sodding bag off your sodding victim’s sodding head.’ Her voice went up in volume, as if she was playing to an audience. ‘How am I supposed to ID someone when I can’t see their face? What use is that?’

‘Are you finished?’

‘Don’t suppose you’ve had anyone reported missing with a bag over their head, have you? Because that’s the only way I’m going to get an ID.’ A sniff. ‘I’m cold, I’m wet, and I need a drink. Or six. Better call it a bottle.’

‘Tough.’

The old lady made it around the corner, still struggling with dog and brolly.

‘Lazy sod’s no’ doing the post mortem till ten tomorrow.’

‘At least you can get fingerprints.’ He shifted the phone to his other ear. ‘Look, I’m kind of busy here, so if you don’t mind…?’

‘Fat lot of good fingerprints did us. Put them through our fancy new handheld scanner and do you know what came up? Sod all.’ There was a sigh, then Steel’s voice took on a bit of a whine. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy joining the team, do you? If I have to put up with Rennie much longer he’ll be singing soprano for the rest of his life. And Becky’s no’ much better: woman looks like someone’s jammed a traffic cone up her backside.’

‘No chance.’ Logan hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket. Took a breath, then lumbered out into the rain, round the corner and up the steep narrow brae – wincing with every needle-filled step – past the grey row of little shops on one side, and the bland slab of buildings on the other. Popping out onto Castle Street.

His phone went again. He yanked it out as he limped across the road. ‘No, I am not joining your bloody MIT. Leave me alone!’

There was a pause. Just long enough for Logan to pass the solicitor’s and the butcher’s.

Then: ‘Mr McRae. Long time, no speak.’ A man’s voice, with more than a hint of Aberdonian burr to it.

Logan slowed to a trot as he reached the building next to the Co-op. Stopped with one hand on the door. ‘Can I help you?’

‘It’s me: John.’

Nope, no idea.

‘John Urquhart? I bought your flat?’

Logan flinched. Snatched his hand back as if the door had burnt it. Licked his lips. ‘How did you get this number, Mr Urquhart?’

‘Call me John, yeah? Known each other for what, six, seven years, right? John.’

‘Is there something wrong with the flat?’ Because if there was he could take a flying leap. No way Logan was paying to fix anything. Things were bad enough as it was.

‘I’m calling on behalf of Mr Mowat. He wants to see you.’

And now, they were worse.