In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  Oh. ‘I see.’

  ‘Please?’

  Logan pushed through the door into a warm, small-ish room with a couple of leather settees arranged on two sides of a glass coffee table. Tasteful flower arrangements. Framed testimonials on the walls. An understated desk with a brass carriage clock on it – no computer, no brochures, no paperwork. And no sign of anyone. ‘I’m a police officer, I can’t… If they find out I’m sitting vigil with Wee Hamish—’

  ‘He’s dying and he wants to see you. It matters to him.’

  ‘I…’ Logan’s shoulders slumped, dragged down by the weight of all the knives stabbed between them. ‘I can’t promise anything. But I’ll try, OK? If I can.’

  ‘Thanks. He’s looking forward to it.’ And Urquhart was gone.

  Logan stood there, frowning down at his phone till the screen went dark.

  Wee Hamish Mowat.

  Oh, Chief Superintendent Napier would love that. Gah… Why did the Ginger Whinger have to be sniffing about now? Why couldn’t he have waited a month or two till it was all over?

  By then, with Hamish dead, Reuben would’ve taken over. And after he’d finished killing everyone, Logan would probably be facedown dead in a ditch somewhere and wouldn’t have to worry about getting hauled up in front of Professional Standards and done for corruption.

  Yeah, that was it: look on the bright side.

  Logan put his phone away. Scrubbed a hand across his face.

  Oh God…

  And when he lowered them, a thin man in a black suit was standing in front of him, head lowered, hands clasped together. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ Then an eyebrow went up. ‘Sergeant McRae? Well, this is a pleasant surprise.’ He stuck his hand out for shaking. ‘I’m not used to you coming to us.’

  Logan shook. ‘Andy.’

  ‘Come, come.’ He turned, beckoning Logan to follow him as he stalked towards a curtain behind the desk. Pulled it back to expose a plain wooden door. ‘Tea? Or we have a rather nice coffee machine. It’s new. I think there may even be biscuits.’

  Logan followed him through into a bare breezeblock room, with a small metal table in the corner, a kettle, fridge, microwave, sink, and a huge shiny chrome coffee maker. Posters lined the walls – displaying different brands of coffin with all the associated added extras.

  ‘Sit, sit.’ Andy pointed at the plastic chairs tucked under the table. ‘Now, tea or coffee?’

  Logan sat. A heady whiff of pine air freshener pervaded the room, along with something much darker seeping under a door through to the rear of the building. ‘I need to arrange a funeral.’

  ‘I see. In that case, I think a cappuccino.’ He poked and fiddled with the chrome monster. ‘May I ask the name of the deceased and when they passed?’

  ‘Samantha Mackie. And it’ll be the day after tomorrow. She’s not dead yet.’

  The eyebrow climbed higher up Andy’s forehead. ‘Sergeant McRae, we here at Beaton and Macbeth consider ourselves to be a very progressive firm, but we do draw the line at interring the living.’

  ‘It’s my girlfriend. Well, partner. Sort of. She’s been in a coma for years, they’re … we’re withdrawing life support on Friday. She can’t breathe on her own. So… Yeah. Friday.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Andy’s fingers twitched and clicked off one another. ‘And I took you back here. I’m so sorry, Sergeant McRae, please, let’s repair to the chapel of rest and I can—’

  ‘No. It’s OK. Here’s fine.’ Logan took a deep breath. ‘I need a black coffin with a red silk lining. And do you have anything with skulls-and-crossbones on it?’

  The Sergeant’s Hoose sulked on the corner, diagonally opposite Banff station and a lot less impressive. Large patches of rough stonework poked through the crumbling render on the gable wall, one of the windows there still boarded up. Have to do something about that. The front was a bit better. Kind of. If you ignored the entire right-hand side with its sealed off doors and windows.

  Logan switched the carrier bags to his other hand and dug his keys out. Let himself in. Dumped the carrier bags.

  ‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s home.’ He clicked the hall light on, took his soggy fleece off, and went to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Where’s Daddy’s little kittenfish?’

  No reply. No thump of fuzzy paws battering down the stairs. No prooping or meeping.

  ‘Cthulhu?’

  Nope.

  Lazy wee sod was probably still asleep.

  Logan picked up the mail from the mat, flicking through it on his way to the kitchen. Bill. Bill. Bill. You May Already Have Won!!! Donate To Charity Now! Buy A Hearing Aid. Do You Need New Windows And Doors?

  He dumped the lot on the table and stuck the kettle on, then limped through to the living room while it groaned and pinged towards a boil.

  The answering machine glowered at him with its angry red eye. He jabbed the button and a flat electronic voice growled from the speaker. ‘MESSAGE ONE:’ Then Helen’s replaced it, every word carving out a jagged chunk from his chest. ‘Hello?… Logan, are you there?… Please pick up if you’re there. … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to end like that. I…’ A sigh. ‘Look, this was a mistake. I just… I wanted to hear your voice again.’

  Bleeeeeep.

  His finger hovered over the delete button a moment too long.

  ‘MESSAGE TWO:’ A harsh, smoky voice gravelled out into the room. Steel. ‘Laz? Where the hell are you? Why’ve you no’ called me—’

  Delete.

  ‘MESSAGE THREE: Mr McRae? It’s Sheila here from Deveronside Family Glazing Solutions…’

  A soft meyowp came from the doorway behind him, then a small fuzzy body leaned into his leg with a thump – brown and grey and black stripes leaving hairy trace fibres on his damp Police-Scotland-Issue trousers. She wrapped her big fluffy tail around his leg, adding yet another layer of hair.

  ‘Where have you been then?’

  ‘…let you know that your new windows have come in.’

  ‘About time, been waiting six weeks.’

  He bent down and picked Cthulhu up, turned her over so she was lying on her back, white fuzzy tummy on display as she stretched out her arms and curled her big white feet. He rubbed her belly, getting a thick rumbling purr in return.

  ‘So if you want to come in any time in the next week or so, we can get the invoice sorted out.’

  Bleeeeeep.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe how much money Daddy spent on a custom coffin today.’

  ‘MESSAGE FOUR: Logan, it’s your mother. You know I don’t like talking to this infernal machine. Why on earth you can’t simply—’

  Delete.

  ‘Going to have to live on lentil soup and the cheap cat food for a couple of years. Sorry about that.’

  ‘MESSAGE FIVE: Hello, my name’s Debora McLintock, Louise at Sunny Glen gave me your number. It’s my role to help families when the decision has been taken to end—’

  Delete.

  ‘YOU HAVE NO MORE MESSAGES.’

  He played Helen’s message again. Then deleted the lot.

  Samantha lay back on the couch with her legs across Logan’s lap. ‘Any good?’

  He frowned up from the book. ‘Put it this way: JC Williams is no MC Beaton. PC Munro and the Poisoner’s Cat? Nothing but a half-baked Hamish Macbeth rip-off.’ Logan sniffed. ‘She’s only getting media attention because she’s a local author. If this wasn’t set in Banff, no one would touch it with a sharny stick.’

  ‘So don’t read it then.’ She dragged her fingers through her hair, working a chunk of it into a scarlet plait. ‘Or at least stop moaning about it.’

  ‘I mean, listen to this: “Och, hud your weesht,” said PC Robbie Munro dismissively, “the lad’s clearly been poisoned. His tongue’s all black and that always happens when someone’s given arsenic.”’ Logan lowered the book. ‘Which is utter bollocks. The only way you can tell someone’s taken arsenic is with a blood toxicology screen
.’

  His left foot rested on a pillow on the coffee table, a bag of not-so-frozen peas balanced on the ankle. He stretched the joint out, flaring his toes. Ankle was a bit numb from the cold, but it was better than the throbbing ache. And at least the swelling was going down.

  Samantha wriggled her legs. ‘You know, you don’t have to live on lentil soup. Soon as I’m gone there’ll be no more care-home bills to pay.’

  ‘And who the hell poisons people with arsenic? It’s not the eighteen nineties: do you have any idea how difficult it is to get hold of arsenic these days?’

  ‘Rat poison.’

  ‘Thought that was warfarin?’

  ‘Not all of it. Maybe you could go on holiday or something? Head over to Spain and see Helen.’

  Yeah, because the last time worked out so well.

  He went back to his book. ‘I’m not talking about this again.’

  ‘And ant poison. Why not?’

  ‘Can we just leave it, please?’

  ‘And weed killer. What are you scared of?’

  He poked the book. ‘I’ve read this sentence three times now.’

  ‘Come on, Logan, it’s not as if you don’t get urges. I’ve seen your internet browser history and—’

  ‘You’re not dead, OK? That’s why not.’ He thumped the book down on the coffee table. ‘You’re… I don’t know what you are. I don’t know what we are any more. You’re lying on your back, hooked up to all those machines in the care home, and I’m sitting here arguing with a bloody hallucination!’

  ‘Logan—’

  ‘No wonder Helen…’ He picked up the book and slammed it down again. ‘Five years since the fire. Five years of you lying there. We only went out for two. I’ve known coma you nearly three times as long as the real thing.’

  She pulled her legs from his lap and stood. Then knelt in front of the couch, holding his elevated knee. ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘If you’d died five years ago, I could’ve mourned and moved on. But this…’

  ‘I’ll go if you want me to.’

  The doorbell launched into its flat, two-tone, bing-bong.

  Samantha sighed. Hung her head. ‘Saved by the bell.’

  ‘I don’t know what I want.’ He stood. ‘But this isn’t helping.’

  Bing-bong.

  ‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ Logan headed into the hall, unlatched the Yale, and opened the door.

  The man on the pavement smiled, making the pockmarks on his cheeks dimple. He had a black umbrella, black overcoat, black suit, and black shoes. The only concession to colour was the green silk shirt. He stuck his hand out. ‘Mr McRae. You ready?’

  Logan frowned at him. Why did he look familiar? …

  Oh.

  Damn.

  Something curdled deep inside Logan’s stomach.

  ‘You’re John Urquhart.’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’ Urquhart shrugged, then he turned his offered handshake into a hitchhiker’s thumb and jiggled it at a black Audi TT. ‘Thought it might be best if I gave you a lift, like. Mr Mowat’s really looking forward to seeing you. Been ages.’

  Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘This a request, or an order?’

  ‘Nah, don’t…’A grin. ‘It’s not an order. God, no. If it was an order it wouldn’t be me, it’d be three huge guys with a sawn-off, some duct tape, and a Transit van. Nah, this is just in case you and Mr Mowat have a wee dram or something. Don’t want you getting pulled over for drink-driving, right? That’d be embarrassing.’ The thumb came around and Urquhart poked himself in the chest with it. ‘Designated driver.’

  So it was go with Urquhart and have a drink with a dying gangster, or wait at home for the three guys and an unmarked van.

  Not much of a choice.

  And Napier would twist either into a sign of guilt, even the duct-tape-and-van option. Tell me, Sergeant McRae, don’t you think it’s suspicious that Wee Hamish Mowat’s boys picked you to abduct? Why would they pick you? What makes you so special to the man who runs Aberdeen’s underbelly?

  Still, at least this way he’d get to keep all his teeth.

  ‘OK.’ Logan let his shoulders droop. ‘Let me get some shoes on.’

  The Audi purred through Oldmeldrum. Past the knots of newbuilds lurking beneath the streetlights, the old church, the garage, bungalows, old-fashioned Scottish houses, and out into the fields again. The purr turned to a growl as they hit the limits.

  Logan turned in his seat, looking out through the rear window as the town receded into the darkness.

  Urquhart raised his eyebrows. ‘You OK?’

  He faced front again. ‘Used to know someone who lives there.’

  ‘Right.’

  The Audi’s windscreen wipers swished and thunked back and forth across the glass. Swish, thunk. Swish, thunk.

  Urquhart tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the wipers. ‘No offence, but your house is a bit… Let’s call it a development opportunity, yeah? Fix up the outside: some render, bit of pointing, coat of paint. Get those boarded-up windows ripped out and replaced with a bit of decent UPVC.’ He frowned, bit at his bottom lip for a bit. ‘What’s the inside like? Bit manky?’

  ‘Work in progress.’

  ‘Cool. Cool. So spend a couple of grand – ten, fifteen tops – and you could probably flip it for a pretty decent profit. I could help, if you like?’ He reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a business card. ‘Got a couple of boys I use. Did three places for me last year. Good finish too, none of your cowboy rubbish. They’ll do it at cost, you know, as you and me go way back.’

  Logan turned the card over. Then over again. ‘The house belongs to Police Scotland. I just live there.’

  ‘Ah. Not quite so cool.’

  And let’s face it – their last transaction didn’t exactly help.

  Trees and fields swept past in the gloom. A handful of cars coming the other way, stuck behind a big green tractor with its orange light flashing. The windscreen wipers played their mournful tune.

  Urquhart tapped his fingers along the steering wheel again. Then, ‘You want I should put the radio on?’

  It was going to be a long night.

  6

  On the other side of the glass, Aberdeen twinkled in the distance and darkness like a loch of stars.

  Logan leaned against the windowsill.

  The red, white, and green flashing lights of an airplane tracked across the sky, making for Dyce airport.

  Muffled voices came through the door behind him – it sounded like an argument, but the words were too faint to tell what it was about.

  And then the door opened and John Urquhart stepped out into the corridor. Closed the door behind him. ‘Sorry about that.’

  Logan nodded at it. ‘Reuben?’

  ‘Nah. Doctor’s kicking up a fuss. Says Mr Mowat’s too weak to see people, he needs to sleep. So Mr Mowat tells him to pick which kneecap he’d like removed with a jigsaw, and suddenly Dr Kildare decides that visitors are fine.’

  ‘Funny how that works.’

  ‘Yup.’ Urquhart joined him at the window, frowning out into the darkness. ‘Reuben’s…’ A hissing sound, as Urquhart sucked at his teeth. ‘Yeah. Going to be interesting times ahead.’

  Logan turned his back on the darkness. ‘Is he planning something?’

  ‘The Reubster? The Reubenator? Ruby-Ruby-Reuben?’ A little laugh. ‘Anyway, you can go in now.’ He opened the door and held it for Logan.

  Picture windows made up two walls, the view hidden away behind louvre blinds. It was dark in here, with a wooden floor, a couple of leather armchairs by the French doors, a settee and a coffee table opposite them in the gloom. And right in the middle, lit by a single standard lamp: a hospital bed – set up where its occupant would have an uninterrupted view out over the garden and the city beyond. A sweet earthy scent filled the room, presumably coming from the pair of jo
ss sticks on a low table, their twin ribbons of smoke coiling around each other like ghosts.

  The bed was grey and huge, bracketed by banks of equipment and drip stands, all hooked up to the paper skeleton lying there.

  Wee Hamish Mowat’s skin was milk-bottle pale, his veins making dark green-and-blue road maps under the surface. Beneath the liver spots and bruises. Wisps of grey clung to his scalp in demoralized clumps. Cheekbones like knives, his nose large and hooked – getting bigger as the rest of him shrank. Watery grey eyes blinked out above the plastic lip of an oxygen mask.

  Had to admit that the doctor was right: Wee Hamish didn’t look up to visitors. He didn’t look up to anything at all.

  Logan pulled on a smile and walked over, trainers squeaking on the wooden floor. ‘Hamish, you’re looking well.’

  A trembling hand reached up and pulled the oxygen mask away. ‘Logan…’ Voice so thin and dry it was barely there. ‘You came.’

  ‘Of course I came.’ Logan stood at the foot of the bed.

  A shape lumbered out of the gloom: a bear of a man; tall and broad, with a massive gut on him. His face was a landscape of scar tissue, knitted together by a patchy grey beard. Dark sunken eyes. A nose that was little more than a knot of squint cartilage. All done up in a sharp suit, tie, and shiny shoes.

  When he smiled, it was like small children screaming. ‘Well, well, well.’ The words were thick and flat, dampened by that broken nose. ‘If it isn’t Sergeant McRae.’

  Logan didn’t move. ‘Reuben.’

  A bone-pale hand trembled into the air above the sheets. ‘Boys…’

  Reuben turned to Wee Hamish and his smile softened. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Mowat, the sergeant and me have come to an accord, like. Haven’t we, Sergeant?’

  The machines beeped and hissed and pinged.

  Then Logan nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ Wee Hamish took a hit on the oxygen, closing his eyes as he breathed. Then sank deeper into his pillows. ‘John … can you get … Logan a seat?… And … bring the Glenfiddich. … Three glasses.’ More oxygen.

  ‘Yes, Mr Mowat.’ Urquhart hurried off to the corner and came back with a wooden chair. He placed it beside the bed, level with Wee Hamish’s elbow.

  Logan sat. Scraped the chair around by thirty degrees to keep Reuben in sight. ‘How are you feeling, Hamish?’