In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

Steel bit her lips for a moment. ‘So, a dead gangster gives you a forty-nine thousand pound bottle of whisky, and you wonder why a detective superintendent from the Serious Organised Crime Task Force has a file on you?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘THEN HOW IS IT?’

  He covered his face with his hands. ‘I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know the whisky cost that much. We had a drink out of it, then I was given the bottle to take home.’

  ‘You’re a bloody idiot.’

  ‘I – didn’t – know.’ Logan slumped. Forty-nine grand. And the money for the flat.

  Ha. As if that was the worst of it. If Steel thought this was bad, she’d hit the roof when she found out about Hamish’s last will and testament.

  Six hundred and sixty-six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six pounds, and sixty-six pence kind of put the rest of it into perspective.

  ‘Gah…’

  Maybe she was right: maybe that was why Harper had a file on him. They knew.

  Oh God.

  Might as well go into work on Monday and resign before they get disciplinary proceedings underway. Take Wee Hamish’s money and sod off somewhere warm, where they don’t extradite police officers who’ve taken two-thirds of a million quid from gangsters.

  Steel sighed again. ‘Well, don’t just sit there – get the glasses.’

  Logan scraped his chair back from the table. ‘I got on with him, OK? He fed me info on rival gangs and I put them away.’

  She frowned at her fingers, ticking them against one another. ‘Forty-nine thousand quid; twenty-eight drams in a bottle; that’s forty-nine less twenty-eight … twenty-one … hundred and ninety-six…’

  ‘I wasn’t working for him. I wasn’t doing favours for him. I was arresting drug dealers who needed arresting anyway.’ Logan dug two tumblers out of the cupboard – the crystal ones, seeing how expensive the Glenfiddich was. ‘And I arrested his people too, when I got the chance. That was the deal: no preferential treatment.’

  The glasses went on the table.

  Steel squeaked the cork from the bottle. ‘One thousand, seven hundred and fifty quid a dram.’ She poured. ‘Call it three and a half grand for a double.’

  He sat at the table. ‘I mean it.’

  She shook her head. ‘I know you do, Laz. But if Harper gets wind of this, you’re screwed.’ Steel raised her glass in toast. ‘Here’s to getting rid of the evidence.’

  ‘Any … left?’ With the curtains closed and the collection of tealights on the mantelpiece, the living room was warm and cosy. Like a hug. Or a stomach full of takeaway curry, beer, wine, and very expensive whisky.

  Steel blinked, then picked up the bottle and upended it over her glass. A thin stream of amber splashed into the bottom, dripped twice, then stopped. She sooked on the end, working her tongue into the neck to get out every last drop. Then sat back on the couch and squinted at him. ‘You better … better no’ be … perving on me, Laz. … Like … like something out … out of a porn flim.’

  ‘Porn film. Film. You said “flim”.’

  ‘No didn’t.’

  ‘Yes did.’ He covered his mouth as a smoky belch rattled free. ‘What do we do … with the bottle?’

  ‘Forty-nine … thousand pounds.’ She gave it a shoogle. ‘Never drunk whisky that … spensive before.’

  Logan lurched to his feet. ‘I’ll get the … Balvenie.’

  The floor was a bit wobbly beneath his feet, but he planted them wide apart and rode it out, lurching through the kitchen. Cthulhu hunched over her mat in the corner, crunching on cat biscuits.

  ‘Hello, sweetie. Hello. Who’s Daddy’s … special kittenfish? Hmm? Who’s Daddy’s love?’

  She kept eating.

  ‘Be like that then.’ Through in the lounge the phone rang. Ringity ring, ring, ring. Logan picked the new bottle off the table, taking care in case it was as wobbly as the floor.

  He made it as far as the lounge door, before the ringing stopped and the sound of his own recorded voice burst out of the machine. ‘Hi, this is Logan. I’m not answering the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll try to get back to you soon as I can.’

  Steel was licking the inside of the Glenfiddich bottle again.

  ‘Sergeant McRae?’ Oh great, that central-belt accent could mean only one thing. ‘It’s Detective Superintendent Harper. … It’s Niamh.’

  ‘Oho!’ Steel stopped suckling and winked at him. ‘Niamh. Told you: she loves you. Smoochie smooch-smooch.’

  ‘Shut up.’ He lurched across to the answering machine, still clutching the Balvenie. ‘What do you want, Harpy woman?’

  Silence from the machine.

  ‘Logan, I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot. Clearly you’re a capable officer.’

  Maybe Steel was right?

  The wrinkly wreck pulled herself upright. ‘Going for a pee. If she … if she propositions you, let me know.’

  ‘I think we need to talk. Tomorrow, when you get into work, let me know. We have things to discuss.’

  A grin from Steel. ‘Like rubbing each … each other all over with marmalade and licking … licking it off.’ The doorbell rang and she blinked at the wall. ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘I may not have been entirely fair with you. So. Yes. Well.’

  She lurched from the room, singing away to herself. ‘Lazarus and Niamh, up a tree, H – U – M – P – I – N – G.’

  ‘Anyway. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  Bleeeeeep.

  OK, that was … odd. She should’ve been shouting the odds, berating him for telling her to sod off. So this afternoon she complained about him to Professional Standards, and now she was calling him up to try and mend bridges and build fences? Or was that the other way around?

  Out in the hall, Steel was still going strong. ‘First comes sex, then comes sneezes, then there’s itching cos you’ve caught diseases.’

  Maybe opening the Balvenie wasn’t the best of ideas?

  Probably.

  The front door clunked, and her voice took on its usual smoky growl. ‘Aye? Are you—’

  A clatter.

  A thump.

  A muffled grunt.

  Logan dumped the bottle on the couch and sprinted out into the hall.

  Steel lay on her side, curled up in the foetal position, arms covering her head as a big bastard in a grey boilersuit and blue ski mask stamped on her ribs. Groaning every time a boot landed.

  ‘GET OFF HER!’ Logan grabbed at the equipment belt – still hanging over the end of the newel post – fumbled at the catch holding the extendable baton in place, and dragged the length of metal out.

  Ski Mask stopped laying into Steel and lunged at him instead.

  A flick of the wrist and the baton clacked out to its full length but not fast enough. Ski Mask barrelled into Logan, sending them both smashing back onto the stairs, the treads stabbing into Logan’s spine.

  Hands grabbed at his head, shoving his face into the treads.

  Another pair of hands. Ski Mask had a friend.

  Logan swung the baton, but the friend grabbed his wrist, twisting the arm up behind his back. Red hot nails hammered into the shoulder joint, prising the bone and muscles apart. ‘AAAARRRGH!’

  The pair of them dragged him over onto his front. Forcing his other arm round to join the right. Piling on the pressure until lines of burning wire tore their way from Logan’s wrists to his shoulders. The baton tumbled from his numb fingers and clattered against the laminate floor.

  They hauled him upright, the pair of them pulling him around so he was facing the front door and Steel – struggling to her knees by the coat rack.

  Her voice was thin and shaky. ‘Laz? Laz?’ Blood covered the lower half of her face, more pulsing out of her battered nose. Dripping from her split lip. ‘Unnngh…’ She wobbled there, eyes fuzzy and unfocused.

  Logan whipped his head forwards, then back again – hard and fast
, looking to connect with one of the bastards’ face. But they weren’t stupid enough to stand that close.

  The pressure on his arms increased and those burning wires forced a growl out between gritted teeth. Made his legs sag. ‘Get off!’

  The big guy laughed. ‘Aye, right.’ The voice was familiar: Smiler. The chatty one from the back of the Transit van.

  His wee friend stepped in front of Logan. That would be Captain ABBA, with the stupid sideburns and ponytail, both hidden behind a black ski mask. ‘Either you hold still and shut up, or I’m gonna slice you open, understand?’ An eight-inch blade gleamed in the hall light, then came down to rest against Logan’s throat.

  He froze.

  ‘Good boy.’

  The front door opened and number three came in. Thin and slightly hunched as if all that time playing on a Nintendo DS had curved his spine. Mr Teeth. He closed the door behind him. Nodded at Logan. ‘Aye: in case you’re wondering, like, this is by way of a warning.’

  He grabbed a handful of Steel’s hair then battered her head off the wall hard enough to dent the plasterboard. Did it again.

  Mr Teeth let go and she slumped to the floor.

  Logan struggled forward and a sharp line clawed at his throat.

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ Captain ABBA twisted the blade, making the line sting. ‘You stand there and you watch.’

  His mate knelt astride Steel, one hand wrapped in her hair, the other coiled into a fist that snapped forward and battered her head back. Again. And again. Thud. Thunk. Thud.

  Then Mr Teeth let go of Steel’s hair and sat back. ‘There we go.’

  Her head lolled to the side, blood dripping onto the floor.

  Smiler leaned in close. ‘You do what you’re told, McRae. Cos if you don’t: what happened here tonight? That’s going to look like a Christmas party at your nan’s house. OK?’

  Mr Teeth nodded at his mates. ‘We done?’

  ‘Almost.’ Captain ABBA lowered the knife, then hammered a fist into Logan’s stomach, taking his legs out from under him as fire and ice rippled through the scarred muscle.

  Smiler let go and Logan slid down the balustrade, hauling in great jagged gasps of air. The world screamed, like a million wasps had gone off at the same time.

  Thump. The hallway twisted through ninety degrees, leaving him lying on his side on the laminate floor with tiny black dots circling around the ceiling. Getting bigger. And louder. And then…

  Darkness.

  … sounds. Grunting…

  Dots swirling around the swinging lightbulb overhead…

  … muttered voices too faint to make out…

  An engine starting…

  UP. GET UP AND HELP HER!

  Logan forced himself over onto his front.

  Gritted his teeth and pushed himself up onto his knees.

  Flecks of snow twisted in through the open door.

  Steel lay where she’d been left, slumped as if someone had cut all her strings.

  Logan hauled himself upright, using the balusters. Staggered over to the door, one arm wrapped around his burning stomach.

  White blanketed the parked cars, thick flakes shining in the streetlights’ glow. No sign of Reuben’s thugs. No sign of the Transit van.

  Logan stepped out onto the pavement, but a groan behind him made him stop.

  Steel.

  Inside, he slammed the door shut and knelt beside her. ‘You’re OK. Are you OK? Hello?’

  ‘Urgh…’

  He brushed a strand of damp grey hair away from her face. Her nose was squint, blood thick on her top lip and down the side of her cheek nearest the ground. One eye was swelling already, the skin around it angry and red.

  ‘Gnnnngh…’

  Logan grabbed his phone and called the police.

  27

  ‘It’s OK, Sergeant, you can see her now.’ The nurse pointed at the double doors in the corner.

  ‘Thanks.’ He creaked his way out of the plastic chair, standing up in stages like opening a Swiss Army Knife.

  ‘You sure we can’t get you something? Only you look—’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Logan reached up and ran his fingers along the line of gauze taped across his throat, where Captain ABBA’s knife had been. ‘Barely a scratch.’

  ‘Right, well I’m sure you know best. I’m only a healthcare professional after all, what would I know?’ Then she stuck her nose in the air, turned around, and marched off.

  Logan hissed out a breath, then limped across and pushed through into a corridor that stank of disinfectant and despair. Steel’s room was halfway down – her name written on a little whiteboard outside it, like the prison cells in Fraserburgh. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  The private room was dark, except for the reading light over the bed. It drained the colour from Steel’s skin, leaving it grey and creased. At least, where it wasn’t blue and purple. She was lying back, with about half a dozen pillows jammed in under her head. They’d smeared something over her swollen eye – making the bruised skin glimmer – and stuck a thick strip of white tape across the bridge of her nose, holding down a wodge of gauze.

  He eased himself onto the edge of the bed. Tried not to wince. ‘You look … well.’

  Steel’s one good eye narrowed. ‘My node hurds.’

  ‘They say it’ll take a couple of weeks, but you won’t even know your nose was broken.’

  ‘Ad my ribs.’

  ‘They’re going to keep you in overnight for the concussion, but other than that, you’re fine.’

  ‘Feel lige sombone’s burdig pee-stayned maddresses in my hebd.’

  Logan patted her leg beneath the blanket. ‘Susan’s on her way up. Should be here soon.’

  The one good eye widened. ‘Nooo. Don’d wand her to see me lige this.’

  ‘Tough. She’d kill me if I kept it secret.’ He gave the leg a squeeze. ‘Did you get a good look at them?’

  ‘Tell her I’mb fide!’

  ‘She’s coming whether you like it or not. Now, can you ID who attacked you?’

  A one-sided frown. ‘Big basdard, with a sgee mask ond.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I saw. Three of them.’ He stared up at the ceiling tiles. ‘Been a hell of a day, hasn’t it?’

  ‘I hade Bandff.’

  Another squeeze. ‘Get some sleep. And thanks. For staying with me and drinking too much.’ He pulled on the best smile he could muster. ‘I appreciate it.’

  Steel sank back into the pillows. ‘You’re sudge a big girl’s blouse…’

  Logan slipped back out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Closed his eyes and swore.

  ‘How is she?’

  When he opened his eyes again, Rennie was right there in front of him, along with DS McKenzie. The pair of them looked as if they’d just heard the family dog had died.

  ‘She’s fine. A bit battered and bruised, but nothing permanent.’

  McKenzie moved towards the door, but Logan put an arm out.

  ‘Best not. Let her rest.’

  ‘Right.’ McKenzie nodded, setting that curly brown bun of hers wobbling. ‘OK.’

  Rennie pulled out his notebook. ‘Any idea who did it?’

  Oh yes. But even if he told them, what good would it do? Even if they could find out Smiler, Mr Teeth, and Captain ABBA’s real names, what would happen? Would Reuben’s three stooges go down quietly, or would they drag Logan kicking and screaming with them?

  He shrugged. ‘They wore ski masks and boilersuits. One big, muscly; one thin; one short-arse.’

  McKenzie had a quick look up and down the corridor, then lowered her voice. ‘You know what this means, don’t you? Malk the Knife’s boys are spooked by the investigation.’

  Rennie bared his teeth. ‘Ooh, that’s not good.’

  ‘They know we’re getting close and they’re trying to warn us off.’ She leaned closer to Logan. ‘Did they say anything?’


  ‘Thought you were supposed to be babysitting Martin Milne.’

  A sneer. ‘Think this is a bit more important, don’t you, McRae? Now answer the question: did – they – say – anything?’

  ‘The one who attacked Steel, said it was a warning.’

  ‘I knew it. Maybe…’ She trailed off as an orderly squeaked by pushing an empty porter’s chair. Waited for him to fade from view. ‘We should let Detective Superintendent Harper know. If they came for Steel, they might be after her too.’

  ‘Good point.’ Rennie pulled out his phone and dialled. Listened in silence for a moment. Then, ‘Super?… Yeah, it’s DS Rennie.’ He wandered away. ‘Look, I know it’s late, but…’

  DS McKenzie narrowed her eyes. ‘And how come you got off without a scratch on you, McRae?’

  ‘What about this?’ He pointed at the line of gauze. ‘Tried to slit my throat.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ She pulled out her own phone. ‘I’ll get a guard on the Guv’s room.’ She walked off in the other direction, leaving Logan on his own outside Steel’s door.

  He stood there as they got things organized. ‘I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.’

  Pair of idiots.

  As if Malcolm McLennan would get his people to attack a senior police officer investigating a crime he was involved in. Talk about a perfect way to draw attention to yourself. You didn’t build a huge criminal empire by being stupid.

  But Reuben? Oh he definitely was that stupid.

  Logan headed down the corridor, through the double doors back into the waiting area, and turned his mobile phone on again. Fully charged. According to the home screen there were half a dozen text messages and three voicemails waiting. Well they could wait. He brought up his call history – John Urquhart’s number was top of the list. He called it.

  Through the waiting room windows, the snow seemed thicker. Taking its time to drift down from the dark marbled sky.

  He sank into one of the chairs, in the lee of a drooping cheese plant.

  The phone rang. Then, finally, someone picked up. ‘Yup?’

  ‘Urquhart, that you?’

  ‘Mr McRae! Where have you been? I left messages and every—’

  ‘You tell Reuben—’

  ‘—got to watch out, OK? Reuben heard about you being executor for Mr Mowat’s will and went berserk. I mean total card-carrying, machete-wielding, berserk. He’s going to get people to come after you, says you need to learn your lesson. You’ve got to—’