In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘And I told you it doesn’t matter what you do or do not want. Mr Mowat has left this portion of his estate to you, as is his right. It will be paid to you. There is provision for its management, but how you choose to dispose of it after that is entirely your own affair.’ A sniff. ‘Any normal person would be delighted and grateful to inherit such a large sum.’

  He cast a quick glance around him. No one was lugging in, they were all far too busy with their own phones. ‘I’m a police officer!’

  ‘And now you can be a very rich police officer. Monday, Mr McRae, ten o’clock at my office.’ He hung up.

  Logan swore at the phone for a while, then switched it off and rammed it back in his pocket. Sagged in his seat, looking up at the ceiling of the bus. His bones rattled along with the engine’s diesel drone.

  Two-thirds of a million. Because twenty grand over the asking price for his flat didn’t look bad enough.

  And there was no way Reuben wouldn’t be there to hear Hamish’s will being read. To find out what they’d all got. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about landing Urquhart in it by clyping about the flat, he’d use the inheritance to destroy Logan.

  The snow squeaked and crunched beneath his damp, shiny shoes. More fell from the dark orange sky in slow lazy arcs, like the drifting feathers of a shot bird. They flared in the streetlights’ glow, then faded, building up in ridges along the tops of the gravestones in the little cemetery. Sticking to the walls of the ancient buildings.

  Logan paused for a moment outside the Market Arms. Warm light spilled from the windows, bringing with it the muffled sound of music and laughter.

  Tempting.

  A shiver rattled its way through him, making his teeth click.

  Home. Central heating up full pelt. Hot bath. A big dram of Hamish Mowat’s whisky.

  He hurried down the street, shoulders up around his ears, hands deep in his pockets.

  Past the grim Scottish houses, past the grim Victorian police station, then across the grim car park. The sea was a smear of black through the falling snow, grumbling against the invisible beach.

  Around the corner, and…

  Logan stopped where he was, on the pavement, looking up at the Sergeant’s Hoose.

  A light burned somewhere inside, oozing out of the bedroom window.

  Great. Steel had let herself in again. So much for a bit of privacy.

  He took out his keys, but the front door wasn’t locked. It swung open when he turned the handle, the snib disengaged.

  You’d think a Detective Chief Inspector would have some idea about home security.

  He clunked the door shut behind him and clicked the button for the snib. It clacked home. ‘Hello?’

  The central heating pinged and gurgled.

  Light spilled down the stairs from the landing.

  Logan peeled off his funeral-suit jacket and draped it over the banister. Undid his tie. Dug out his phone. ‘You know you left the door off the latch, don’t you?’

  He kicked off his wet shoes and stood there in his wet socks. ‘Hello?’

  The jacket dripped on the laminate flooring.

  ‘Hello?’

  OK…

  He tried the kitchen.

  No Steel.

  Then the living room.

  Still no Steel.

  Typical, she’d sodded off and left the house lying wide open so any druggy could wander in and steal all his stuff. But the TV was still there, and the DVD player, and the answering machine with its winking red light.

  Maybe the snow had kept all the thieving gits from stalking the streets trying door handles?

  Logan stripped off his trousers and squelched over to the bookcase and plugged his mobile into the dangling charging cord. Then pressed the button on the answerphone.

  ‘MESSAGE ONE:’ A woman’s voice replaced the electronic one. ‘Mr McRae? Hi, it’s Sheila here from Deveronside Family Glazing Solutions again. I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a mix-up with your windows.’

  Of course there had.

  He unbuttoned his clammy shirt.

  ‘Your order’s been checked by Dennis and they’re all out by about fifteen mil. I’m really sorry. We’ve no idea how it happened, but we’re getting them remade now. Please accept our apologies; we’ll get them to you as soon as we can.’

  Bleeeeeep.

  God’s sake.

  ‘MESSAGE TWO:’ There was a pause. ‘Logan?’ Louise from Sunny Glen cleared her throat. ‘I just wanted to let you know that the funeral directors have collected Samantha. I gave them the photo you wanted. I’m sure they’ll do a sensitive job. And again, I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  Yeah, everyone was sorry. Everyone was always sorry.

  ‘Don’t forget, if you need to talk to someone, Debora is very good. She’s helped a lot of families and—’

  Delete.

  ‘MESSAGE THREE:’ Logan peeled off his soggy socks. ‘Mr McRae? Mr McRae, it’s John. John Urquhart. Look, you need to give me a call, OK? Like ASAFP. Soon as you get this.’

  Delete.

  No way he was leaving something like that knocking about on his answering machine for Napier to find.

  What the hell did Urquhart want that was so urgent?

  ‘MESSAGE FOUR:’ Steel’s gravelly tones graced the living room. ‘I know you’re in there, so answer the sodding door. My key’s no’ working and I’m freezing my nipples off.’

  Bleeeeeep.

  What? Why would her key not work? Of course her key worked – she kept letting herself in.

  ‘MESSAGE FIVE:’ Steel again. ‘It’s no’ funny, Laz. I know you’re in: I can hear you moving about in there! Answer the door.’

  Bleeeeeep.

  Logan turned and stared towards the front door. Steel could hear someone moving about inside…

  ‘MESSAGE SIX:’ She was back. ‘Laz, I get it – you’re upset, you’re sulking, but…’ A sigh. ‘Look, you don’t have to sulk on your own. I’ll sulk with you, you know that. Give me a call.’

  Someone was in his house.

  Bleeeeeep.

  ‘YOU HAVE NO MORE MESSAGES.’

  Bloody hell – it had to be Reuben. That’s why Urquhart wanted him to call back. Reuben was in his house. And there was Logan, shivering in his sodden pants.

  Not a very dignified way to die.

  He padded out into the corridor. Shifted the wet suit jacket out of the way.

  His equipment belt still hung over the post, complete with CS gas canister and extendable baton. He liberated both and checked the last door on the ground floor.

  It opened on a room stuffed with dusty box files, the air thick with the stench of dirt and mould. He eased the door closed and crept up the stairs, freezing at every creak and groan beneath his bare feet.

  Up onto the landing and its burning light.

  The guest-bedroom door lay open. No Reuben.

  Bathroom: no Reuben.

  Logan licked his lips, then clacked out the extendable baton to its full length and barged into the master bedroom, CS gas up and ready…

  No Reuben.

  He clicked on the light.

  The bed was made, the curtains drawn: exactly as he’d left it this morning.

  Maybe he’d forgotten to turn the landing light off before he’d left for Wee Hamish’s funeral? It was all a bit rushed, what with the three guys bundling him into the back of a Transit van. But it wasn’t dark then, so why would he have the light on in the first place?

  And Steel had heard someone…

  He lowered the baton. A wooden box lay in the middle of the duvet. It was about the same length and width as a shoebox, but a lot thinner. Polished oak, from the look of it, with brass hinges and catch. A small leather handle, like a briefcase.

  Logan dug into the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of itchy police trousers. Fished about in the pockets until he found a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Snapped them on.
r />   Please don’t be Tony Evans’s severed fingers. Or any other part of his anatomy.

  Click. The catch snapped open and Logan opened the box.

  A semiautomatic pistol sat in a lining of black foam, cut to match the outline of the gun. What looked like a silencer sat above it and a spare clip and about two dozen bullets were lined up alongside with a small cleaning kit. The smell of gun oil dark and pungent.

  Someone had taped an envelope to the inside of the box’s lid, addressed ‘TO MR MCRAE’.

  He sank onto the edge of the bed.

  A wee furry head appeared between his pale legs, meeping and purring as she rubbed against him.

  ‘Hiding, were we? So much for having a guard cat.’ Logan reached down and ruffled the fur between her ears. Then opened the envelope, reading out loud to her. ‘“Dear Mr McRae. Sorry, you were out so I kinda let myself in – brackets, think you should seriously consider a better door lock, some dodgy people about, close brackets.” You don’t say. And he’s spelled “seriously” wrong.’

  Cthulhu settled down on the rug, bent almost double, legs stuck out in front of her, making shlurping noises as she washed her white furry tummy.

  ‘“Mr M wanted you to have this. Don’t worry, it is completely clean and has never been fired. He wanted you to have this because of You Know Who. All the best, JU.”’ Logan chucked the note onto the bed. ‘Well, at least that explains who left all the lights on.’

  A clean gun: no prior convictions.

  Typical.

  So Urquhart didn’t want to get his hands dirty after all.

  Logan puffed out a long, shivery breath, then picked the thing up. Solid. Cold. Heavy. He racked back the slide. Brass flashed and a bullet span from the ejector port. Of course that didn’t mean the thing actually worked. What happened in the garage this morning had proved that.

  ‘I don’t want to kill him.’

  He stared at the ceiling. ‘For God’s sake, give it a rest! “I don’t want to kill him.”, “I don’t want to kill him.” Shut up.’ Deep breath. ‘We don’t have any choice.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Do you want him to go after Jasmine and Naomi? Is that what you want?’

  No reply.

  ‘Didn’t think so. And now we’ve got a gun.’

  He turned it back and forth in his hand.

  Have to take it out into the middle of nowhere and squeeze off a couple of rounds to make sure. Turning up to murder Reuben with an untested gun was just asking to be fed to the pigs.

  The semiautomatic snapped up, pointing at the open wardrobe.

  ‘You can do this.’

  One bullet, right between Reuben’s ugly little eyes and—

  The doorbell rang.

  Logan flinched.

  Squeezed out a breath.

  Thank God the safety was on.

  He crossed to the window and peered out at the road below. No sign of a Transit van, but a rumpled figure in a high-viz jacket stared back up at him, mouth working on what was probably a family-sized bag of swearing. Snow stuck to Steel’s hair. She raised both hands and the carrier bags that dangled from them.

  Right.

  He stuffed the gun back in its box, snatched up the ejected bullet and stuck it in there too. Then slid the lot under the bed, with the dust and balls of cat hair.

  The doorbell went again, long and loud as Steel mashed the button and held it down.

  ‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ Logan got as far as the bedroom door before stopping.

  Yeah, probably better put on a dressing gown. Confronting Reuben in his pants was one thing, Steel was quite another.

  26

  ‘Pass the oniony stuff.’

  Logan picked up the polystyrene container of bright-scarlet relish and held it out. Heat pounded out of the radiator, filling the kitchen with warmth, enhancing the earthy spicy smell of takeaway curry. ‘Still think the candles are a bit weird.’

  Tealights flickered away on the working surface, a couple on the windowsill, still more in various wee holders on the table – tucked in between the cartons.

  ‘It’s no’ meant to be romantic, you halfwit. Candlelight’s appropriate for sitting shiva. And don’t think I’ve forgiven you for locking me out in the snow.’

  ‘Told you: I was in the shower.’ He helped himself to a glopping spoonful of bright-orange curry laced with shining green chillies. ‘In case you didn’t notice, Samantha wasn’t Jewish, and neither is chicken jalfrezi.’

  Steel shovelled in a shard of papadum, crunching through the words. ‘I think Detective Superintendent Harper fancies you.’

  ‘Away and boil your head.’

  ‘All she does is mutter about you under her breath. Logan McRae, this, Logan McRae, that. Aye, when she’s no’ giving me a hard time. How come it’s my fault we’re no’ making progress catching Peter Shepherd’s— Gah!’ A blob of onion fell from the end of her papadum and tumbled into her lap. ‘Bugger.’

  ‘She can go boil her head too. Woman’s a menace. All she does is moan and whinge.’

  ‘Nah, she loves you. She wants to have your babies.’ Steel plucked the rogue bit of onion from her trousers and ate it. ‘Tell you, we were sat in that damn pool car for two hours today, watching Martin Milne’s place, and she wouldn’t shut up asking questions about you.’

  Logan ripped off a chunk of naan bread. Dipped it in the thick orange sauce. ‘I hung up on her today. Told her to feel free to sod off.’

  ‘Ah, so you fancy her too. You should pull her pigtails – maybe she’ll show you her knickers behind the bike shed after PE.’

  ‘You can feel free to sod off too.’

  ‘Oh she’s obsessed with you, sunshine. According to Narveer, she’s been watching you for a long time. Ever since the Mastrick Monster. Got a file and everything.’ Steel shovelled in another mouthful of lamb dansak, grinning as she chewed. ‘Fiver says Harper gets her hands on your onion bhajis by the end of the week.’

  ‘Seriously: sod off any time you like.’

  Steel poured the last of the shiraz into Logan’s glass. ‘No more wine.’

  He took a swig. ‘We’re having the funeral on Monday. It’s in Aberdeen, if you want to come?’

  She clunked the bottle on the table, next to the other empties. ‘Think I should go get more?’

  ‘Nah, I’ll go.’ He threw back the final mouthful then hauled himself out of the chair. Carry-out containers, crumpled beer cans, and carrier bags littered the work surfaces. Plates piled up in the sink. He wobbled a bit. Steadied himself with a hand on the table. ‘Why?’

  ‘So we can drink it.’

  ‘No: why’s Harper the Harpy keeping a file on me?’

  ‘Told you, cos she wants to shag your scarred little backside off. Ooh, Logan, do me harder, yeah, like that … mmmm. Pass the Nutella, etc.’

  Woman had a one-track mind.

  Logan grabbed a hoodie from the washing basket in the corner of the kitchen. Gave it a shake and pulled it on. ‘White or red?’

  ‘Yes.’ Steel dug into her pocket and came out with a wallet. Produced a small wad of twenties. ‘And get some whisky. Nice stuff, nothing you can clean paintbrushes with.’

  He folded the notes and slipped them into his pocket. ‘Seriously, why’s Detective Superintendent Harpy keeping tabs on me?’

  ‘And some crisps.’

  Logan lowered the carrier bags to the floor and thunked the door closed behind him. ‘I’m back.’ He ran a hand through his hair, flicking off the chunks of snow. Shrugged his way out of the high-viz jacket. ‘Hello? You still there?’

  If she wasn’t, tough: he was drinking her wine anyway.

  He slipped off his snow-crusted shoes and padded through to the kitchen in his socks.

  Steel was at the table, a frown on her face, fingers of one hand drumming on the tabletop, phone in the other.

  ‘What’s bitten your bumhole?’ Logan unpacked
the bags onto the table. ‘Bottle of Chardonnay, bottle of Merlot, and…’ He plonked a beige cardboard tube next to the bottles, popped off the metal lid, and pulled out the contents. ‘One bottle of Balvenie, fourteen-year-old, aged in old rum casks.’

  She licked her teeth and stared at him.

  ‘What? What have I done now?’

  ‘Kinda wondering that myself.’ She pointed. ‘You already had a bottle of whisky.’

  The Glenfiddich he’d got from Hamish Mowat sat on the table beside her.

  ‘And now we’ve got more.’ The Merlot’s top came off with a crackle as he unscrewed it. ‘Sure you don’t want to stick to wine for now? You know, pace ourselves.’ It glugged into the glasses, thick and dark and red.

  ‘I looked it up on the internet.’

  He went back into the carrier bags. ‘Got bacon frazzles, Skips, and some sort of cheesy tortilla things. Or there’s Monster Munch.’

  ‘Glenfiddich 1937 Rare Collection. Where did you get this?’

  Must be serious: she hadn’t even smiled at the mention of Monster Munch.

  Logan sat in the chair opposite. Took a sip of wine. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘You got any idea how much this bottle’s worth?’ She picked it up, holding it like a newborn baby half-full of syrupy amber liquid. ‘Last time one of these was on auction it went for forty-nine thousand pounds.’

  Logan stared back. Swallowed. ‘How much?’

  ‘Where’d you get it from, Sergeant?’

  ‘Forty-nine grand? For a bottle of whisky?’

  Her mouth made a thin, cold line. ‘Is this why Detective Superintendent Harper is so keen on knowing all about you? How does a duty sergeant, way up here on the Aberdeenshire coast, afford something like that?’ She leaned forward and thumped her fist on the table, making the bottles rattle. ‘Damn it, Logan, I trusted you!’

  ‘Are you kidding me? Have you seen the piece of crap I drive? It’s a Fiat Punto with more rust than metal on it. My kitchen cupboards are full of supermarket own-brand lentil soup!’ He snatched the bottle from her. ‘If I had forty-nine grand knocking about, do you really think I’d spend it on one bottle of whisky?’

  She folded her arms. ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘It was a gift, OK?’ He looked away. ‘From Hamish Mowat.’

  Silence.