In the Cold Dark Ground

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘That’s what you get for being a bloody wimp.’

  Logan unhooked his CS gas. ‘Oh that’s helping, is it?’

  ‘If you’d killed Reuben when you had the chance, instead of fannying about, you wouldn’t be in this mess.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘You shut up.’

  Two men armed with handguns, one armed with a sawn-off shotgun.

  Turn around and get the hell out of there.

  Laughter echoed down the hill. ‘HEY, MCRAE, MCKENZIE TELLS ME THIS ISN’T ANY OLD DETECTIVE SUPER-INTENDENT: SHE’S YOUR SISTER! OH THAT’S PRICELESS.’

  Another hard crack from the left, closer this time. The bullet sizzled through the air over his head.

  ‘WELL?’

  ‘DON’T THINK SO.’

  ‘MAYBE WE SHOULD—’ There was a crunch and the popcorn crackle of breaking branches. ‘AAAAAAAArgh!’ Then a thump.

  ‘AL?’ Jones crashed through the undergrowth off to the right. ‘AL? YOU OK?’

  ‘Argh…’ The sound of someone spitting. ‘THODDING HELL.’

  ‘WHAT HAPPENED?’

  ‘I BIDT MY TUNG!’

  Reuben’s voice bellowed over the top. ‘YOU KNOW WHAT I’M GOING TO DO TO YOUR SISTER, MCRAE?’

  The crunching sound of feet on frozen snow was getting louder. A minute or more and they’d be on top of him.

  Don’t just crouch there – do something.

  Logan took a deep breath and backed away from the Fiesta. The trees were thin and spindly, nothing thick enough to stop a bullet.

  ‘I’M GOING TO CARVE HER LIKE A SUNDAY ROAST AND FEED HER TO THE PIGS, ONE SLICE AT A TIME, WHILE SHE WATCHES.’

  He ducked, creeping into a clump of whin. The dead seedheads hissed at him. Another six foot further on, the ground dropped away, plummeting into the darkness. Edge of the world.

  ‘YOU THEE HIM?’

  ‘HOW? DARK AS A BADGER’S ARSE DOWN HERE.’

  ‘YOU LIKE THAT, MCRAE? OR YOU GOING TO COME OUT AND BE A MAN?’

  The guy on the left, Jones, had reached the overturned Fiesta. He was a vague dark outline against the bushes and patches of snow, sharp nose swinging from side to side, as if he were scenting the air. He whirled around three hundred and sixty degrees, his gun up at head level, twisted on its side – gangsta stylie.

  Idiot.

  No sign of idiot number two.

  Logan ran a hand across the ground. Sticks. Twigs. Dirt. Rock. It wasn’t big – barely the size of his fist, but it’d do.

  He threw it off to the right, deeper into the woods. It clattered and rattled through branches, its final thunk swallowed by the snow.

  Jones spun around and a flare of light exploded from the end of his gun, illuminating him in all his thin and pointy glory. The crack echoed around the ravine.

  Logan blinked. Blinked again. But the flash was a hard burst of yellow-white, etched across his eyes.

  ‘JONETHY: YOU GET HIM?’

  ‘MAYBE.’ Gavin Jones was even less visible than before, hidden by the shot’s afterimage. ‘YOU SEE ANYTHING?’

  ‘WHAT’S KEEPING YOU PAIR OF IDIOTS? FIND HIM!’

  ‘You think it’s that easy?’ Jones’s voice was barely a mutter. ‘You limp your fat arse down here and kill him yourself.’ He picked his way down the hill, crackling through the bushes.

  Closer. Closer. And then he was level with Logan’s clump of whin … and then he was past.

  Logan flipped the cap off his CS gas, pulling the canister from its holster. The coiled bungee cord holding it to his equipment belt tightened as he stood up and aimed. ‘Hello, Ugly.’

  Jones span around. ‘Jesus—’

  Logan mashed his thumb down on the trigger.

  ‘AAAAAAAAAARGH! AAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ He folded in half, both hands covering his face, the gun still clenched in one fist. ‘MY EYES! AH JESUS…’

  Logan helped him take his mind off the CS gas by kneeing him in the groin.

  ‘JONETHY?’ Wright’s thick lispy voice wasn’t far away – slightly further uphill to the right. ‘JONETHY! YOU OK?’

  ‘WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON DOWN THERE?’

  Gavin Jones crumpled to the ground not far from the cliff edge, moaning and whimpering.

  The gun was easy enough to take off him. Logan dragged him into the whin bush, pulled his hands behind his back and cuffed them.

  One down.

  ‘JONETHY!’

  A quick frisk through his pockets turned up a spare clip for the semiautomatic.

  That evened the odds a bit.

  He gave Jones a kick, setting him off again, then crept uphill, using the swearing and crying as cover.

  ‘JONETHY?’ A shot rang out. Then another one. And another.

  Logan hit the ground, scrambling on all fours back to the car.

  Wright crashed through the bushes, firing off two more shots. ‘Thodding hell…’ He was downhill now, his silhouette crouching over his mate. ‘HE’TH GOT JONETHY!’

  ‘DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF?’ Up on the road, Reuben moved to the edge of the verge, the sawn-off glinting in the headlights. ‘WHERE IS HE?’

  Logan stayed where he was. Not moving. Keeping his breath as quiet as possible.

  McKenzie marched over to Reuben, hands jabbing out, emphasizing the words. ‘Are you happy now? He gets away and we’re all screwed!’

  ‘MCRAE?’

  ‘Oh give it up. I told you to kill him and get it over with, but would you—’

  Reuben rammed the butt of his sawn-off into her face hard enough to lift her off her feet. She crumpled out of sight, groaning. Then he took a short limp forward, good leg swinging back then snapping forward. There was the crunch of boot meeting flesh. And another one. One more for luck.

  He stood back. Bent down and rubbed at his bad leg. ‘You work for me, bitch. Understand?’

  No reply.

  ‘UNDERSTAND.’ Another kick. Then he took his crutch and prodded something hidden by the verge. Probably McKenzie. ‘Oh.’

  Allan Wright was still crouched over his mewling friend.

  Logan took a deep breath. Do it now, while they were both distracted.

  One down, two to go.

  He scrambled upright and charged, leading with his shoulder. Crashed through the whin, setting the seedheads rattling.

  Wright almost made it to his feet before Logan battered into him, sending him sprawling. He hit the ground and bounced. Rolled over, snarling, then his eyes went wide – two big circles of white in the darkness – as he went over the cliff edge.

  His hand flashed out, grabbing, wrapping around Logan’s ankle.

  ‘Aaagh…’ The world flipped backwards, crashing and rolling, and then they were falling.

  Cold air rushed past Logan’s face, then something hard crashed into his side, flipping him over. And again. And again. Swearing and screaming his way down into the dark, surrounded by the clattering snap of breaking branches, thuds, and grunts.

  One last crash and then a moment of agonizing silence followed by a deafening THUD.

  Oh God…

  Flat on his back, eyes screwed tight shut.

  His arms and legs felt as if they’d been battered by crowbars, the whole of his chest screaming in pre-bruised agony.

  Every breath was like being punched in the ribs.

  ‘Ow…’

  Be lucky if he hadn’t broken his back. Probably going to die here, lying at the bottom of a gully, covered in gunk and dirt and broken bits of tree. Body eaten by foxes and crows. Nothing left but shards of bone and a tattered police uniform, to be swallowed by the cold dark ground.

  A high-pitched whine filled his head, getting louder as the woods grew darker. And darker. Then silence.

  At least if he was dead it wouldn’t hurt any more.

  That would be something…

  Logan exhaled one last broken-glass breath and let the darkness take him.r />
  49

  Cold.

  Something wet rolled across Logan’s cheek. Then another cold kiss. And another.

  He opened his eyes.

  The world was grey, with little white spots drifting slowly towards him. Like a long dark tunnel filled with flakes of ash.

  So, this was what death looked like?

  Well, why not?

  Last time he’d been unconscious for this bit. Or maybe, because the surgeons had managed to get his heart started again, he’d just never got this far?

  Either way, surely it wasn’t meant to be this cold?

  A tingle grew in his arms and legs, like the opening bars of a symphony for pins and needles. But instead of that hard itchy electrified wave, the melody was one of ache and pain. Getting louder with every second.

  ‘Buggering hell…’ The words came out on a cloud of white. He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘Ow…’

  Not dead then. Dead people didn’t hurt this much.

  Logan rolled over onto his side and everything snapped back into its proper place.

  He wasn’t floating down a dark tunnel full of ash after all: he was lying at the bottom of the gully, the ground around him covered in snapped twigs and bits of broken branch. Trees reached up into the falling snow, their tops disappearing into the grey.

  A dark voice boomed through the night. ‘WELL?’

  The voice that replied was a lot closer. ‘I FOUND AL! HE’S NOT BREATHING!’

  ‘DO I LOOK LIKE I GIVE A TOSS ABOUT AL? WHERE’S MCRAE?’

  Oh great. They’d come looking for him.

  Get up.

  Sod off, it hurt too much.

  No: up.

  Logan groaned his way onto his front and forced himself to his knees. The landscape swam. A gentle probe of the back of his head brought his hand away dark and sticky, his fingers smelled of raw meat. Probably cracked his skull.

  Be dead for real in a minute, from intracranial bleeding.

  That or Reuben’s thugs.

  ‘FIND THE BASTARD!’

  Jones’s voice dropped to a mutter. ‘“Find the bastard.”, “Find the bastard.”’ He was getting closer. ‘Can barely see, never mind find anybody.’

  One last heave and Logan was on his feet, one arm wrapped around a branch to keep himself upright.

  ‘Should’ve sodded off soon as Mr Mowat died. Should’ve taken that job with Doogie. Could’ve been driving lorries all over Europe by now, but no.’ There was a crash, then some swearing.

  Logan ran his free hand over his equipment belt. The baton was still there, but all that was left of the CS gas was the coiled bungee cord. It ended in a frayed tuft where the canister had been ripped off on the way down through the trees. No idea where the gun had got to.

  ‘YOU FOUND HIM YET?’

  ‘Course I haven’t, you fat dick.’ Then, much louder, ‘HE’S PROBABLY SNUFFED IT!’

  ‘I DON’T WANT “PROBABLY”, I WANT DEFINITELY! FIND HIM!’

  ‘All over Europe, but noooo.’ Closer: couldn’t be more than twenty feet away. ‘You had to stay with the team, because Eddy said we should.’

  Logan shrank back behind a tree that wasn’t really big enough. Mind you: the Police Scotland ninja-black outfit might be a liability in the height of summer, but here? At night, in the dark, when it was snowing? Couldn’t have camouflaged himself much better if he’d tried.

  A thin figure emerged from the gloom, picking his way between the bushes and boulders that littered the bottom of the ravine. Gavin Jones. ‘Yeah, and did Eddy hang around? Course he didn’t.’

  He wasn’t wearing the handcuffs any more – they must have got the keys off McKenzie – but he had got himself another gun. Or maybe it was Wright’s gun?

  Logan unclipped his baton and slid it out, slow and quiet.

  Couldn’t extend it, that would make too much noise, so he wrapped his fist around the handle and held the thing facing down against his knee.

  ‘No, the two-faced bummer legged it when the going was good, didn’t he? Talked us into staying then did a runner.’ Jones stumbled over something in the dark and nearly went headlong. ‘GAH! BLOODY SODDING ABOUT, IN THE BLOODY DARK, BASTARDS!’

  ‘YOU FOUND HIM?’

  ‘NO I HAVEN’T SODDING FOUND HIM!’ He shoved his way through a bush. ‘Sod this. And Sod you. Soon as I get back to the road you can shove your job. Don’t need this crap.’

  One more bush and he was level.

  His eyes were all swollen, the skin puffy and dark, shiny trails of snot glimmering on his top lip. But that was getting a face full of CS gas for you.

  Logan flicked the baton up and the extendable section shot out with a clack over his shoulder. Then down again, hard, cracking it across Jones’s wrist. The gun clattered to the ground as Gavin Jones screamed – mouth open wide, full of those squint little teeth. ‘AAAAAAA—’

  He snapped the baton up again. The vibration shuddered up his arm as the metal bar cracked into Jones’s face. There was a crunch like someone crushing a bag of crisps.

  Gavin Jones crumpled to the ground, mouth still open. Only now the squint little teeth were nothing more than jagged stumps in ruptured gums.

  Still breathing, but definitely unconscious.

  ‘WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?’ Reuben’s voice echoed into silence.

  The snow fell.

  ‘JONESY, WHERE’S MCRAE?’

  It settled on the boulders and the trees.

  ‘JONESY?’

  Logan collapsed the baton against a boulder and put it away. Then knelt in the dark, running his hands over the cold earth till he found the gun.

  ‘MCRAE? I KNOW YOU’RE THERE!’

  He turned and limped back towards the cliff face.

  ‘I’M GOING TO KILL YOUR SISTER! YOU HEAR ME?’

  Leaned his cheek against the cold rock.

  Took a deep breath.

  Right, let’s try that again.

  Logan eased himself over the top of the cliff and lay on his back, panting.

  His arms were on fire, hands cut and scraped by the rocks and branches, punctured by long dead thistles. Both legs ached. So did his head, and his back.

  Let’s face it, everything hurt.

  His breath hung above his face.

  Come on. Almost there.

  He wobbled to his feet. Spat out a thick glob of white. Then lurched up the hill.

  That crashed Fiesta lay a good forty or fifty feet off to the left.

  Logan froze.

  Reuben was still there. Still standing at the edge of the road, peering down into the darkness, clutching his sawn-off in one hand and his crutch in the other.

  Moron. A sensible person would have sodded off by now, taken his hostage and his battered bent cop and worked on an alibi. But not Reuben. He was too busy getting revenge.

  No wonder Wee Hamish didn’t want him taking over.

  Logan climbed the slope, bent double, grabbing handfuls of cold damp grass to pull himself up. By the time he reached the road, he was on his knees, pulse thumping in his throat, keeping time with the drums in his skull.

  The trees and snow and tarmac throbbed in and out of focus.

  Be nice to lie down here for a bit. Three or four days, maybe.

  The road curled around to the right, hiding the Big Car and Reuben’s Range Rover behind a massive clump of gorse.

  Nearly there.

  Come on.

  Logan struggled to his feet and stood with his head back, arms hanging loose at his side, steam rising from his sodden black fleece. Then pulled the gun from his pocket and staggered on. ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘Shut up, you idiot, he’ll hear you.’

  Good point.

  OK: here’s the plan. We walk up to Reuben and we shoot him in the head. No screwing about. No hesitating. No ‘accidentally’ shooting him in the leg instead.

  Headshot.

  Bang.

 
Blood and brains all over the road.

  OK?

  OK.

  What about the body?

  We can sort that when we get to it.

  Right.

  The Big Car appeared from behind the gorse bush’s spiny fronds, emergency flashers blinking orange light.

  Not far now.

  Logan flicked the safety catch off and stepped out into the middle of the road.

  He raised the gun and limped past the Big Car. ‘Reuben.’

  The big man stood with his back to the slope. He’d ditched the crutch – now his hand was wrapped up in a big fist of long blonde hair. The other held the sawn-off shotgun against Harper’s forehead. ‘Took your time, McRae. Been waiting ages.’

  She was kneeling on the tarmac, her eyes narrow and wrinkled at the edges as if she were having difficulty focusing. Twin lines of dark red ran horizontally across her cheek. Arms behind her back. Which explained where Mr Teeth’s handcuffs had gone.

  Logan aimed. ‘Let her go.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘I won’t miss this time.’ He kept limping, closing the gap, keeping the gun pointing at Reuben’s big fat scarred face. ‘Let her go.’

  ‘Nah.’

  McKenzie’s body lay on the verge with its head turned to one side. There wasn’t much left of her features: the whole front of her face was a raw bloody pulp, screamingly red in the Big Car’s headlights. The woman with the knitted bunnet – the one who’d flagged them down claiming there’d been an accident – squatted beside McKenzie, going through her pockets.

  Classy.

  Reuben ground the shotgun’s barrels into Harper’s skin. ‘See, this wee bitch here? I’m going to paint the woods with her brains. BANG!’

  She flinched, and so did Logan.

  Reuben laughed, belly and chins wobbling. ‘Then I’m going to do the same to you. And then I’ll track down your kids and do them too. Because you’re weak.’

  Logan pulled the trigger and the Range Rover’s rear window shattered. The handgun’s BOOOM reverberated back from the trees. ‘Let – her – go!’

  The woman in the bunnet scrambled back, one hand on her chest. ‘Jesus…’

  Reuben grinned. ‘Thought you weren’t going to miss?’

  Harper raised her chin. ‘Shoot him.’

  ‘Shut up, darling, the grown-ups are talking.’ Reuben twisted the fist in her hair until she screwed her eyes closed, breath hissing out through her clenched teeth. It caught the headlights and billowed bright white.