In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

‘But, Guv, I wasn’t doing any—’

  ‘You heard: milk and two sugars. And I hear rumours someone’s got a malt loaf planked somewhere. I’ll have a slice of that too.’

  ‘But, Gu-uv…’

  ‘Now, Detective Sergeant.’

  His bottom lip got poutier. Then he turned and shuffled out of the room. Closed the door behind him.

  Steel crossed her arms and frowned at Logan. ‘Who crapped in your porridge then?’

  ‘I don’t have to—’

  ‘Having a go at poor wee Rennie. Police Scotland doesn’t approve of workplace bullying, you grumpy old sack of—’

  ‘Oh come off it, you say worse to him all the time! And—’

  ‘You were being a dick, Laz. Spoiling for a fight.’ Steel shook her head. ‘With Rennie. Be like kicking a puppy, then sticking it in a tumble dryer with a bucket of broken glass. Then setting fire to the tumble dryer.’

  Yeah.

  Logan sighed. Screwed his face up into a knot.

  She was right: picking on Rennie wasn’t fair. Steel’s DS might be an idiot, but it wasn’t his fault Logan had barely slept. Wasn’t his fault Reuben loomed over everything like a massive rabid dog.

  ‘Sorry.’ Logan ran a hand across the stubble on top of his head. ‘Been a tough week. I’ll apologize.’

  ‘Don’t care how rough it is, you don’t ruin a perfectly good tumble dryer.’ She took a puff on her e-cigarette. ‘Going to be a total nightmare to live with now. He’ll be slumping about with a face like a cat’s bum, all martyred and woe-is-me.’

  ‘I’ll talk to him.’ Logan looked away. Outside, the violet sky was fringed with pre-dawn blue and pink. The lights of Macduff twinkled on the other side of the bay. ‘We’re switching Samantha off tomorrow. Life support.’

  A sigh. Then Steel took hold of his arm and squeezed. ‘You going to be OK?’

  ‘Yeah. Course.’ He frowned. ‘Don’t know.’ Then let out a long, slow breath. ‘Anyway, suppose I’d better…’ He nodded at the door. ‘Got to go brief the team.’

  ‘…so make sure you keep your eyes open, OK?’ Logan settled back against the windowsill and rested his mug of tea on a stack of case files.

  The Constables’ Office wasn’t a large room. Old-fashioned with worktop desks on two walls, covered in paperwork and four ancient grey computers. Four office chairs, most of which looked on the verge of collapse – the foam rubber stuck out of one as if it had prolapsed. Three uniformed officers in Police Scotland ninja black stared at him.

  Calamity clicked the point of her pen in and out and in and out. Click, click, click. ‘What about a national appeal? Maybe we’re not getting any sightings because Tracy’s left the area?’

  A wee soft voice piped up. ‘Can’t really blame her, can you?’ Isla pulled her auburn hair back into a thick ponytail and tied it off. Didn’t matter if she was in her thirties or not, she still looked like a teenager – heart-shaped face, red lipstick, with more eyeshadow and mascara than was strictly necessary for arresting people. Her little legs barely reached the ground as she swivelled back and forth in her chair, the toe of her boots barely scraping the carpet. ‘If I had Big Donald Brown for a dad? I’d do a runner too.’ Hair done, she took a sip of coffee. ‘Good luck to her.’

  Logan frowned up at the rogues’ gallery above the radiator – a double row of local drug dealers and thieves scowled back at him from their photocopied pictures. Big Donald Brown was second row, three in from the right. A slab of flesh with a broad forehead, prominent ears, and the kind of eyebrows that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Border terrier. ‘Anyone know if she’s run away from home before?’

  Tufty checked his notes, the pink tip of his tongue poking out between his lips as he skimmed them. The strip light glowed in his ginger crewcut, giving him a fiery halo. Which was probably as close as he was ever going to get. ‘She’s nineteen, Sarge. It’s not really running away from home, is it?’

  ‘Still…’ Logan chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. ‘Doesn’t matter how much of a scumbag her dad is, he’s worried about her.’ He pointed. ‘Isla, get onto the media office and tell them we’re after a spot on the news and all the social media they can throw at it. If they give you any grief you have my permission to do the little-girl-lost routine you think none of us know about.’

  A nod. ‘Sarge.’

  ‘Next: Constable Quirrel, I believe you have an announcement for us.’

  A grin ripped across Tufty’s thin face, He swept his arms out, as if introducing a magic trick. ‘And on the second-last shift of his indented servitude, verily didst the Probationer say, “Let there be Jaffa Cakes!”’

  Calamity and Isla gave him a round of applause.

  Logan couldn’t help smiling. ‘Well done, young Tufty. You shall go to the top of the class.’

  The grin got bigger. ‘Thanks, Sarge.’ He dipped into his desk and came out with the promised packet of cakey biscuits.

  Logan helped himself. ‘And as a reward, you can lead the rest of the briefing.’

  Tufty swivelled his chair around and wiggled his mouse, bringing up the next slide on the daily PowerPoint presentation. Martin Milne stared out at them. A strong face with high cheekbones and a dimple right in the middle of his chin. Straight brown hair with a Hugh Grant fringe. ‘I checked distinguishing features on the misper form, and there’s no mention of Milne having a tattoo. So that means whoever we found yesterday, it’s not him. Might be worth checking signs of activity on his bank or credit cards?’

  Isla rolled her eyes. ‘You got any idea how long it’ll take his bank to authorize that?’

  ‘Ah, but no, my dearest Constable Anderson, because I has a clever.’ Tufty leaned forward. ‘We don’t need to hang about and wait for his bank to approve access if he’s on internet banking: we can ask his wife to log on and check. Could ask her about the tattoo while we’re there – make sure that whatever muppet filled in the misper form got it right.’

  ‘Is that cynicism I hear?’ A smile pulled Isla’s cheeks into shiny pink apples. ‘Ah, Tufty, we’ll make a police officer of you yet.’

  ‘Next.’ A click of the mouse and a man’s face filled the screen: jowls, one solid eyebrow, hair shaved at the sides to match the bald spot at the top. ‘Mark Connolly violated his parole, Friday…’

  Sitting in the driver’s seat, Tufty doo-de-doo-de-dooed along with the old Oasis track jangling out of the speakers. He slowed down as the beige outskirts of Whitehills appeared, then took a left, heading towards the slate-grey sea.

  Wind buffeted the Big Car, rocking it on its springs. Rain crackled against the windscreen, blurring the world for a moment, before the wipers squeaked it away. Only for more rain to replace it moments later.

  Logan shifted in his seat. The limb restraints made a hard lump in the small of his back, right where the stabproof vest ended. And would they shift? Of course they wouldn’t.

  The road narrowed – lined on both sides by billowing green clouds of jagged gorse. Writhing beneath a raven sky.

  Why did Samantha think he could just kill Reuben? That he was even capable of killing another human being. OK, maybe ‘human being’ was stretching things a bit where Reuben was concerned, but still. To actually murder someone. Cold. Premeditated.

  Logan’s stomach lurched, sour and gurgling.

  Oasis faded a bit and the DJ teuchtered all over them. ‘Wisn’t that a flash fae the past? You’re listening till “Gid Mornin’ Doogie!” and it’s bang on eight, so here’s oor Ashley with a’ the news and weather.’

  ‘Thanks Dougie. A family of four died in a three-car pile-up on the A90, just north of Portlethen last night…’

  Tufty kept on drumming. ‘Sarge? You know time, right?’

  Logan let his head thunk against the passenger window. ‘Here we go.’

  ‘No, listen. Quantum mechanics and the theory of general relativity have these, like, completely different ideas about how time wor
ks.’

  ‘…Mrs Garden, sixty-nine, was remanded in custody following a road-rage incident outside the Strichen Post Office…’

  ‘Einstein says time’s relative, depending on where you are and how fast you’re going, yeah? Faster you go, the slower time is.’

  Logan turned and faced the passenger window. ‘He’s right. When I’m in the car with you it slows to a sodding crawl.’

  Brown and dull-green fields stretched away on either side of the road. A flock of sheep huddled in the lee of a drystane dyke.

  ‘…man’s body discovered in woods south of Macduff yesterday. Police Scotland aren’t releasing any details until the next of kin have been informed…’

  ‘Quantum mechanics, on the other hand, says time’s absolute and external to the universe: keeping track of the wave function in quantum systems.’

  Maybe getting killed by Reuben wouldn’t be so bad? At least he wouldn’t have to sit here listening to Tufty any more.

  ‘…were angry scenes outside BP’s offices in Dyce yesterday, as protesters gathered to picket the oil giant over redundancies and proposed cuts to service companies’ rates…’

  Skinned alive and fed to the pigs.

  Logan closed his eyes. Swallowed down the bitter taste of tarnished copper.

  How was he supposed to kill Reuben? How?

  What switch was he supposed to flip to make that possible?

  A hand squeezed his shoulder, delicate, the nails painted a shiny black.

  Samantha leaned forward from the back of the car. ‘Maybe you could sneak a gun out of the firearms store? There was that hunting rifle you confiscated last week – the one with the telescopic sight and silencer. That’d do it. Get a bit of distance, find somewhere with a good vantage point, and put a bullet straight through Reuben’s head.’

  ‘Never going to work.’

  Tufty nodded. ‘Exactly: they can’t both be right, can they? Time’s either fixed or it isn’t. And some scientists say it doesn’t really exist at all.’

  ‘All you’ve got to do is squeeze the trigger.’

  ‘I’m not talking about this.’

  ‘Yeah, I know it’s a bit complicated, but stick with me, Sarge.’

  Pull the trigger? Simple as that? Point a gun at someone’s head and kill them?

  Logan’s stomach lurched again.

  ‘…further protests organized for tomorrow. Weather now…’

  ‘According to the thermal time hypothesis, time’s a statistical artefact—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Tufty. Can we … five minutes… Please.’

  ‘…afraid this cold snap looks set to continue for the rest of the week. The Met Office have issued a yellow warning…’

  Tufty pursed his lips. Shrugged one shoulder. ‘Thought you’d be interested.’

  Half a dozen bungalows appeared on the right, clustered in the corner of a field. They looked like the advance guard of a much bigger army, posted on the clifftop to keep a lookout over the waves. An eight-foot-high chain-link fence wrapped around the chunk of field next to them, already scarred with a rough arc of gravel and concrete. Pipes and cables jutted up from concrete foundations like thick plastic weeds. Reinforcements on their way.

  Samantha squeezed his shoulder again. ‘Just think about it, OK? That’s all I’m asking.’

  ‘…back with more at nine.’

  ‘Thanks Ashley. Noo, let’s kick off the hour with a wee bittie Proclaimers and “Sunshine on Leith”, cos looks like we’re gettin’ neen o’ that fir weeks up here.’

  Tufty slowed, then indicated, and turned into the scheme as the singing started.

  Kept his eyes forward.

  Not speaking.

  It was like working with a small child.

  Logan let his head fall back against the rest. ‘Sorry.’

  Another shrug. Then Tufty pointed through the windscreen at the furthest bungalow in the development. It was huge – had to be at least five bedrooms – with a blockwork drive, double garage, conservatory, and landscaped front garden that looked a lot more bedded in than any of the other houses. ‘That’s it.’

  A couple of manky hatchbacks lurked at the kerb to either side, engines idling. Windows rolled down a crack so the warty individuals inside could smoke while they waited for something to happen.

  Tufty pulled onto the drive, parking in front of a white Range Rover Sport. Switched off the engine. And sat there, still not saying anything.

  ‘I said I was sorry.’

  ‘No problem.’ Then Tufty climbed into the rain, jamming his hat on his head. Clunked the door shut and marched up the drive to the front door. Rang the bell.

  A very small, very annoying child.

  Logan grabbed his high-viz jacket from the back seat and got out of the Big Car.

  The occupants of the hatchbacks scrambled out, shoulders and hoods pulled up, fiddling with big digital cameras. ‘Hoy! Over here! Sergeant? Did you find Martin Milne’s body yesterday? Is it him?’

  Wind snatched at the fluorescent-yellow material of the jacket as Logan fought his way into it. Rain hammered and pattered off the surface. Off his hat. Off his stabproof vest. Stinging his face and hands like a thousand frozen wasps. While the two lumpy middle-aged men snapped photos.

  ‘How did Martin Milne die? Did he commit suicide?’

  Logan hauled the zip up and turned his back on the wind. ‘How long have you two been out here?’

  ‘It’s Martin Milne, isn’t it?’

  He pointed at the hatchbacks. ‘Police Scotland aren’t issuing any statements at this time. Now, please return to your vehicles and respect the Milne family’s privacy.’

  The garden sloped away to the East, where the sea surged and pounded against the curling line of the headland. Probably really impressive in summer, when the sun was shining, but on a dreich Thursday in February? Sod that.

  The shorter of the two curled his top lip. ‘Come on, Sergeant, throw us a bone, eh? Been freezing my nuts off out here since six. Is it Martin Milne?’

  ‘We’re not issuing any—’

  ‘“Statements”, yeah, I got that the first time.’ He tucked his camera into his coat. ‘Off the record?’

  The other one sidled up beside him. A nose like a sandblasted golf ball, wrapped round with broken spider veins. ‘Promise we’ll sod off if you let us have something.’

  Logan stared at the ground for a moment. ‘I can’t right now, but…’ He glanced over his shoulder at the house and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Look, give me your business cards, and I’ll let you know what’s going on soon as I can. You get first dibs.’

  Frozen Nuts sniffed. ‘What, both of us?’

  ‘But you have to promise not to tell anyone else I tipped you off, OK?’

  ‘Deal.’ Golf-Ball Nose dug into his pocket and came out with a card. ‘Bob Finnegan, Aberdeen Examiner. That’s got my mobile number and my email.’

  His opposite number produced a card of his own. ‘Noel McGuinness, Scottish Independent Tribune. You promise?’

  ‘If you promise to back off and leave the family alone till I give you the nod.’

  The two of them shared a look, then nodded.

  A quick shaking of hands and they retreated to their cars. Got in. And drove away.

  Soon as they were gone, Logan marched up the drive to the front door. Gave Tufty’s arm a thump with the back of his hand. ‘Are you planning on sulking all day?’

  Tufty poked the bell again, setting something buzzing inside the house. ‘I’m not sulking. I’m disappointed.’

  ‘You’re disappointed?’

  ‘Calamity or Isla: I could understand them not getting it, but I thought you were interested in the…’

  The door clunked then swung open.

  A woman glared out at them from behind a pair of large square glasses. Long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail with a sprinkling of grey at the roots. Teeth bared. Already going at f
ull volume: ‘IF YOU VULTURES DON’T GO AWAY, I’M CALLING THE POLICE!’

  Tufty raised his eyebrows. ‘Hello, Katie.’

  ‘Ah.’ She closed her mouth. Grimaced. ‘Officer Quirrel. Sorry. I thought you were that pair of…’ Then she stared at them, eyes widening. Bit her bottom lip. Wiped her hands down the front of her green-and-white striped apron. ‘Oh God, they were right. It is him isn’t it? The body they found in the woods? It’s Martin.’

  She staggered back a step, blinking at the wood laminate flooring. Holding onto the doorframe.

  Tufty held out a hand. ‘Katie, does Martin have a tattoo on his left shoulder? Maybe a dolphin or a whale or something?’

  8

  ‘What?’ Mrs Milne pulled her chin in, wrinkling her neck. ‘No. No he doesn’t. He doesn’t have any tattoos. Why would he have tattoos?’

  Logan stepped forward. ‘Then it’s not Martin, Mrs Milne: the man we found yesterday had a tattoo.’

  She sagged where she stood, letting out a long breath. ‘Oh thank God.’ Another breath, one hand against her chest. ‘Look at me. Sorry. Come in. Please.’

  The hallway was light, airy, with framed photos and scrawled crayon drawings lining the walls.

  Mrs Milne led them through into the kitchen, where a little boy sat at a rustic table, both hands wrapped around a tumbler of orange juice. Blond hair, red sweatshirt, white shirt, black trousers. Plaster cast on his right arm. The smell of frying butter filled the air.

  ‘Would you like a tea, or coffee, or something? Or pancakes? I’m making for Ethan.’

  The little boy stared back at them through glasses like his mother’s.

  Logan slipped out of his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. It dripped onto the slate floor. ‘Tea would be lovely. But don’t worry, Constable Quirrel can make it. Can’t you, Constable?’

  A nod. ‘Don’t want to stand in the way of Ethan’s pancakes.’

  ‘Oh. That’s very kind.’ She went back to the hob while Tufty poked about in the cupboard above the kettle.

  The place must have cost a fortune. It was big enough for a full-sized dining table, a central island with hob and sink, fitted units around the outside in what was probably oak, granite work surfaces, slate tiles on the floor, a massive American-style fridge freezer. One of those fancy taps that did boiling water. Bit of a difference from Logan’s – cobbled together out of whatever was cheapest at B&Q and Argos.