In the Cold Dark Ground (18 page)

Logan pulled up outside a little B-and-B on the northern fringe of Banff. A dozen feet of patchy grass separated the road from the cliffs. A pebbled beach hissed at the base of them, turned into a lunar landscape by the bleaching moonlight. The North Sea a solid slab of clay – glistening and grey.

Steel brushed pastry crumbs off her front and into the footwell. ‘Right. You call me tomorrow. Promise?’

‘Promise.’

‘Good boy.’ She climbed out into the night and stood there, peering back into the car while all the heat escaped. ‘I mean it, Laz: no trying to do it on your own. You’ve got family now.’

‘OK, OK, I get it.’

‘Don’t forget.’ She thumped the door shut, then turned and huddled her way over to the B-and-B and let herself in. Paused on the threshold to wave at him.

Logan waved back.

Soon as the door closed, shutting off the light, he bent forward and boinked his head off the steering wheel. ‘Great…’

Why was it, sympathy just made things hurt so much more? Indifference, even animosity was fine – could turn that into anger and cope – but sympathy?

He boinked his head off the wheel again. ‘Ungrateful tosser.’

Yeah.

Logan turned the car around and headed back towards the station. Past the silent darkened houses and empty streets.

How was he supposed to investigate her for Napier? If she sat there, holding his hand while he switched Samantha off, what was he supposed to do? Thanks for the support at this difficult time, now do you mind if I screw you over and work for the Ginger Whinger behind your back?

The harbour was full of yachts, berthed up for the winter. A handful of tiny fishing boats tied up closer to the harbour entrance.

But if he
didn’t
investigate her, Napier would only get someone else in to do the job. And maybe that someone wouldn’t be quite as understanding of Steel’s little foibles. Or her bloody huge character flaws.

Gah.

Maybe it was all just a misunderstanding? A quick poke about in the facts of the case, and bingo: Steel’s exonerated. She’d be delighted that he’d cleared her name… Or she’d kill him for being a disloyal wee sod and investigating her in the first place.

Great. So the whole thing was a lose-lose for him.

He parked outside the Sergeant’s Hoose. Sat there staring out at the bay. All cold and still and dark. The lights of Macduff glimmered on the other side of the water.

And then there was Samantha…

The stones were back, clumping in his stomach.

Come on. Out.

A long, black, sigh huffed out of him. Then he got out and locked the car. Crossed the road.

A couple of women stood outside the Ship Inn, smoking cigarettes and shivering. One looked up and stared at him as he let himself into the Sergeant’s Hoose. Like he was something strange to be studied, in his bright-yellow high-viz jacket – the stripes fluorescing in the streetlight.

Logan thunked the door behind him and locked it.

Sagged.

Tomorrow was going to be … just …
terrific
.

God.

A soft furry body thumped into his leg, followed by a tiny prooping noise.

Logan let his breath out. ‘Cthulhu. How’s Daddy’s bestest girl?’ He unclipped his equipment belt and hung it on the end of the banister, then stuck his hat on top. Peeled off his stabproof vest and leaned it in the corner. Bent down and ruffled the fur between Cthulhu’s ears. ‘At least you still love me.’

She purred, little white paws treadling on the laminate floor.

A handful of post lay on the mat and he picked it up, flicking through it. Yet another election leaflet from the Lib Dems, one from the SNP, and a brochure about free hearing aids for the over fifties. And last an envelope with no stamp, no postmark, and a black border around the edge. Hand delivered.

Logan turned it over and paused, one finger poised to rip through the flap. Maybe not the best of ideas. Use a knife instead. He marched into the kitchen and dumped everything else on the table. Took a butter knife from the draining board and slit the flap open. Poured the contents out onto the countertop.

No razor blades or needles were taped under the flap, lying in wait for an unwary finger. Instead the envelope contained a gilt-edged rectangle of cardboard engraved in flowery script.

Right. Well there wasn’t much chance of him turning up for Hamish’s funeral, was there.

When he’d just switched Samantha off?

And besides, it probably wasn’t a good idea to be in the same postcode as Reuben, never mind graveyard. No telling what would happen. But it probably wouldn’t be anything good.

He propped the invitation on the windowsill, next to the dying herbs.

Then dug out a squat glass tumbler and poured in a slug of the whisky Hamish Mowat had given him. Toasted the rectangle of card. ‘Sorry, Hamish. But I can’t.’

Took a sip. Warm and fiery and leathery and smooth.

Wait a minute.

He frowned at the tumbler, and the lines of amber crawling down the inside of the glass. There had been a letter, hadn’t there? Wee Hamish had handed it over, then the doctor threw them out and Reuben started throwing his weight around.

Back through to the hall and the collection of coats, jackets, and fleeces.

It was in yesterday’s coat pocket.

The word ‘
L
OGAN
’ was scratched across the front in smudged trembling fountain-pen letters.

He sat at the kitchen table and opened it, while Cthulhu wound herself back and forth between his ankles.

Probably another appeal for him to take over Hamish’s criminal empire, because nothing said ‘Career Police Officer’ like running a stable of drug dealers, prostitutes, and protection rackets. Still, had to admire the man’s tenacity – even when he was dying he didn’t give up.

The contents were almost illegible, written in the same pained hand as the envelope. It must’ve taken Wee Hamish hours to do, given how weak he was at the end.

Wow.

Logan read the letter through again. Put it down on the table.

Took a mouthful of whisky.

Gave it one more read. Then picked Cthulhu up, carried her out into the hall, and closed the kitchen door, shutting her out. He cracked the window open, dug the kitchen matches out of the cupboard, held the letter over the sink, and set fire to it. Turning it back and forth until the flames took hold.

Heat seared the tips of his fingers and he dropped the burning letter into the sink. The gritty cloying smell of burnt paper filled the room.

The letter blackened around the words, then a line of vivid orange washed across it, leaving the sheet white and powdery, but still bearing Wee Hamish’s instructions. He jabbed the ashes with a wooden spoon, beating them into dust. No point taking any risks: the envelope suffered the same fate.

Gah…

Samantha lowered herself down on the couch next to him. ‘What we watching?’

‘Hmm?’ Logan looked up from the tumbler in his hands.

Some vacuous pap cop show lumped its way across the TV screen, about as divorced from the reality of actual policing as Henry the Eighth was from his wives.

Samantha poked him in the shoulder. ‘He didn’t divorce any of them. They were either annulled or beheaded. Well, except for the last one. And the one that died of natural causes. Don’t you ever watch
QI
?’

Logan had a sip of the whisky. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Don’t do what?’

‘Don’t jump in when I haven’t said something out loud. Makes me look like a lunatic.’

She turned to the TV, nose in the air.

Onscreen, a man in an SOC suit wandered about a crime scene without wearing goggles or a facemask. Because, on television, no one ever got ripped apart in court for not following proper procedures. No,
they
could contaminate the scene to their hearts’ content, as long as the halfwit viewing public could see their pretty actory faces.

‘Look at these muppets. Bet none of them would last two minutes in the witness stand against Hissing Sid.’

‘It’s not my fault.’

Another sip. Then he put on a posh Scottish accent, ‘Tell me, Detective Inspector McActor, while you were parading all over the scene of the alleged crime, did you remain on the common approach walkway? No? Did you have the hood of your Tyvek suit up? No? You felt it was more important to show off your magnificent head of flowing hair? I see…’

‘This thing between you and Reuben has been brewing for years.’

‘And were you wearing your goggles and mask, or did you ponce about spewing your own DNA over everything? And did…’ Logan jabbed a hand at the TV, dropping back to his own voice. ‘Oh for God’s sake. Look at it: you don’t pick up a murder weapon with the pen from your pocket! What are you, a
moron
? How did this idiot get admitted to a crime scene?’

‘You broke his nose. He was never going to forgive you for that.’

‘Who wrote this garbage?’

‘Logan!’ She turned and grabbed his face in both hands. ‘Listen to me: I’m right,
Wee Hamish
is right – you have to kill Reuben. Have you even got a plan?’

On the TV, DI McActor was snogging one of the Scenes Examination Branch, in the middle of the crime scene, with the body lying at their feet.

Deep breath. Logan lowered his eyes and ran a fingernail along a chip in the rim of his glass. ‘I’m trying not to think about it, OK? I don’t want to kill Reuben. I don’t want to kill anybody.’

‘You have to start planning for it, you
know
that. Fitting him up isn’t going to do it.’ She let go of Logan’s face and poked him in the chest. ‘Come on: how, when, where, and what do you do with the body afterwards?’

He let his head fall back and stared up at the stippled white ceiling for a moment. ‘Gun. Has to be a gun. And it has to be soon. Somewhere out of the way with no witnesses. And there’s no point burying him, it’d take forever to dig a hole big enough.’ Logan swirled the dregs of his Glenfiddich around the glass, leaving trails up the side of the glass. ‘Fire. Stick the body in a car and set fire to it. Burn off any trace evidence and DNA. When they find the body they’ll think it was one of the rival gangs trying to muscle in.’

She smiled. ‘There you go. I’m proud of you.’

Wonderful.

Assuming he could lure Reuben to somewhere out of the way without anyone else showing up. Assuming he could actually pull the trigger. Assuming Reuben didn’t kill
him
instead.

And then all he’d have to do was pray that Reuben hadn’t lodged an insurance policy with a solicitor somewhere. In the event of my untimely death, the following letters are to be sent to the media and Professional Standards for the purpose of screwing Sergeant McRae to the wall by his testicles.

Speaking of which.

He pulled out his phone and turned it on again. Scrolled through the call history. And selected a number. Then listened to it ring.

Click
. ‘
You’ve reached the desk of Chief Superintendent Napier, I’m unavailable at the moment, but you can leave a message after the tone.
’

Of course he wasn’t there – it was nearly midnight.

Beeeeep
.

‘It’s Logan. McRae. I’ve been thinking about your investigation.’

Samantha stared at him, both eyebrows raised.

‘I’m in.’

‘
…neighbour killed himself, because his business went bust. There’s fat cats whooping it up in London and his wife’s got to bury him in a council grave. Where’s the social justice in that?
’

Logan groaned beneath the duvet.

‘
Well, that’s a good point. OK, next up we’ve got Marjory from Cullen. Go ahead, Marjory.
’

There was a proop-meep noise and something heavy landed on his bladder. ‘Argh…’ Then walked up his torso and sat on his chest.

‘
It’s this oil price downturn. We all know these oil companies make billions of profits, so why are they squeezing the supply companies? How’s the industry supposed to survive if shareholders are wringing every penny out of the North Sea?
’

He peered out at the clock radio. Half eight.

‘
And let’s not forget, eighty percent of a gallon of petrol goes straight into the government’s pocket! That’s Scotland’s money.
’

‘Go away.’ He reached out and thumped the snooze button. Slumped back on the pillow.

A little fuzzy head appeared above the edge of the duvet and biffed its cheek against his nose. Purring like a tumble dryer full of gravel.

A yawn.

The phone went, ringing downstairs in the living room. Then fell silent. Followed by the distorted sound of his own recorded voice telling whoever it was to leave a message.

Cthulhu biffed into his face again.

‘Yes, I know you want sweeties, you wee monster.’ He picked up the pack of cat treats from the bedside cabinet as the machine downstairs bleeped and a dark voice replaced his own.

Who the hell was that?

Another biff.

‘OK, OK.’ He dug a treat out and held it in front of her pink nose.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Samantha settled on the end of the bed, running a brush through her bright-red hair – making it shine. ‘You’re actually awake? Thought you were going to sleep till noon.’

Another treat.

‘It’s half eight, give me a break.’

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

She took hold of his foot through the duvet. ‘Big day, today.’

‘I know.’

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

‘Come on then: up and showered. You’re not switching me off looking like someone dragged you backwards through a combine harvester. Sunday best, Mr McRae.’ She smiled. ‘After all, it’s not every day you get to kill your girlfriend.’

Logan wandered back through to the bedroom, scrubbing at his head with a towel. The cool air made the hair on his arms stand up and pimpled the flesh beneath. He paused in the doorway, sniffing.

Was that bacon?

How could he smell frying bacon?

Maybe he was having a stroke?

…

Wait, were those
voices
?

He wrapped the towel around his middle, tying it off.

There were definitely voices coming from downstairs.

Maybe it was Reuben, come up to finish the job himself. Well he was out of luck, because… Oh for God’s sake. The equipment belt wasn’t where it should have been – on the chair in the corner of the bedroom. It was still hanging over the end of the banister.

Argh.

Improvise.

He hauled on a pair of jeans and tiptoed out onto the landing. Opened the cupboard and lifted the toolbox out. Selected an adjustable spanner from the pile of tools. Big and heavy.

Logan smacked the business end into the palm of his other hand.

Not quite an extendable baton, but if it got him to the bottom of the stairs where the equipment belt was, it’d do.

He crept down the stairs. No sign of anyone.

The voices coming from the living room sounded more like the TV than real life.

‘
…news and weather where you are, but first we’ve got the singing sensation taking
Britain’s Next Big Star
by storm on the
Breakfast
sofa…
’

Logan unclipped the CS gas canister from its holster, fiddling with it until the bungee cord holding it to the belt let go. Then slipped the extendable baton from its…

Someone was singing in the kitchen. A sweet, but smoky, growl of a voice, belting it out.

‘
Adventure Cat, Adventure Cat,

The cosmic kitten with a magic hat,

Fighting evil, doing good,

Having naps and eating food,
’

It wasn’t Reuben, it was Steel.

‘
With her sidekick Lumpy Bear,

Catching villains unaware,’

Logan lowered his armoury and stuck it through the balustrades onto the stairs, then pushed through into the kitchen.

She was standing at the cooker, shoogling a frying pan that hissed and sputtered. Singing away, oblivious:

‘
Making friends and having fun,

Doing stuff for everyone.
’

He leaned against the work surface. ‘What are you doing?’

Steel froze for a second, then went back to her shoogling. ‘Making breakfast.’ Then she looked around and raised an eyebrow. ‘Laz, how many times? I’m flattered, but I’m no’ shagging you. Now get dressed.’ She waved a spatula at him. ‘Sight of all them scars is putting me off my grub.’

He folded his arms across his chest. Then lowered them to cover the shining puckered lines that snaked across his stomach. ‘How did you get in here?’

‘No point being a keyholder if you don’t use your key, is there?’ She went back to poking at the pan. ‘Five minutes. And stop picturing me naked! We had words about that.’

Gah…

Logan turned and headed back into the hall. Maybe if he poured bleach in his ears it’d get rid of that particular mental image.

He stopped with one hand on the newel post at the foot of the stairs. ‘Who was on the phone?’

But she was off again.

‘
Adventure Cat, Adventure Cat,

Foiling evil Dr Rat,

And his schemes most dastardly,

To save the world for you and meeeee!
’

Why did he bother?

Through in the lounge, the red light on the answering machine blinked at him.

On the TV, two newsreaders tried to be chatty with a permatanned couple who had big hair and unnaturally shiny teeth.

‘
…amazing. And did you ever think you’d be this popular?
’

‘
We have to say the fans have been absolutely fabulous, haven’t they, Jacinta?
’

‘
Oh yeah,
totally
fabulous. I mean,
completely
. Me and Benjamin been—
’

Mute.

He pressed the button on the answering machine.

‘
M
ESSAGE
O
NE
:
’ That same dark voice that had been barely audible through the floorboards oozed out of the speaker. ‘
Sergeant McRae? It’s Chief Superintendent Napier, I got your message about the … project we discussed.
’

Oh crap.

Logan lunged across the carpet and thumped the living room door shut.

‘
I think it would be prudent for you to come in and discuss it in person. That way you can review the evidence.’

Well, Napier would have to wait. He had more important things to do than undermine and manipulate a Professional Standards investigation into Steel today. And tomorrow was blocked out for the hangover that came afterwards.

‘
I think it’s important we get this underway as soon as possible, don’t you? After all, the longer it exists in limbo, the more chance there is of the papers getting hold of it. I think we can all agree that a trial by media would be regrettable for all concerned. If you’d like to call me back, we can set up a mutually convenient appointment. Thank you.
’

Bleeeeeep
.

Logan glanced at the wall separating the room from the kitchen. No way she could have heard any of that. Not still singing her lump-filled head off.

Unless, of course, she’d turned up when the call came through in the first place.

‘
Message Two:
’ Steel’s voice came from the machine. ‘
Laz? You there?… Laz?… Pick up if you’re there.
’

On the TV, they cut from the permatanned talentless toothmerchants to the ident for local news.

‘
You better no’ still be in your scratcher, you lazy wee sod. Probably lying there, playing with yourself, aren’t you? Well stop it, you’ll go—
’

Delete.

The Scottish newsreader was replaced by a mob outside one of the oil company headquarters in Dyce. The words, ‘
…
S
CENES
O
F
U
NREST
A
S
P
ROTEST
E
NTERS
T
HIRD
D
AY…
’ scrolled along the bottom of the screen.

‘
Y
OU
H
AVE
N
O
M
ORE
M
ESSAGES
.
’

Logan held down the delete button until the message count went back to zero, blanking Napier’s incriminating call.

The protests at Dyce gave way to woodland and a line of blue-and-white ‘
P
OLICE
’ tape.

‘
…
H
UMAN
R
EMAINS
I
DENTIFIED
A
S
L
OCAL
B
USINESSMAN,
P
ETER
S
HEPHERD…
’

He switched the TV off. Time to get dressed.

Steel put one foot up on the dashboard, scratching at her ankle, mobile phone pinned between her ear and shoulder. ‘Yeah. … Did he?… Nah…’

Logan drove them along the winding road, west out of Banff. Taking his time.

White lines scratched along the sea’s blue face. Pounding against the cliffs. Sending up walls of spray. It glowed in the warm golden light that ramped up the colour of everything.

‘When was that?… Oh aye?… I’m no’ happy about that, Becky. I put
you
in charge of babysitting the wee scumbag, no’ Spaver: so sort it. … Yeah.’

Samantha leaned forward from the back seat. ‘Still don’t see why
she’s
got to come with us.’

‘She’s worried about me.’

A huge puddle spread across the tarmac and he slowed for it. The tyres growled through, making their own walls of spray. Only grey and gritty instead of shining white.

‘She’s a pain in the backside. Always has been.’

‘That’s true.’

Steel put her phone away, then swore as it blared into life again. Dragged it back out. ‘Yes?… Superintendent Harper— Yes, Yes I know. … Me?’ She cast a glance across the car at Logan. ‘Yeah, I’m following up a couple of things at the moment. … Definitely. Be back in the office in a couple of hours? Ish?… What?’ Steel had another scratch. ‘Oh for God’s sake. How’d he get away with that?… The greasy goat-molesting scumbag — What?’

‘Thought it was going to be you and me today. My final morning on earth. Who invited the Wrinkled Witch of the West?’

‘Can you two not fight today? Please? Just for once?’

‘…No. Of course. We’ll get a cordon up. Malk the Knife’ll no’ make contact if Milne’s got half the world’s media camped outside his front door. … Uh-huh. Will do.’

A sign loomed into view. ‘
S
UNNY
G
LEN
1 è’

Samantha put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not long now.’

‘Am I the only one who feels sick?’

‘Uh-huh. … Uh-huh. … OK. Thanks.’ Steel hung up, took her foot off the dashboard, and put her phone away. ‘What you chuntering on about, Laz?’

He shrugged. Indicated. Took the road to the right, heading closer to the cliffs.

Steel had a wee burp, then rubbed at her stomach. ‘Where’d you buy your tomato sauce, Halfords? Stuff’s like battery acid.’

‘Or it could be the three bacon butties you wolfed.’

‘
No
, it was your cheap-and-nasty own-brand bargain-basement sauce.’ She had another burp. ‘Apparently the media’s been camped outside Martin Milne’s house since we released Shepherd’s name. It’s like a rugby scrum.’

‘Not to mention the four cups of coffee.’

‘They caught some tabloid tosser shinnying over the back fence, having first pumped the neighbour and the wifie that does the school run for everything they had.’

‘So get Milne to make a statement. They won’t go away until he does.’

Sunny Glen appeared around the next bend: single storey for most of its length, with a balcony overhanging a large patio area where the ground fell away towards the cliffs. A couple of wheelchairs were out, their occupants positioned in the February sunshine.

Logan let out a long slow breath. ‘Here we go.’

Steel squeezed his leg. Again.

‘Hoy!’ Samantha banged on the seat. ‘Hands off, you old bag.’

‘She’s only being nice.’

There was a frown from the passenger seat. ‘What? Who’s being nice?’

The Punto slotted into a parking space outside the admin wing. ‘Milne’s wife, Katie. She’s trying to be nice to everyone. Can’t be easy after everything.’

Steel took out her e-cigarette and had a puff. ‘With her husband shagging a dead bloke? Probably no’.’ She climbed out into the sunshine and had a scratch at her belly.

‘Gah, it’s like sharing a car with a Labrador.’ Samantha thumped back into her seat and folded her arms. ‘Scratching and fidgeting and fiddling with her boobs.’

‘You coming?’ He grabbed his jacket.

Steel bent down and peered into the car. ‘Course I am.’

‘Right. Yes. Good.’ He led the way to reception: a glass-fronted room with pot plants, watercolours, and a big beech desk.

The young man sitting behind it looked up as Logan entered and smiled. ‘Mr McRae, how are you today?’

‘I’m not sure yet, Danny.’

‘Ah, of course.’ He stood. ‘Please, take a seat and I’ll get Louise. Would you like a cup of coffee, or…?’