In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  Urquhart took hold of his arm. ‘No wonder you’re feeling a bit ropey. See most people? If they went up against Eddy they’d be the ones lying flat on their backs in a pool of blood.’ He led Logan out into the hall, then through into the bedroom.

  The wardrobes hung open and empty, but there were still sheets and a duvet on the bed. The duvet cover had been black with red skulls once, but mildew had spread green tendrils out across the fabric. No point packing them for the charity shop, the whole lot was going to landfill.

  ‘Here you go.’ Urquhart grabbed a corner and threw the duvet back, setting loose an explosion of gritty peppery stench. Then helped Logan sit on the bed. ‘Lie down. I’ll get a cold cloth for that bump.’

  ‘Don’t need to lie down.’ But he couldn’t stay upright.

  Maybe just for a minute. Until the room stopped spinning.

  Should probably go to Accident and Emergency.

  Instead Logan lowered his head to the mould-bleached pillow.

  Not for long. Get up in a minute. Sixty seconds to catch his breath. Wasn’t too much to ask for…

  Urquhart appeared, holding a tea towel. Knelt beside the bed and pressed it against the hair above Logan’s ear. Cold and damp. Soothing the fire. ‘Shhh. It’ll all be OK. You trust me, don’t you?’

  No.

  And the world went away.

  30

  ‘Gnnnph…’ Logan sat bolt upright, blinking in the gloom.

  Caravan. He was in the caravan. In the bed, the duvet rucked around his waist. It was dark.

  He fumbled his phone from his pocket. Quarter to four.

  Urquhart must have drawn the curtains.

  Logan swung his legs over the side and wobbled to his feet. Stood there with one hand on the wall, holding him up.

  That gritty mildew smell had gone, replaced by the acerbic chemical stink of bleach.

  He picked his way through the caravan to the living room, where the smell was strongest.

  Great.

  Eddy Knowles’s body was gone. Splotches of orangey grey marked the floor where he’d died, surrounded by the carpet’s original dark-red colour. More bleached patches over by the windowsill. A big stain of it on the couch.

  Logan reached up and touched the lump above his ear. Flinched. Then poked at it again. Swelling was going down a bit. It had stopped bleeding too.

  Not that it mattered.

  Might as well have died in his sleep as wake up to this.

  So what if Reuben dobbed him in for taking money from Wee Hamish Mowat’s estate? John Urquhart had him on a murder. He had the body and, seeing as how the Frighteners snowglobe was nowhere to be seen, the murder weapon too.

  Logan dragged out his phone, squinting at the screen as it refused to stay in focus. He picked Urquhart’s number from his call history and listened to it ring. And ring. And then it clicked over to voicemail.

  ‘Hi, this is John’s phone. He’s not here right now, but leave a message, OK?’

  He opened his mouth … then shut it again. What was he going to do: leave recorded evidence asking what happened to the body of the man he’d killed? No chance. He hung up.

  Should’ve called the police when he had the chance. Cut a deal.

  At least that way he’d have been out in three or four years. But now?

  Maybe the plan to go home and blow his own brains out wasn’t so bad? Wasn’t as if he had anything else going for him right now. Head home, crack open that bottle of Balvenie, and phut.

  He leaned back against the wall. But then who would look after Cthulhu?

  Steel and Susan? Nah, their Mr Rumpole was far too old and too grumpy to accept another cat into the household.

  He rubbed a hand across his face. Then flinched as his phone blared out the ‘Imperial March’ from Star Wars.

  And everyone thought Friday the thirteenth was bad.

  Logan took the call. ‘I can’t.’

  On the other end, Steel was barely audible over the sound of loud music and shouting in the background – as if she was standing in the middle of a nightclub. ‘What? Hold on.’ She’d obviously turned away from the phone. ‘WILL YOU SHUT THAT RACKET UP? I’M TRYING TO TALK TO YOUR DAD!’ The music died away. ‘Thank you.’

  He turned his back on the room and limped out into the hall.

  ‘Sorry about that. Wee hooligan’s going through her heavy metal phase.’

  ‘I said, “I can’t”.’ He opened the front door and stepped into the snow.

  ‘Can’t what? What can you no’—’

  ‘Dinner. The whole thing. I can’t.’ Logan locked the caravan.

  The battered Transit van was gone, leaving the box-filled Punto alone in the car park, covered with about three inches of snow. More drifted down from the dirty grey sky.

  ‘You got any idea how much trouble Susan’s gone to, you ungrateful wee sod?’

  ‘I can’t.’ He groaned his way into the driver’s seat. Slammed the door shut.

  ‘Don’t you “can’t” me, you get your backside—’

  ‘I’m not feeling well, OK? Been sick twice. And my head hurts. And my stomach.’ Which was an understatement. It was as if someone had sewn fire ants under the skin, leaving them to bite and sting all the way across his abdomen.

  He turned the key, treadling the accelerator until the engine caught. Clicked on the windscreen wipers. They ground their way through the snow.

  Steel cleared her throat. ‘Hey, I had a hangover today too: don’t be such a whinge.’

  ‘It’s not a hangover.’

  He stuck the car in reverse, the wheels slithered then caught.

  ‘Aye, pull the other one, it’s got sheep attached.’

  ‘Look…’ Logan bit his lip. Winced. Then caught a good look at himself in the rear-view mirror. His mouth was swollen and cracked, a good spread of bruises growing over his cheekbone and temple.

  There had to be some way to get her to leave him alone. Something that’d wind her up till she stormed off in a huff. Of course there was: ‘The kiddie porn on Jack Wallace’s computer, it was buried away. So how come you managed to find it?’

  ‘Aye, nice try, Hannibal Lecter, but you’re no’ changing the subject that easy. You want to cancel on your kids, you can do it yourself.’

  ‘Oh come on, you can barely work the microwave, how are you suddenly a computer hacker?’

  He got the Punto facing the right way and crawled out of the caravan park and onto Mugiemoss Road, past the huge ugly grey sheds of the industrial estate.

  His stomach churned and gurgled, keeping time with the thumping waves of warm gravel that filled his skull. Probably got a concussion. Probably shouldn’t be driving. But what was he supposed to do, hang about in the caravan till Reuben sent someone else after him?

  And then Steel was back. ‘You really want to know? Fine.’ Some rustling, then the sound of a door closing.

  The road was a dirty black, fringed with brown slush – wavy lines of grit clearly visible.

  ‘I went to tell him to stay the hell away from Claudia Boroditsky. Grimy little sod had form for leaning on witnesses and victims. Liked to throw his weight about like a big man. And there she is, all of a sudden, saying she was confused, it wasn’t him. Really?’

  Tiny flecks of snow drifted down, clinging to the walls of the new flats and bookshelf houses.

  ‘He’s giving it, “Told you I never even saw her – nothing to do with me,” when the phone goes. And soon as he nips off to answer it, I have myself a wee wander. Didn’t have to do any hacking – the laptop was in the study, and the pictures were right there, bold as brass. He’d got it set on slideshow.’

  An eighteen wheeler grumbled past on the opposite side of the road, sending up a wake of muddy sludge.

  ‘And we’re talking some sick stuff here. Really horrible. Arrogant git hadn’t even shut the laptop when I rang the bell. Left it sitting right there.’ She sniffed. ‘Probably got
him all excited, talking to the police downstairs while that filth was playing away on his laptop.’

  ‘So you didn’t have to type in a password or anything like that?’

  ‘Course what I really wanted to do was chuck him down the stairs a few times. And how would I know what his password was? What am I, Derren Brown?’

  Logan pulled over to the side of the road and sat there with the engine running. From here the fields were a patchwork of white and grey, bordered with thin black lines and the occasional clump of bare trees. The landscape faded as the snow swallowed the middle distance.

  He huffed out a breath and ran a hand across his stomach.

  The knife’s line stung beneath his fingers, like rubbing rock salt into the wound.

  Steel started a four-year feud with Napier to cover for him.

  And now here he was, press-ganged into investigating her for Chief Superintendent Chocolate Crispies. Somehow it was a lot easier when Napier was just a shadowy Nosferatu figure, lurking and ready to pounce.

  Jack Wallace was an arrogant tosser, that much was obvious from the interview footage. Sitting there impassive as everything he’d done was laid out in front of him. ‘No comment’ing all the way.

  Maybe he wasn’t really a paedophile? Maybe it was all about sexual power for him and he didn’t care who he exerted that power over? As long as they were weaker than him.

  And now Steel was in the firing line because Wallace fancied getting out a bit early. Oh, poor me, I’ve been set up by the nasty policewoman.

  Logan pulled out his phone again and brought up the photo of Samantha at Rennie’s wedding. Rested the phone in the gap between the steering wheel and the instruments.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right.’

  No reply.

  ‘You think I’m looking for excuses not to go home. Because if I go home, I’ve got to face the fact that I’m screwed.’

  She was beautiful. Hair as red as fresh blood, skin as pale as the snow. The corset made the top of her breasts swell – one skeleton on either side above the leather, holding aloft a banner with ‘QUOTH THE RAVEN, “NEVERMORE”’ on it. Bare shoulders showing off the tribal tattoos, brambles, skulls and hearts and jagged swirls.

  ‘Come on, look at me: I can’t even kill someone in self-defence without feeling awful. It’s like there’s a lump of granite inside my chest. How am I going to kill Reuben in cold blood?’

  He reached forward and zoomed in on her face.

  ‘She stood up for me. Least I can do is return the favour.’

  The Punto’s engine pinged and clicked as it cooled.

  ‘I miss you.’

  No reply.

  He sighed, put the phone back in his pocket and started the car again. Then did a U-turn.

  Sod going home.

  Peterhead’s ASDA wasn’t very busy at half five on a Saturday evening. Just as well really. It meant there weren’t too many people around to stand and stare as Logan limped and shuffled his way around the clothes department.

  He caught sight of himself in a full-length mirror attached to a pillar.

  Talk about stop-and-search chic. His cagoule – unwrapped from the handgun in the car park – covered a multitude of sins and bloodstains, but did nothing to hide the hunched, bruised lump of a man reflected back at him.

  If they had any sense, store security would be keeping an eye on him. He might as well be carrying a placard with ‘I SHOPLIFT BACON AND CHEESE!!!’ on it.

  He leaned on his trolley and added a pair of jeans to the black T-shirt, blue hoodie, black socks, and grey trainers already in there. Then limped around to the pharmacy aisle and lumped in two packs of the highest-strength painkillers he could find, a pack of waterproof plasters, and an elasticated bandage.

  That should do it.

  A big middle-aged bloke in a black V-necked jumper and a tie followed him all the way to the checkouts. Just in case.

  The prison officer held the door open, grimacing as Logan limped into the interview room.

  ‘Sure you don’t want to see the doctor?’

  Logan hissed out a breath as he lowered himself into one of the seats. ‘I’m fine, really.’

  The room was bland and anonymous. Grey floor, grey walls, grey table, grey seats. A mirrored black hemisphere sat in one corner, like a supermarket security camera, and a panic strip ran around the wall.

  ‘Yes, but…’ She pointed at his face.

  ‘Broke up a fight outside a pub at lunchtime.’ He tried for a smile. ‘You should see the other guy.’

  Currently working his way through the inside of a pig. If Logan was lucky.

  ‘Well, OK. If you’re sure.’

  ‘Positive.’

  A nod. ‘I’ll go get Mr Wallace.’

  As soon as she was gone, Logan popped another couple of Nurofen from their blister pack and dry swallowed them. To hell with the recommended daily dosage. He slipped the packet back in the pocket of his new hoodie. Wasn’t easy, changing in the Punto’s passenger seat, in a lay-by, but at least he looked a bit less drug-dealy now.

  Shame his whole body still ached. And every time he moved, the elasticated plasters pulled at the hair on his stomach.

  But other than that, everything was just sodding peachy.

  It couldn’t have been more than five minutes before the guard was back with Jack Wallace.

  Prison hadn’t put any weight on him, he was still small and thin, the red sweatshirt and grey jogging bottoms almost hanging off him. He’d kept his scraped-forward fringe, but the pencil beard had thickened to a marker pen. Probably not so easy to get precision grooming equipment when you were banged up in HMP Grampian.

  The officer pointed. ‘Jack, this is Sergeant McRae, he’s here to talk to you about your allegations. For the record, again, this interview isn’t being recorded, and you’ve declined to have your solicitor present. Correct?’

  Wallace nodded. He looked thin, but when he moved his head it made the skin wobble beneath his chin. As if he’d been much larger once and lost a lot of it in a hurry.

  ‘All right then. Sergeant McRae, I’ll be right outside if you need me.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Logan waited till the door clunked shut, then shifted back in his seat. Why was it impossible to find a position that didn’t hurt? He settled for something that only made the left side of his body ache and stayed there, not saying anything, letting the silence grow.

  OK, so it was an old and cheap trick, but it worked. Sooner or later the person on the other side of the interview room table would—

  ‘I didn’t do it.’ Wallace leaned forward, hands clutched in front of him. ‘I don’t know why she says I did, but I didn’t. I mean, kids?’ He bared his teeth and shuddered. ‘That’s just sick.’

  Logan stayed where he was. Mouth closed.

  ‘I don’t understand it. I never ever looked at a kid like that. Never.’ He sniffed, then wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. ‘I don’t belong in here. You wouldn’t believe the people I’m in with – paedos, rapists, people who shag sheep for Christ’s sake! Scum.’ His bottom lip wobbled, then got pulled in. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

  Someone walked by in the corridor outside, whistling something tuneless.

  ‘It was that Chief Inspector Steel.’ He pronounced her name as if it were made of battery acid. ‘She set me up. She stole my laptop and she put that disgusting filth on it so she could arrest me.’ He coiled forward, elbow on the tabletop, head in his hands. ‘She’s had it in for me for years. This is her idea of a joke. But it’s my life!’

  ‘Why?’

  Wallace looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘Why would she do that? Why you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He scrubbed at his eyes again. ‘If I knew, I’d tell you, but I don’t. I’ve never done anything. I haven’t.’

  Logan tilted his head on one side, stretching the muscles in his neck, pulling the strip of gau
ze tight across his throat. ‘What about Claudia Boroditsky?’

  Wallace reacted as if he’d been slapped. Sat bold upright, blinking back the tears. ‘I never touched her. Never. You ask her – it was all lies. She dropped the charges and they threw it out of court.’ He poked the table with a thin finger. ‘I should’ve sued her. Had her done for making false claims. Trying to pervert the course of justice. I’m the victim here.’

  Yeah, right.

  ‘It’s not fair.’ He reached across the table, but Logan kept his hands out of reach. ‘I didn’t rape anyone, and I didn’t download child porn. I swear on my mother’s grave, that wrinkly old bitch set me up.’

  And there it was, a flash of the real Jack Wallace: aggressive, woman-hating, outraged and martyred, sexist scumbag. Lying and weaselling. Trying to escape justice yet again.

  Well not this time.

  Logan stood. ‘We’re done.’

  31

  Logan spread out a copy of the Aberdeen Examiner on the kitchen table, then unwrapped the semiautomatic from its plastic bags. Took another hit of Balvenie, holding it in his mouth till the warm sweetness turned into numbed gums and tongue.

  The cagoule was long gone, stuffed into a bin somewhere between Peterhead and Banff.

  His blue nitrile gloves squeaked on the metal as he disassembled the gun, turning it into a jigsaw of metal components. Each one with its place and purpose.

  He’d only fired three test shots, but the barrel was furred with soot, outside and in.

  A prooping noise came from the doorway, then a small furry body wound its way between his ankles. Tail up.

  He reached down to ruffle her ears then stopped.

  Had anyone ever been done because the Scene of Crime lot found gunshot residue on a suspect’s cat? Probably not. But it wasn’t worth the risk either.

  ‘Sorry, Kittenfish, Daddy’s busy just now.’

  The semiautomatic came apart easily enough. Logan laid out its moving parts across a story about two school kids who’d found a homeless man floating facedown in the boating pond at Duthie Park. The photo of the pair of them – grinning away after their ‘traumatic ordeal’ – darkened with blotches of oil from the recoil spring.

  Cleaning the gun only took a couple of minutes, so all that time spent on firearms training hadn’t been wasted. The gun clicked and snapped together again. Logan hauled back the slide and checked the action. All ready.