In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  Of course he wasn’t there – it was nearly midnight.

  Beeeeep.

  ‘It’s Logan. McRae. I’ve been thinking about your investigation.’

  Samantha stared at him, both eyebrows raised.

  ‘I’m in.’

  — Friday Rest Day —

  this ship is sinking

  19

  ‘…neighbour killed himself, because his business went bust. There’s fat cats whooping it up in London and his wife’s got to bury him in a council grave. Where’s the social justice in that?’

  Logan groaned beneath the duvet.

  ‘Well, that’s a good point. OK, next up we’ve got Marjory from Cullen. Go ahead, Marjory.’

  There was a proop-meep noise and something heavy landed on his bladder. ‘Argh…’ Then walked up his torso and sat on his chest.

  ‘It’s this oil price downturn. We all know these oil companies make billions of profits, so why are they squeezing the supply companies? How’s the industry supposed to survive if shareholders are wringing every penny out of the North Sea?’

  He peered out at the clock radio. Half eight.

  ‘And let’s not forget, eighty percent of a gallon of petrol goes straight into the government’s pocket! That’s Scotland’s money.’

  ‘Go away.’ He reached out and thumped the snooze button. Slumped back on the pillow.

  A little fuzzy head appeared above the edge of the duvet and biffed its cheek against his nose. Purring like a tumble dryer full of gravel.

  A yawn.

  The phone went, ringing downstairs in the living room. Then fell silent. Followed by the distorted sound of his own recorded voice telling whoever it was to leave a message.

  Cthulhu biffed into his face again.

  ‘Yes, I know you want sweeties, you wee monster.’ He picked up the pack of cat treats from the bedside cabinet as the machine downstairs bleeped and a dark voice replaced his own.

  Who the hell was that?

  Another biff.

  ‘OK, OK.’ He dug a treat out and held it in front of her pink nose.

  Crunch, crunch, crunch.

  Samantha settled on the end of the bed, running a brush through her bright-red hair – making it shine. ‘You’re actually awake? Thought you were going to sleep till noon.’

  Another treat.

  ‘It’s half eight, give me a break.’

  Crunch, crunch, crunch.

  She took hold of his foot through the duvet. ‘Big day, today.’

  ‘I know.’

  Crunch, crunch, crunch.

  ‘Come on then: up and showered. You’re not switching me off looking like someone dragged you backwards through a combine harvester. Sunday best, Mr McRae.’ She smiled. ‘After all, it’s not every day you get to kill your girlfriend.’

  Logan wandered back through to the bedroom, scrubbing at his head with a towel. The cool air made the hair on his arms stand up and pimpled the flesh beneath. He paused in the doorway, sniffing.

  Was that bacon?

  How could he smell frying bacon?

  Maybe he was having a stroke?

  …

  Wait, were those voices?

  He wrapped the towel around his middle, tying it off.

  There were definitely voices coming from downstairs.

  Maybe it was Reuben, come up to finish the job himself. Well he was out of luck, because… Oh for God’s sake. The equipment belt wasn’t where it should have been – on the chair in the corner of the bedroom. It was still hanging over the end of the banister.

  Argh.

  Improvise.

  He hauled on a pair of jeans and tiptoed out onto the landing. Opened the cupboard and lifted the toolbox out. Selected an adjustable spanner from the pile of tools. Big and heavy.

  Logan smacked the business end into the palm of his other hand.

  Not quite an extendable baton, but if it got him to the bottom of the stairs where the equipment belt was, it’d do.

  He crept down the stairs. No sign of anyone.

  The voices coming from the living room sounded more like the TV than real life.

  ‘…news and weather where you are, but first we’ve got the singing sensation taking Britain’s Next Big Star by storm on the Breakfast sofa…’

  Logan unclipped the CS gas canister from its holster, fiddling with it until the bungee cord holding it to the belt let go. Then slipped the extendable baton from its…

  Someone was singing in the kitchen. A sweet, but smoky, growl of a voice, belting it out.

  ‘Adventure Cat, Adventure Cat,

  The cosmic kitten with a magic hat,

  Fighting evil, doing good,

  Having naps and eating food,’

  It wasn’t Reuben, it was Steel.

  ‘With her sidekick Lumpy Bear,

  Catching villains unaware,’

  Logan lowered his armoury and stuck it through the balustrades onto the stairs, then pushed through into the kitchen.

  She was standing at the cooker, shoogling a frying pan that hissed and sputtered. Singing away, oblivious:

  ‘Making friends and having fun,

  Doing stuff for everyone.’

  He leaned against the work surface. ‘What are you doing?’

  Steel froze for a second, then went back to her shoogling. ‘Making breakfast.’ Then she looked around and raised an eyebrow. ‘Laz, how many times? I’m flattered, but I’m no’ shagging you. Now get dressed.’ She waved a spatula at him. ‘Sight of all them scars is putting me off my grub.’

  He folded his arms across his chest. Then lowered them to cover the shining puckered lines that snaked across his stomach. ‘How did you get in here?’

  ‘No point being a keyholder if you don’t use your key, is there?’ She went back to poking at the pan. ‘Five minutes. And stop picturing me naked! We had words about that.’

  Gah…

  Logan turned and headed back into the hall. Maybe if he poured bleach in his ears it’d get rid of that particular mental image.

  He stopped with one hand on the newel post at the foot of the stairs. ‘Who was on the phone?’

  But she was off again.

  ‘Adventure Cat, Adventure Cat,

  Foiling evil Dr Rat,

  And his schemes most dastardly,

  To save the world for you and meeeee!’

  Why did he bother?

  Through in the lounge, the red light on the answering machine blinked at him.

  On the TV, two newsreaders tried to be chatty with a permatanned couple who had big hair and unnaturally shiny teeth.

  ‘…amazing. And did you ever think you’d be this popular?’

  ‘We have to say the fans have been absolutely fabulous, haven’t they, Jacinta?’

  ‘Oh yeah, totally fabulous. I mean, completely. Me and Benjamin been—’

  Mute.

  He pressed the button on the answering machine.

  ‘MESSAGE ONE:’ That same dark voice that had been barely audible through the floorboards oozed out of the speaker. ‘Sergeant McRae? It’s Chief Superintendent Napier, I got your message about the … project we discussed.’

  Oh crap.

  Logan lunged across the carpet and thumped the living room door shut.

  ‘I think it would be prudent for you to come in and discuss it in person. That way you can review the evidence.’

  Well, Napier would have to wait. He had more important things to do than undermine and manipulate a Professional Standards investigation into Steel today. And tomorrow was blocked out for the hangover that came afterwards.

  ‘I think it’s important we get this underway as soon as possible, don’t you? After all, the longer it exists in limbo, the more chance there is of the papers getting hold of it. I think we can all agree that a trial by media would be regrettable for all concerned. If you’d like to call me back, we can set up a mutually convenient appointment
. Thank you.’

  Bleeeeeep.

  Logan glanced at the wall separating the room from the kitchen. No way she could have heard any of that. Not still singing her lump-filled head off.

  Unless, of course, she’d turned up when the call came through in the first place.

  ‘Message Two:’ Steel’s voice came from the machine. ‘Laz? You there?… Laz?… Pick up if you’re there.’

  On the TV, they cut from the permatanned talentless toothmerchants to the ident for local news.

  ‘You better no’ still be in your scratcher, you lazy wee sod. Probably lying there, playing with yourself, aren’t you? Well stop it, you’ll go—’

  Delete.

  The Scottish newsreader was replaced by a mob outside one of the oil company headquarters in Dyce. The words, ‘…SCENES OF UNREST AS PROTEST ENTERS THIRD DAY…’ scrolled along the bottom of the screen.

  ‘YOU HAVE NO MORE MESSAGES.’

  Logan held down the delete button until the message count went back to zero, blanking Napier’s incriminating call.

  The protests at Dyce gave way to woodland and a line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.

  ‘…HUMAN REMAINS IDENTIFIED AS LOCAL BUSINESSMAN, PETER SHEPHERD…’

  He switched the TV off. Time to get dressed.

  Steel put one foot up on the dashboard, scratching at her ankle, mobile phone pinned between her ear and shoulder. ‘Yeah. … Did he?… Nah…’

  Logan drove them along the winding road, west out of Banff. Taking his time.

  White lines scratched along the sea’s blue face. Pounding against the cliffs. Sending up walls of spray. It glowed in the warm golden light that ramped up the colour of everything.

  ‘When was that?… Oh aye?… I’m no’ happy about that, Becky. I put you in charge of babysitting the wee scumbag, no’ Spaver: so sort it. … Yeah.’

  Samantha leaned forward from the back seat. ‘Still don’t see why she’s got to come with us.’

  ‘She’s worried about me.’

  A huge puddle spread across the tarmac and he slowed for it. The tyres growled through, making their own walls of spray. Only grey and gritty instead of shining white.

  ‘She’s a pain in the backside. Always has been.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  Steel put her phone away, then swore as it blared into life again. Dragged it back out. ‘Yes?… Superintendent Harper— Yes, Yes I know. … Me?’ She cast a glance across the car at Logan. ‘Yeah, I’m following up a couple of things at the moment. … Definitely. Be back in the office in a couple of hours? Ish?… What?’ Steel had another scratch. ‘Oh for God’s sake. How’d he get away with that?… The greasy goat-molesting scumbag — What?’

  ‘Thought it was going to be you and me today. My final morning on earth. Who invited the Wrinkled Witch of the West?’

  ‘Can you two not fight today? Please? Just for once?’

  ‘…No. Of course. We’ll get a cordon up. Malk the Knife’ll no’ make contact if Milne’s got half the world’s media camped outside his front door. … Uh-huh. Will do.’

  A sign loomed into view. ‘SUNNY GLEN 1 è’

  Samantha put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not long now.’

  ‘Am I the only one who feels sick?’

  ‘Uh-huh. … Uh-huh. … OK. Thanks.’ Steel hung up, took her foot off the dashboard, and put her phone away. ‘What you chuntering on about, Laz?’

  He shrugged. Indicated. Took the road to the right, heading closer to the cliffs.

  Steel had a wee burp, then rubbed at her stomach. ‘Where’d you buy your tomato sauce, Halfords? Stuff’s like battery acid.’

  ‘Or it could be the three bacon butties you wolfed.’

  ‘No, it was your cheap-and-nasty own-brand bargain-basement sauce.’ She had another burp. ‘Apparently the media’s been camped outside Martin Milne’s house since we released Shepherd’s name. It’s like a rugby scrum.’

  ‘Not to mention the four cups of coffee.’

  ‘They caught some tabloid tosser shinnying over the back fence, having first pumped the neighbour and the wifie that does the school run for everything they had.’

  ‘So get Milne to make a statement. They won’t go away until he does.’

  Sunny Glen appeared around the next bend: single storey for most of its length, with a balcony overhanging a large patio area where the ground fell away towards the cliffs. A couple of wheelchairs were out, their occupants positioned in the February sunshine.

  Logan let out a long slow breath. ‘Here we go.’

  Steel squeezed his leg. Again.

  ‘Hoy!’ Samantha banged on the seat. ‘Hands off, you old bag.’

  ‘She’s only being nice.’

  There was a frown from the passenger seat. ‘What? Who’s being nice?’

  The Punto slotted into a parking space outside the admin wing. ‘Milne’s wife, Katie. She’s trying to be nice to everyone. Can’t be easy after everything.’

  Steel took out her e-cigarette and had a puff. ‘With her husband shagging a dead bloke? Probably no’.’ She climbed out into the sunshine and had a scratch at her belly.

  ‘Gah, it’s like sharing a car with a Labrador.’ Samantha thumped back into her seat and folded her arms. ‘Scratching and fidgeting and fiddling with her boobs.’

  ‘You coming?’ He grabbed his jacket.

  Steel bent down and peered into the car. ‘Course I am.’

  ‘Right. Yes. Good.’ He led the way to reception: a glass-fronted room with pot plants, watercolours, and a big beech desk.

  The young man sitting behind it looked up as Logan entered and smiled. ‘Mr McRae, how are you today?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet, Danny.’

  ‘Ah, of course.’ He stood. ‘Please, take a seat and I’ll get Louise. Would you like a cup of coffee, or…?’

  ‘No. Thanks.’

  ‘OK then.’ He picked up the phone and had a muttered conversation while Steel stalked around the room, squinting at the paintings, hands behind her back, like a badly creased crow.

  Samantha wound her hand into Logan’s. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

  He just breathed.

  Steel took his other hand. ‘How you holding up?’

  ‘I appreciate the gesture, but I’m fine.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘You don’t have to be here. You’ve got a murder to solve.’

  ‘Well Harper can rant and rave all she wants, some things are more important.’ She gave his hand a squeeze. ‘Couldn’t leave you to go through this alone.’

  He squeezed back. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re still not allowed to think about me naked, though.’

  ‘Urgh.’ He took his hand back and wiped it on the front of his jacket. ‘OK, now I’m going to be—’

  ‘Logan, hello.’ A woman marched into the room. Her bleached pixie cut curled across her forehead, cowboy boots clicking on the wooden floor. She held her arms out and the sunlight caught the linen sleeves of her shirt, making her glow like an angel. She wrapped him up in a hug. Then stepped back. ‘How are you?’

  Why did everyone have to ask that? How the hell did they think he was?

  ‘Fine. I’m fine, Louise.’ It sounded better than: dead inside.

  Samantha leaned in, her voice a warm soft whisper in his ear. ‘Liar.’

  ‘Now you’re sure you want to go through with this? Remember, there’s no rush.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘OK.’ Louise stroked his arm. ‘If there’s anything that’s unclear, or you want to stop at any time, let me know. It’s not a problem.’ Then she turned to Steel. ‘You must be Logan’s mother. He’s told me so much about you.’

  The wrinkles deepened across Steel’s forehead. ‘No! I’m no’ his mum, I’m his moral support. Nowhere near old enough, for a start!’

  Louise’s smile slipped for a moment. ‘Right. Sorry. My mistake.’ Then she turned and gestured towards the door
leading deeper into the building. ‘Shall we?’

  The corridors were alive with the wub-wub-wub of a floor polisher and the noise of music coming from the rooms – each one playing something different. It blended into an atonal mush of sound, like a radio picking up multiple stations at once.

  Men and women lay on their beds, some connected to machines, some breathing on their own. A couple propped up and strapped into armchairs, heads on one side, dribble soaking into their bibs.

  ‘Here we go.’ Louise held the door to number eighteen open and ushered them inside.

  Samantha lay beneath the covers, an oxygen mask over her pale face. Her hair was almost all brown roots now, slipping into a faded scarlet only at the tips. A little dot marked her nose and another her bottom lip, more up both sides of her ears where the piercings had healed over. The tattoos stood out against her almost translucent skin, coiling up and down both bare arms – skulls and hearts, wound round with brambles and tribal spines. They looked so much blacker than they used to. As if they’d been leeching the life out of her all these years and were now ready to break free from the flesh.

  Her cheekbones were sharp and pronounced, riding high on her sunken face. But the thing that really didn’t look like her was the big dip in her head, above the left ear, as if someone had taken a big ice-cream scoop out of her.

  Louise placed a hand on Logan’s arm, turning him away from the bed towards the room’s other occupant. ‘Logan, this is Dr Wilson, he’ll be in charge of withdrawing Samantha’s medical treatment.’

  A dapper man with no hair stuck a hand out. His chinos had creases down the leg you could shave with, denim shirt rolled up to the elbows with a pink tie tucked in between the buttons. ‘We’ll take good care of her, Logan. She won’t feel a thing.’

  ‘How does this work?’

  ‘We give Samantha a dose of morphine, wait for it to take hold, then switch off the respirator.’

  ‘So she suffocates.’

  ‘I know it sounds distressing, but she won’t be in any pain.’

  At least that was something.

  Dr Wilson folded his hands together, as if he were about to say a prayer. ‘Are there any questions you’d like to ask?’

  Samantha’s chest rose and fell beneath the blankets, marking time with the hissing respirator.