‘No guarantee it’s him, Tufty. We’re just doing a bit of legwork. Making sure we don’t waste anyone’s time.’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘When Mrs Milne reported her husband missing, did you go talk to everyone at his company?’
‘No one had seen him since Friday. He bunked off early, about half three, which was par for the course.’
‘What about Shepherd?’
He shrugged. ‘Didn’t ask. We were looking for Milne, didn’t even know Shepherd existed.’
Which was fair enough.
A handful of bodies tramped through the rain, bent nearly double under its relentless assault. All the cars had their headlights on, edging along not much faster than the people on the pavement.
‘What about this Brian person, the other partner?’
Something crawled across Tufty’s face, wrinkling bits of it, before fading away, leaving him smooth as a baby’s backside. ‘Got him: Brian Chapman. Financial Director. Big sticky-out mole on his forehead.’
‘That it?’
‘Didn’t know where Milne was, and seemed genuinely worried when I told him we’d found Milne’s car abandoned, Sunday night.’
‘Sergeant McRae? I’ve got three speeding tickets over the last six years and that’s it.’
‘Vehicles?’
‘Two registered at his property: a Mitsubishi Warrior and a Porsche Nine-Eleven.’
That explained the speeding tickets. Mind you, you’d have to be an optimist to own a Porsche in Pennan. A rear-wheel-drive sports car? And that hill? In winter? Be lucky if you got it out of the garage half the year.
‘Do you want me to check if he made any complaints?’
‘Please. And the phone number.’
The sandstone spire of Banff Parish Church went by the passenger window. A group of OAPs, dressed like carrion crows, shuffled in through the door, single file. A couple of floral tributes sat either side of the entrance as the minister shook hands with each and every one of them. Probably holding a sweepy in his head as to who he’d have to bury next.
Tufty chewed on his lip. ‘Sarge, are you sure DCI Steel isn’t going to blow a hairy when she finds out we didn’t come clean about Shepherd?’
The road swept around to the left, then past the football pitch and the golf course.
‘Sarge?’
‘Tell me about Martin Milne.’
He blew out a breath. Screwed up his face for a moment. Then, ‘OK. Martin Carter Milne, thirty, BA in business from Robert Gordons University, married to Katie Milne, one child: Ethan, six. Drives a dark-blue Aston Martin DB9. Very swish. Really wanted a go in it, but Traffic pulled rank.’
‘Impounded?’
‘Secure parking in Mintlaw. Mrs Milne can pick it up anytime she likes.’ The Big Car bumped over the bridge. The River Deveron was a swollen grey snake, rasping at its banks below, surging out into the bay. ‘Milne got a caution for aggravated assault three years ago. Fiscal didn’t take it to court because he was wading in to break up a fight at a Bloo Toon, Elgin City match. Left a guy with a fractured cheekbone and a broken arm.’
‘Bit of a bruiser then.’ Logan scanned the barbecue photograph for Milne.
He was in the middle, overseeing the ritual burning of the sausages. Red T-shirt with the same Viking logo as Peter Shepherd, only he’d left his sleeves on. Big arms. Not over-muscled like Shepherd’s, but thick enough to do some damage.
‘Sergeant McRae? I’ve got records of Peter Shepherd’s house being burgled last year. The thief got away with an antique gramophone and a set of three regency candlesticks. All recovered. He’s made four complaints in the last six months about vandalism. And there’s two ongoing investigations about his business premises being broken into in Peterhead.’
‘Ongoing since when?’
‘Three years.’
So for ‘ongoing’ read, ‘no one has a clue’.
‘Just in case, better give me his work number too.’ Logan turned to Tufty. ‘What are they called?’
‘GCML: Geirrød Container Management and Logistics, Peterhead.’
‘You get that, Maggie?’
‘Do you want me to text them through to your phone?’
‘Thanks.’
‘And are you coming back to the station anytime soon, Sergeant McRae? Only the MIT are being … difficult.’
‘Sorry. It’s oot-and-aboot for me and the loon. If anyone asks, we’re chasing up a misper.’
And with any luck, Steel would believe it.
‘And you’ve not seen Mr Shepherd since Friday?’ Logan pinned his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he wrote the details down in his notebook. Leaning into the corners as the Big Car wheeched along the winding road.
‘Yup, he’s off seeing a supplier in Chesterfield.’
Oh no he wasn’t. He was dead.
‘But you haven’t heard from him?’
‘Nah. Don’t usually when he’s off on his travels. Likes to keep a low profile does our Pete, so it’s all text messages and emails.’
‘OK, well, if you hear from him, tell him we’d like a word.’
‘Will do.’
Logan hit the button and ended the call. ‘GCML say Shepherd’s off down south, buying them some new containers.’
Tufty overtook a tractor with mud-spattering tyres. ‘So maybe it isn’t him we found. Maybe it’s someone else. Maybe he’ll turn up tomorrow with a bunch of containers and a confused look on his face.’
‘Maybe.’ But it wasn’t likely.
Logan tried the other number again. Got the answering machine again.
‘Hello, you’ve reached Pete Shepherd. I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Thanks.’ Then a pause. Bleeeeeeeep.
He hung up.
‘Shepherd’s still not answering his mobile.’
A nod from the driver’s seat. ‘Well, he can’t, can he? Not if he’s dead. Roaming charges are probably extortionate from the afterlife.’
‘…but that’s nonsense, isn’t it? Of course time exists. And do you know what I think?’
Logan ruffled the copy of the Aberdeen Examiner he’d taken from Mrs Milne. ‘Nope.’ Wasn’t interested either, but there was no point telling Tufty that, he’d only sulk again.
So instead, Logan skimmed an article on the new development going into the gap where Aberdeen’s Saint Nicholas House used to be. Not exactly riveting, but it was better than listening to Tufty rambling on about physics. ‘“WE’LL NEVER STOP PROTESTING AGAINST THE EVIL CONCRETE RUBIK’S CUBE!” SAYS LOCAL CAMPAIGNER.’ Who bore an uncanny resemblance to a scrotum in a shirt and tie.
Outside the car windows, rain lashed the fields and bushes and trees, making the tarmac shine in the Big Car’s headlights as they wound