In the Cold Dark Ground. Stuart MacBride

11

      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,