In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  As the door swung shut, Logan slumped in his seat and covered his face with his hands. ‘Gah.’

  Urquhart blew out a long breath. ‘If it were done, when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’ So he couldn’t spell in a text message, but quoting Shakespeare was OK? ‘Anyway, better get off.’ Urquhart let out another elongated sigh. ‘Places to go, people to kill.’

  ‘No, I wanted to make sure everything was OK, that’s all.’ Logan leaned against the windowsill, looking down at the street below as Reuben’s rounded figure hunched its way towards a dark-blue Bentley.

  On the other end of the phone, Andy had his professional voice on, the pronunciation crisp and calm. Soothing. ‘Everything’s under control, Mr McRae. We brought Samantha down an hour ago, so don’t worry – she’ll arrive on time. And I’ve checked with the church, they have all the Order of Services ready to hand out and the organist has been practising his rendition of “Welcome to the Black Parade”. Apparently it sounds like quite something on a completely refurbished three-manual Willis organ.’

  ‘Thanks, Andy.’

  ‘Anything I can do to help, please give me a call.’

  The conference room door opened and Sandy Moir-Farquharson, AKA: Hissing Sid, slipped in. ‘Mr McRae, thank you for staying behind.’

  ‘Sorry, Andy, got to go.’ He hung up and put his phone away as Moir-Farquharson sat at the head of the table again.

  ‘Now, there are a few things we need you to do as executor of Mr Mowat’s will, then there’s the matter of the bequest he left you.’

  The two-thirds of a million.

  Logan sat. ‘What if I don’t want it?’

  ‘Then you’re free to give it away to charity. Mr Mowat has made provision for the money to be held in escrow, awaiting your retirement from the police. That way you would not be … embarrassed by the sudden arrival of such a large sum in your bank account.’

  ‘In escrow?’

  ‘Essentially, there will be nothing connecting you to the aforementioned bequest until you cease to be a serving police officer. Should you decide to retire to the Dordogne, for example. Or perhaps the Isle of Man? Then the bequest will be made at your disposal.’

  Logan drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘Nothing connecting me to it at all?’

  Moir-Farquharson pointed. ‘Please stop doing that.’ Then straightened his tie. ‘Your affairs will be treated with the utmost discretion. And you know how discreet we can be here.’

  That much was true. Getting anything out of Hissing Sid was like trying to remove a granite boulder from a cliff face using a broken toothpick. Even with a warrant.

  ‘I only require from you guidance as to how you wish the money employed while it’s in escrow. Mr Mowat made allowance for investing a portion in a managed fund, for example. It could provide you with a very acceptable pension, should you wish.’

  Which was more than working for the police did these days.

  Logan picked a point over Moir-Farquharson’s shoulder and stared at it. It was another of the old photos of Aberdeen, mounted in a gilded frame. Holburn Street from the look of it. ‘Do you remember telling me that Hamish had… That he’d said you’d defend me, in court, if anything happened?’

  ‘I am aware of Mr Mowat’s wishes, yes. Why, is something likely to, as you put it, “happen”?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Ah.’ Moir-Farquharson hooked his thumbs into the lapels of his jacket, as if he were wearing his silks and about to stride forth across the courtroom. ‘Would I be right in surmising that the something in question relates to Mr Mowat’s former associate, Reuben?’

  ‘Might do.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He nodded. ‘Mr McRae, I normally restrict my counsel to advice of a strictly legal nature, but if I may make so bold: when engaged in any business, it is always preferable to be the one conducting a hostile takeover than to be on the receiving end. I would imagine, in the circumstances, your options are very much limited to staging one of your own, or putting your affairs in order.’

  Brilliant.

  The sausage butty was a stone in his stomach, dragging it down.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Moir-Farquharson reached into his pocket and produced a small white rectangle with the company logo on it. ‘My card.’ A smile spread itself across his face. It was like watching a python preparing to devour a small child. ‘I would, of course, be only too happy to assist you in drawing up a new will, should you choose the latter option.’

  Of course he would.

  Rubislaw Parish Church wasn’t exactly packed. The pale wood pews hosted a scattering of men and women, no more than about forty of them. Some were in uniform – probably given an hour off work to attend – but most were in an assortment of black clothes. Some in suits, some in jeans. And Logan barely recognized any of them.

  Steel turned and waved back at him from the front row, pointing to the empty seat beside her. Susan sat on her other side holding onto a wriggling Naomi. Jasmine was last in line, staring up at the vaulted ceiling with her mouth hanging open, as if she’d never seen anything like it in her life.

  Andy appeared at Logan’s shoulder. ‘Mr McRae? We’re ready for the pallbearers, now.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The walls were painted a cheerful yellow, with big flower arrangements of red roses and white lilies, lots of black ribbons. They were a bit gothic for the cheery interior, but what the hell.

  He turned and followed Andy back out of the front door, where a couple of stragglers were hurrying up the pavement and through the gates. The church’s façade was stained nearly black with dirt, and soot, and exhaust fumes. A clock-tower steeple rose on one side – running about fifteen minutes late – looming over the heavy stonework and narrow windows. It was sealed off from Queen’s Cross roundabout by a shoulder-high hedge on one side and a low gate on the other, as if that would keep out the Godless masses. Next door, the three-storey granite buildings had been given a clean, which only made the church look grimier.

  Even the snow looked less pure. It drifted down, clinging to the bushes and walls, dulling the paintwork of the gleaming black hearse parked outside the church – back door open.

  ‘Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap…’ Three slightly wobbly figures ran up the pavement, cheeks pink, breath trailing behind them in cloudy wisps. Isla, Tufty, and Calamity. All dressed in their Sunday best.

  Isla slithered to a halt on the icy path in her four-inch heels. ‘Sorry, Sarge. Took longer to get here than we thought. Traffic’s a nightmare.’

  Calamity gave Logan’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘You OK, Sarge?’

  Couldn’t help but smile. He pointed at Tufty. ‘I thought you were all off celebrating Pinocchio here becoming a real boy.’

  ‘Nah.’ Isla waved a hand at him. ‘We’re a team, Sarge. We got your back.’

  Up close, the smell of beer, wine, and sloe gin surrounded the three of them. There was a distinct whiff of wet dog too.

  Logan frowned. ‘You didn’t drive, did you?’

  ‘Got a lift off Syd Fraser. He’s parking the van.’

  Well, at least that explained the smell of dog.

  The first notes of Samantha’s favourite song rang out from inside the church, made huge and dark by the organ.

  Andy appeared at his elbow. ‘Mr McRae? It’s time.’

  A hand on Logan’s shoulder made him flinch. He took a step back and blinked.

  Right.

  ‘Laz, you OK?’ Steel peered up at him, the wrinkles deep between her eyebrows.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah. Fine.’

  Snow swept across the graveyard, wind rattling the empty trees – driving the icy flakes into his skin like tiny icy daggers.

  The plot had a good view down the hill, across the road, past the roundabout, the caravan park where Samantha used to live, over the river to the sewage works, and off to the fields beyond. Half one in the afternoo
n and the big Danestone Tesco had all its lights on, blaring like a beacon through the gloom. The roads were clogged, a solid stream of headlights going one way and tail-lights going the other.

  Steel tucked her hands into her armpits and sniffed. ‘Nice ceremony. Shame about the turnout.’

  A handful of people hurried down the curving paths, towards the line of parked cars at the cemetery gate.

  ‘She was in a coma for five years. People move on.’

  ‘Suppose so.’ Steel stamped her feet and turned her back on the wind. ‘Thought your wee sister could’ve bothered her backside to turn up though.’

  ‘She’s got a murder inquiry to run.’ He brushed the cold damp earth from his hands. ‘Besides, I only met her on Thursday. Barely know the woman.’

  ‘Still should’ve turned up.’ Steel hunched her shoulder and rocked from side to side. ‘Gah, can’t feel my bum.’

  ‘Go. Get warm. It’s OK.’ He pointed down the hill at the cars. ‘I just want a minute.’

  She patted him on the back. ‘Don’t be daft. Never wanted to feel my bum anyway. Christina Hendricks’s arse on the other hand, I’d grope the hell out of that. You’d need both hands, mind.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s OK. Go.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sod off.’

  A shrug. Then she slouched off, leaving him alone at the graveside.

  A dozen handfuls of part-frozen earth had done nothing to hide the lid of Samantha’s coffin.

  ‘This is turning into a habit. Two funerals in four days.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Hope you like it here. Thought it would be better than some anonymous council job. At least you know the area.’ He copied Steel, turning his back on the wind. The snow made pattering sounds against his suit jacket, like hundreds of tiny feet running all over him. ‘You can see your old house from here… Well, you could if someone hadn’t burned it down.’

  The wind moaned through the trees and between the headstones.

  ‘Anyway, yeah…’ Logan frowned. Bit his bottom lip. ‘Don’t suppose they’ll let me visit much, you know: after they catch me, prosecute, and send me down for sixteen years. Assuming Reuben doesn’t pull a fast one and kill us both.’

  A thick eddy of snow whipped past, dancing among the dead flowers and ceramic teddy bears. Down by the roundabout, someone leaned on their car horn, as if that was going to get the traffic moving at more than a snail’s crawl.

  ‘You know, you could say something.’

  The high-pitched pinging rattle of an approaching train sang through the frozen air, getting louder and louder until it was swamped by the diesel roar of the train itself. It clattered by on the line up the hill, between the cemetery’s top edge and the dual carriageway beyond. A ribbon of flickering lights and bored faces, staring out of the carriage windows at the falling snow.

  ‘Mr McRae?’

  Logan didn’t turn around. Didn’t have to. ‘Mr Urquhart.’

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t make the service.’ Urquhart stepped up beside him, a bouquet of black roses in his hand. ‘Thought she might like these.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The flickering strobe of passing carriages faded, leaving them alone in the snow.

  Urquhart squatted down, then dropped the black roses onto the black coffin lid nestled in its black grave. He stood and wiped his hands together. ‘We’re all set for tonight. The guys who run the pig farm will stay well away till I say otherwise, and they’ve got half a dozen porkers who haven’t been fed for a couple of days. So Reuben turns up, we go for a little walk.’ Urquhart made a gun from his thumb and fingers. ‘Pop. Munchity crunchity.’

  ‘What, no Shakespeare this time?’

  ‘Nah, a time and a place, right, Mr McRae?’

  Mr McRae.

  Logan puffed out a cloudy breath – it was torn away by the funeral air. ‘I think, John, as we’re conspiring to commit murder, you can call me Logan, don’t you?’

  41

  Might as well not have bothered having a wake. It wasn’t as if the funeral was oversubscribed, and only half of the attendees made the trip across town to the burial. And only a dozen of those made it to the Munro House Hotel in Bucksburn, even though it wasn’t even five minutes from the cemetery.

  The function room carpet was a muted red tartan, faded by the passage of feet and years. Its wood-panelled walls were thick with landscapes of Glencoe and paintings of grouse and deer. Two stags heads, mounted on opposite walls, glared out with gimlet eyes as if they were about to charge each other.

  The remaining twelve people milled around the buffet table, looking swamped in a room that probably held five hundred on a good day.

  But then this wasn’t a good day.

  Steel popped a wee pastry thing into her mouth, talking as she chewed. ‘Good spread.’ She helped herself to another vol-au-vent from the tray, nestled amongst all the tiny pies and sausage rolls and mini Kievs and filo prawns and the bowls of crisps and pickled onions and untouched salad. ‘You’re staying with us tonight. And before you say anything, Laz, that’s no’ a polite invitation it’s an order.’

  Logan stared down the table at the dwindling mourners. ‘There’s enough food here for about sixty people.’

  She held up her glass – filled nearly to the brim with whisky. ‘And don’t think we don’t appreciate it. And the free bar.’ She clinked it against his mineral water. ‘Slàinte mhath!’

  The young man threw his head back and laughed. ‘Oh God, and the smell!’ He took another scoof of what looked like Coke, but reeked of rum. ‘Tell you, you think a septic tank would be bad enough, but try throwing in a decomposing corpse!’

  The woman with him grimaced at Logan. ‘Sorry about this, he’s had—’

  ‘No, wait a minute, wait a minute.’ Mr Rum-And-Coke stifled a belch. ‘So there we are, in like chest waders, and we’re like up to our knees sloshing about, trying to find all the bits of this dead girl, and Samantha slips, right?’ Another laugh. ‘She slips and it’s like in slow-motion and you can see it in her face, she’s going down, but she’s damned if she’s going down alone—’

  ‘Come on, Billy, we should get going, it’s—’

  ‘—reaches out to steady herself and grabs Fusty Frankie, and he’s like, “Holy crap!”’

  ‘Billy, come on, you—’

  ‘And he grabs me, and I’m like, “Aaaargh!” and I grab Gordie’s leg, cos he’s not down in the tank, he’s up on the ground above us—’

  ‘Billy!’

  ‘—and there’s screaming and swearing and down we all go…’

  ‘Sarge?’ Someone tapped Logan on the shoulder, and when he turned, there was Calamity. ‘Sorry we can’t stay, but we’re back on shift at ten and if I don’t get Tufty and Isla back to Banff soon they’ll be sod-all use tonight.’ She grimaced. ‘Isla’s been on the Baileys, and you know what she’s like with a drink in her. Probably going to get The Smiths’ greatest hits all the way home.’

  Logan nodded. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘What are friends for?’ She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Let us know if you need anything, OK?’

  And then there were five.

  Logan struggled his way through yet another testicle-sized Kiev and washed it down with a mouthful of mineral water.

  ‘Laz! Laz, Laz, Laz…’ Steel marched over to him, back fence-post straight, one arm swinging completely out of time with her legs – which seemed to have developed an opinion of their own about how knees actually worked. ‘How come you’re not drinks? Got to drinks. It’s a wake.’ She held up a tumbler half-full of amber liquid. ‘Is only Grouse, but I like it. Good for you.’

  ‘No. Thanks. Don’t really feel like it.’

  ‘You sure?’ She blinked at him, then threw back a mouthful. ‘Is there any crisps? Oooh, never mind, I spy sausage rolls!’ And she was off.

  Susan wrapped an arm around Logan
’s waist and gave him a lopsided hug. ‘I’m really sorry, but the little monster needs her bed.’ Naomi nestled in the crook of her other arm, looking for all the world like a cross between ET and some sort of pink grub. Blinking and making big wet toothless yawns.

  Logan kissed the top of Susan’s head. Her hair smelled of oranges. ‘Don’t be. Thanks for coming.’

  She let go and backed up a pace. ‘And you’re sure you’re OK taking the big monster home?’

  They both turned.

  Steel was over by the bar again, one leg wandering back and forth, while the other kept her upright. She was pouring from a litre bottle of Bells, and, to be fair, getting most of it in the glass.

  ‘She needs a day off, doesn’t she?’

  Susan sighed. ‘You’re preaching to the clergy, Logan.’ Then she turned and waved at Jasmine. ‘Come on, Horror, put the Nintendo away, we’re going home.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you want to take some of this food home with you?’

  She picked up a wee individual cheese-and-ham tart, grimaced, then put it down again. ‘I hate to let it go to waste, but we’re all on diets.’

  Steel wobbled over and wrapped her arm around Logan’s shoulders, whisky slopped out of the glass in her other hand. ‘I love you. No, I do. You’re a … a good person. For a man.’

  The last mourner at the wake raised an eyebrow at Logan. ‘And with that, it’s time for me to go.’ He shook Logan’s hand. ‘I’m really sorry about Sam. She was one of the best Scene Of Crime officers I ever worked with.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Nooo!’ Steel sloshed more whisky at him. ‘Stay! We’ll have … have a drinks.’

  A pained smile, and he grabbed his coat and left.

  Logan took the glass off her. ‘Come on, bedtime.’

  ‘But is whisky.’ Reaching for it.

  ‘No more whisky. Home.’

  ‘Nooo…’ She lurched out into the middle of the room and did a wobbly three-sixty with her arms out, squinting at the empty room. ‘Where everyone gone?’

  ‘Can we please just go home?’

  ‘Hungry.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Ooh, sausage rolls!’

  God’s sake.