In the Cold Dark Ground. Stuart MacBride
Blood-Red Line. Subtitled, How Malcolm McLennan Founded Edinburgh’s Biggest Criminal Empire. The author’s name was picked out in white, ‘L. P. MOLLOY’, over a montage of towerblocks, Edinburgh Castle, somewhere dark in the Old Town, and a line of crime-scene tape. With a few tasteful blood spatters thrown in for good measure.
L. P. Malloy had to be a pseudonym. No one would be thick enough to write an exposé about Malcolm McLennan and use their real name. Not if they wanted to keep all their fingers. Surprised anyone was brave enough to publish it.
‘Oh come on, Onion, be a good cat for Aunty Aggie.’
Logan flicked through the pages. A biro inscription was scrawled on the title page, ‘TO PETER, YOU’RE A SICK BASTARD FOR READING THIS STUFF, BUT I LOVE YOU ANYWAY. MARTIN XXX!’ Bit gushing, but there you go.
There was a wodge of printed photos in the middle of the book – most in black-and-white and copied from newspaper reports. But a couple were clearly crime-scene pics, reproduced in vivid gory colour. One of a young man in a Seventies suit with his throat slashed, lying crumpled in a toilet stall. One of a burned-out car with blackened human remains in the driver’s seat. A woman lying twisted beneath a railway bridge. And one of a naked man, lying on his back in some woods, with a bag over his head.
Logan stood at the window, looking down into the little alley. The paving slabs glittered with water, the puddles rippled in the battering rain. He pressed the talk button on his Airwave handset. ‘OK, that’s great news. We’ll get it set up soon as I’ve handed over to the MIT.’
Inspector McGregor’s voice crackled from the speaker. ‘Glad to hear you’re being so grown-up about it.’
Aunty Aggie bustled out of the front door, hauling the jacket hood up over her quiff. She disappeared into the downpour.
‘No point fighting the system, is there? Besides, I’ve got a dunt to organize.’ And maybe this way Steel would be too busy running around trying to find Martin Milne to be a pain in Logan’s backside.
‘Make sure you keep me up to date then.’ And McGregor was gone.
‘SARGE?’
Logan stuck his head out of the bedroom door. ‘WHAT?’
‘YOU WANT A TEA?’
‘HAVE YOU FOUND ME A NEXT OF KIN YET?’
‘WAITING TO HEAR BACK. SO: TEA?’
Shouldn’t really be helping themselves to the contents of a murder victim’s cupboards… But it wasn’t as if Peter Shepherd would have grudged them a cuppa. ‘THANKS.’
He went back to the bedroom and opened the bedside cabinet. Handkerchiefs, a watch, various flavours of chapstick, pens, mixed with bits-and-bobs that would never come in handy again. Next drawer down was all socks. The one below that, pants and boxers. All neatly folded.
The cabinet on the other side had a huge remote control in it, along with a box of tissues and some lubricant in the top drawer. So no prizes for guessing what normally played on the huge wall-mounted TV opposite the bed. Next drawer down: more socks and some aftershave. Bottom drawer: more underwear.
Logan settled onto the edge of the duvet and picked up the remote. It was about three times bigger than it had any right being, with a corresponding number of extra buttons. He pressed the one with the power icon on it. There was a pause, then the TV played a three-note tune and displayed the manufacturer’s logo.
Instead of defaulting to BBC One, the screen displayed a series of folders and icons under the title ‘MEDIA HUB’. He picked a folder marked ‘CHILE 13’ and a slideshow popped into life: photos of alpaca and mountains and two men backpacking through stunning scenery, accompanied by a soundtrack of something bland played on the panpipes. Lots of photos of Peter Shepherd grinning and posing for the camera.
Logan tried another one. ‘SHETLAND 09’: a much younger Shepherd, tootling about in an open-top sports car with a woman in rock-chick chic. This time it had some sort of Jimmy Shand accordion soundtrack.
‘DUBAI 14’: Shepherd and two men in denim shirts and chinos, wheeching about through sand dunes in a four-by-four, riding camels, buying things in a souk, drinking cocktails on a rooftop terrace with a dirty big skyscraper in the background. Middle Eastern music.
‘STUFF&THANGS’: …
OK, that was … different.
Tufty appeared in the doorway with a mug. Then froze, staring at the TV. ‘Oh.’
On the screen, three people were caught in a very intimate tableau – a middle-aged woman with long blonde hair, Peter Shepherd, and Martin Milne. She was on all fours, on the bed in this very room, with Milne at the back – doggy style – and Shepherd in her mouth. A classic spit roast. All done to a backing track of classical music. The image was high-res, not taken on a phone, or a webcam. Probably an expensive SLR digital camera, on a tripod going by the shadows on the bedroom carpet.
Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Don’t think we should be watching porn in a dead guy’s house, Sarge.’
The next image was the same three people, only this time Milne was in the middle.
‘Ooh…’ Tufty flinched. ‘Yeah, definitely shouldn’t be watching it.’
This time it was just the two gents. Which explained the dedication in the book.
Pink rushed up Tufty’s face. ‘I’ll be downstairs.’
‘Bloody hammering it down.’ Steel barged past Logan into the hallway, with Becky hot on her heels. Steel gave a little shake, like a terrier, and ran both hands through her wet hair, smoothing it down to her head. Then flicked the water off onto the tiles. ‘This better no’ be a wild goose chase, Laz, or I’m going to forget I’m a lady and do things to your bumhole that’d make Genghis Khan blush.’
Becky closed the door on the downpour, brown curls plastered to her forehead. ‘Urgh… Need water wings just to walk here from the car. Don’t you teuchters do proper weather, or are you too busy shagging sheep?’
‘DS McKenzie: stop mocking the afflicted. It’s no’ their fault they’re all inbred.’ Steel shoogled out of her coat and handed it to her sidekick, then turned and thumped Logan on the chest. ‘Come on then, Mr Mysterious, make with the ID.’
He took a sip of tea. ‘Have they taken the bag off your victim’s head yet?’
Steel checked her watch. ‘PM’s no’ till ten. You’ve got five minutes to astound me.’
‘Peter Shepherd.’ Then he turned and marched up the stairs.
‘Who the hell is Peter Shepherd when he’s at home?’
‘He was Martin Milne’s partner.’
Steel hurried after him, boots clunking on the steps. ‘Business or sex?’
‘Bit of both. And he’s got a narwhal tattoo on his upper left arm.’
In the bedroom, Logan pointed the remote at the TV and got the slideshow rolling again. This time, the classical soundtrack was accompanied by Milne and Shepherd having a threesome with a redhead in stripy holdups and a Zorro mask.
‘Kinky.’ Steel pursed her lips. ‘Course, she’s a bit chunky for me, but I’d no’ mind with the lights off. Just gives you more to hold onto.’ She grinned over her shoulder at Becky. ‘How about you?’
DS McKenzie shuddered. ‘No thanks.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Logan hit pause and peered at the remote. Then pressed the button marked ‘ZOOM’, fiddling with the direction arrows until Shepherd’s tattoo filled the screen. It was a detailed illustration of a horned whale’s head emerging from the sea, contained in a ring of rope, with scallop shells around the outside, and the motto ‘CORNEUM CETE SUNT OPTIMUS’