In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘No. Thank you.’ The muscles worked in Harper’s cheeks, clenching and unclenching, as she gathered up her actions and stuffed them into an awkward pile. ‘That won’t be necessary. Narveer, we’d better go … out.’

  The DI kept his face expressionless. ‘Yes, Super.’ He followed her from the room, pausing only to throw a wink back at Steel from the doorway, before sealing the pair of them in.

  Logan sagged against the wall. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What time’s the funeral?’

  He pointed at her phone. ‘Aren’t you keeping Susan waiting?’

  ‘Nah, it’s only Rennie – he’s away to the baker’s for breakfast butties. You want booby-trap or sausage?’

  ‘Sausage.’ Maybe it’d help settle his stomach? ‘Funeral’s at twelve.’

  ‘Brown or red?’

  ‘Red.’

  A nod, then she was back on the phone. ‘Aye, and another sausage butty with tomato sauce. … Of course he wants both sides buttered, have you never seen MasterChef?… Good. … Get on with it then.’ She stuck her phone back in her pocket. ‘Susan’s coming, and she’s bringing Jasmine and Naomi. Apparently Jasmine insisted. Says you need her there to hold your hand.’

  ‘That’s … very kind.’

  ‘Tell you, Laz, she’s turning into a right little control freak.’ Steel settled on the edge of the conference table. ‘You OK?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Know what you’re going to say?’

  ‘The eulogy? Yeah.’ He rubbed at his face, then sighed. ‘Got to head into town early. Make sure everything’s sorted with the church and the lawyers and the cemetery. And I’ve still got to sort out the insurance for the caravan.’

  ‘You know Susan and me are here for you, right? If you need someone to lean on, you’ve got people on your side, Laz. All of us. Even Rennie. I know he’s a useless wee spud most of the time, but he means well.’

  Logan nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Now: have your butty, then sod off and go do what you’ve got to. I’ll clear everything with your wee sister.’ A grin burst its way across Steel’s face. ‘And if she gives me any trouble, I’ll tell her about the time I went caravanning in the Lake District with a dental hygienist, and the Bumper Book of Lesbian Fun. Ah, the glory days of youth…’

  ‘Sarge?’

  Logan looked up from his sausage butty, and there was Tufty, hanging his head around the Sergeants’ Office door. ‘Officer Quirrel, I presume?’

  He limped into the room. ‘And on the last and final night, verily didst the brave Probationer do battle with a ravening wolf and recover the fair maiden, Tracy Brown.’

  ‘You found Tracy Brown?’

  Tufty leaned on the desk and raised his gimpy leg off the carpet an inch. ‘She was holed up with a married man in Strichen. His wife was off to Disneyland Paris with the kids for a week, so Tracy and him were having a nonstop humpathon till they got back.’

  ‘Typical. Too busy shagging to notice the whole northeast of Scotland is plastered in missing posters with her face on them. Why do we bother?’ He bit another mouthful of sausage and bun, tomato sauce making a dribbly bloodstain across the back of his hand. Chewing around the words, ‘What about the wolf?’

  ‘Bloke had a poodle. But it was massive. At least two foot tall with teeth like carving knives.’

  Logan pointed a finger at the limpy leg. ‘Get that seen to.’

  ‘Course, soon as Big Donald Brown finds out someone’s been riding his wee girl like she’s the Indiana Jones et le Temple du Péril roller-coaster, he’s going to go balistique.’

  ‘Might be an idea to put a grade-one flag on the house. Just in case.’

  ‘Will do.’ Tufty puffed out a breath. ‘You hear we got a fatal RTC last night? Wee boy in his pimped-out Peugeot lost it in the snow on the Fraserburgh road. Bang, right into a telegraph pole. Little sod walked away, but his girlfriend?’ Tufty grimaced. Shook his head.

  ‘Every winter. They prosecuting?’

  ‘Bloody hope so.’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Anyway, you coming to Whitehills with us? Drookit Haddie, fish, chips, beer. They might even break out the karaoke machine.’

  ‘I’d love to, but I can’t. It’s Samantha’s funeral.’

  Tufty’s eyes went wide. ‘Oh crap. I’m sorry, Sarge. It… Yeah. OK. I’m sorry.’

  Him and everyone else.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. You go have fun. It’s not every day you get to become a proper police officer. We’re proud of you, Tufty.’

  ‘Sarge.’ He limp-shuffled his feet for a moment, then leaned forward and patted Logan on the shoulder. ‘If you need anything. You know.’ A shrug. A nod. Then Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Right, better go get my gaping wound seen to before they have to amputate my whole leg.’

  ‘You do that.’ Logan polished off the last bite of butty, wiped his hands on the napkin it came wrapped in, then sooked his fingers clean. Stood.

  No point putting it off any longer.

  By the end of the day there would be something much darker red than tomato sauce on his hands.

  The song on the radio faded away, replaced by someone who sounded as if they’d not taken their medication that morning. ‘Hurrah! Wasn’t that terrific? We’ve got the news and weather coming up at the top – of – the – hour with Sexy Suzie. Don’t miss it. But first, here’s a blast from the past: anyone remember H from Steps? Well—’

  Logan killed the engine and the rusty Fiat Punto pinged and rattled.

  He checked his watch: nine fifty. Ten minutes.

  Blew out a long rattling breath.

  Come on. This wasn’t difficult. People did this all over the world every day. Gun. Forehead. Trigger. Bullet.

  ‘Yes, but I can’t do it in a solicitor’s office, can I?’

  He glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror. ‘Well of course you can’t, Logan. That would be stupid.’

  ‘Not to mention all the witnesses.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  He chewed on the ragged edge of a fingernail, working it smooth. ‘Have to get him somewhere private. Somewhere you can get rid of the body.’

  ‘Where though? Where’s he going to go with a police officer? A police officer he tried to have killed two days ago. He’s going to know something’s up.’

  ‘And what about the body? How do we get rid of it?’

  Logan blinked at his reflection.

  ‘Are we really doing this?’

  ‘You know we’ve got no choice. Be the bigger dog.’

  ‘What about the pig farm? Kill two birds and one fat violent bastard with one stone. People die out there all the time. What’s one more meal for the pigs?’

  ‘True. Very true.’

  ‘But how do we get him out there? He has—’ A knock on the car window sent him flinching back in his seat. ‘Jesus!’

  He turned, and there was John Urquhart, smiling in at him.

  Logan undid his seatbelt and climbed out into the bitter morning air. ‘Mr Urquhart.’

  ‘Mr McRae. Glad you could make it.’ He stuck out his hand for shaking and nodded at the manky Fiat Punto. ‘Hope I didn’t interrupt your phone call.’

  ‘Phone call?’

  ‘Don’t know about you, but I always feel a right nutter talking on a Bluetooth headset. Everyone thinks you’re talking to yourself.’

  ‘Yes. Not a problem.’ Logan locked the car, as if anyone would be desperate enough to steal a rusty pile of disappointment when it was surrounded by all these Audis, Jaguars, and BMWs.

  The car park was tucked off Diamond Street – which didn’t exactly live up to its name. Instead of sparkling, the road was lined with the backs of buildings: half facing out onto Union Terrace, the other half Golden Square. Leaving a dark narrow canyon of grey and old brick.

  Urquhart patted the roof of Logan’s car. ‘Suppose you’ll be upgrading after today.’

  It took a moment for t
hat to sink in: Wee Hamish’s bequest. Two-thirds of a million pounds. ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Right. Got you. Don’t want to arouse suspicions. Clever.’

  Logan put a hand in his pocket, steadying the gun. ‘Better get this over with. Got a funeral to go to.’

  ‘Yeah, totally.’ A nod. Then he led the way to a black-painted door in the corner of the car park, with an intercom mounted beside it. Pressed the call button. ‘Mr Urquhart and Mr McRae for Mr Moir-Farquharson. We have an appointment?’

  There was a pause, then the unit buzzed and the door popped open an inch.

  Urquhart leaned on it, exposing a short corridor with a flight of stairs at the end. He held the door for Logan, dropping his voice to a whisper as soon as they were inside. ‘I told Reuben about Stevie Fowler. He is not happy.’

  ‘What a shock.’ Logan kept his hand on the gun. It was still in its bags, but the outline of the thing was clear enough. No idea if it would be fireable though – not without jabbing his finger through the freezer bags to pull the trigger.

  ‘He’s getting worse. And yeah, I know that sounds hard to believe, but it’s like breakdancing in a sodding minefield right now.’

  Logan stopped at the foot of the stairs and stared at Urquhart. ‘So we kill him.’

  A frown. Urquhart licked his lips. ‘Mr McRae, it’s—’

  ‘We get him out to one of the pig farms and we put a bullet in him. Let the pigs take care of the rest.’

  Silence.

  Urquhart stared down at the shiny black tips of his shoes. ‘Mr McRae, I’m not supposed to take sides, OK? I’m meant to be impartial, like, you know the Civil Service? You and Reuben, you’re the Tories and Labour, whichever side wins is the next government. My job’s to make sure the country still runs. Implement policy, and that.’

  ‘Impartial?’ Logan poked Urquhart in the chest. ‘You were the one who told me to kill him!’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ A shrug. ‘You know, that’s impartial advice, isn’t it? Just saying what Mr Mowat thought.’

  ‘So, what, you’re happy for me to shoot Reuben, as long as you don’t have to get your hands dirty? That it?’

  ‘I can’t take—’

  ‘You said it yourself: he’s getting worse. What’s it going to be like when he starts a war?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘This is what Hamish wanted. What other option do we have?’

  Urquhart dragged in a deep breath. Stared at his shoes again. ‘We don’t.’

  ‘Tonight. Tell him we have to talk about Steven Fowler nicking his drugs and selling them to Jessica Campbell, and we have to do it at the pig farm so no one knows we’re meeting. Can you sort it?’

  A nod. ‘Think so.’

  ‘And no witnesses. You, me, and him there: no one else.’

  Urquhart nodded. Bit his bottom lip. ‘Does this mean you’re taking charge? Because—’

  ‘Hello?’ The door at the top of the stairs opened and a middle-aged woman with lacquered hair and 1950s Dame Edna glasses. Her pink cardigan was buttoned all the way up. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  Urquhart waved at her. ‘Sorry, had to tie my shoelace. Be right up.’

  ‘Well, the reading is about to start and Mr Moir-Farquharson is a very busy man.’

  ‘Of course.’ He hurried up the stairs and Logan followed him, through into a reception area lined with historic views of Aberdeen in gilded frames, mounted on dark mahogany panelling.

  She waved a hand toward the door on the far side of the room. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson is waiting for you.’

  ‘Of course.’ Urquhart gave a short bow. ‘Thank you, Mrs Jeffries. Always a pleasure.’

  Logan opened the door.

  It was a conference room, with a long oak table down the middle and views out through a pair of mullioned windows to the heart of Golden Square. Which was basically one big pay-and-display car park with a few trees around the central bank of parking and a statue in the middle. All drab and squashed under the pale-grey sky.

  Reuben stood by a side table, helping himself to a cup of tea and a raisin whirl. The expensive suit managed to even out some of the bulges, but he still looked massive. Dangerous. His hands dwarfed the thin china cup. His scarred face turned, eyes drifting up Logan, then down again. A grunt. ‘About time.’

  A tall, dapper man sat at the head of the long table in a dark suit that looked even more expensive than Reuben’s. The hair at his temples was solid white, beneath a lid of greying black. Distinguished. Patriarchal. The only thing slightly out of kilter was the squint nose. He checked his watch, then pulled on a thin smile. ‘And we can begin.’

  The only other person in the room was a shrunken woman with pink-tinged hair and hands taloned with arthritis. Skin hung in loose wattles from her chin to the neck of her tweed jacket, her face like a scrunched-up chamois leather, her eyes polished onyx buried in the folds.

  Sandy Moir-Farquharson dipped into a leather briefcase and came out with a leather folder. Opened it like a tomb. And began to read. ‘“I, Hamish Alexander Selkirk Mowat, being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament…’

  40

  ‘Sign here, and here…’ Moir-Farquharson pointed, and Logan scrawled his signature in the appropriate places. ‘And here.’

  Outside the conference room window, the skies had darkened to the colour of a burned body. Thick white flakes drifted down amongst the cars parked outside, falling on Porsches and manky Fiat Puntos alike.

  ‘And here. And lastly, here.’

  Logan did.

  The solicitor took the documents back and blew on the signatures, as if they’d been done with a quill rather than a Police Scotland biro. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall instruct my colleagues to set the wheels in motion.’ He stood. ‘Thank you for your patience, everyone.’

  The little old lady nodded, setting her wattles swaying. ‘He was a good man and all.’

  Reuben hadn’t moved for the last half hour. No sign of life, except for the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching.

  She sighed. ‘And very generous. Three hundred thousand pounds, just for cleaning his house.’ She brought out a handkerchief and dabbed at a wrinkly eye. ‘A braw man.’ She waved one of her claws at Urquhart. ‘Can you help me up?’

  ‘Of course, Mrs P. You lean on me.’ Urquhart got her to her feet and guided her across the wooden floor with its fancy rug and out into the reception.

  As soon as they were gone, Reuben bared his teeth. ‘Two-thirds of a million.’

  Logan stared at the ceiling – moulded and pristine, with a modest chandelier. ‘Nothing to do with me: it’s what Hamish wanted.’

  ‘Pin your lugs back, McRae: you screw about with this will, you stand in the way or delay anything, I’m going to carve—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Reuben, give it a rest.’

  ‘Who the hell do you think you’re—’

  ‘Yes, you’re all big and scary. Well done.’ Logan’s hand wrapped around the evidence bag in his pocket, feeling the outline of the gun. Its weight. ‘You think this is easy for me? I’m a police officer. This is all profits from crime and I’m supposed to divvy it up between a bunch of thugs and gangsters. How’s that going to look?’ He shook his head. ‘Should hand the whole thing over to the National Crime Agency and let them deal with it.’

  A growl rumbled across the table.

  ‘Don’t worry: I won’t. I promised Hamish.’ Logan gave up on the ceiling and looked at the glowering lump of hate and gristle sitting opposite instead. ‘We need to talk about Stevie Fowler.’

  A big fat finger poked across the table. ‘I want that bastard out on bail. I want him where I can get at him.’

  ‘Not possible. Too many top brass were there when he was arrested. They know about his confession. Hell, they’re falling over each other to claim credit for it. He stays where he is.’

  ‘When I say I want hi
m out, I want – him – out!’

  ‘And I say, he’s not going anywhere.’ Logan tightened his grip on the gun. ‘If you want him, you’ll have to go after him where he is.’

  ‘Wow.’ Urquhart sauntered back into the room, closing the door behind him. ‘Mrs P, eh? What a woman.’ He helped himself to a chocolate mini-roll, popping the thing in his mouth whole, chewing with his mouth open. ‘“Cleaning house”, eh? Never heard it called that before.’

  Reuben’s finger swung down and ground itself into the desk, as if he was stubbing out a cigar. ‘Where are my damn drugs?’

  ‘Same thing. They’re evidence and everyone knows about them.’

  He lunged like a Saint Bernard, back hunched, huge paws on the table. Barking, spittle flying: ‘I WANT MY BLOODY DRUGS BACK!’

  Urquhart’s eyes bugged. ‘Shhhh! Jesus, Reuben, you want everyone in Aberdeen to hear? Come on, calm the beans, man, yeah?’

  Reuben glowered at him.

  ‘You know it makes sense, right? Calm. We can’t talk about this here. Too many ears.’ He licked his lips and snuck a glance at Logan. ‘How about we meet up later, just the three of us? Sort out what we’re going to do about that two-faced git, Fowler, and his thieving mate. Stealing from us and flogging it to one of Ma Campbell’s dealers? Who does he think we are, Clangers?’

  The big man stayed where he was.

  ‘Reuben – calm – dude. We can sort it. Mr McRae’s on the team, aren’t you, Mr McRae?’

  Logan let go of the gun. ‘Of course I am.’ He nodded at the copy of Wee Hamish Mowat’s will he’d got in his executor’s pack. ‘I know you don’t like what’s in there, but it ties me to the organization. I’m up to my ears whether I like it or not.’

  A grunt, then Reuben stood up straight, towering over the pair of them. ‘Where?’

  ‘Call it midnight, when no one’s about.’ Urquhart gave a small shrug, as if it wasn’t important. As if this was the most natural thing in the world. ‘How about … West Gairnhill Farm? That’s good, isn’t it? Secluded.’

  ‘Fine. Midnight.’ Reuben jabbed his finger at Logan again. ‘Be there.’ Then he turned and lumbered from the room like a well-dressed grizzly bear. And every bit as deadly.