In the Cold Dark Ground (21 page)

Raining the hammer down, again and again. The towel keeping the bloody spray to a minimum. The sound of thunking and crunching…

Logan’s hand trembled. He put it in his pocket.

The murmuring died down as Minister Nervous stepped up into the pulpit. Coughed. Then leaned into the microphone. His amplified voice echoed around the granite walls. ‘Lord Provost, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to start by thanking you all for attending this afternoon. We’re here to give thanks for the life of Hamish Alexander Selkirk Mowat, a pillar of the Aberdeen business community, a philanthropist, and a keen gardener…’

‘Thank you for coming.’ The minister shook Logan’s hand, then moved onto the next person shuffling away from the graveside. ‘Thank you for coming.’

The Mowat family plot was marked by a statue of a weeping angel on a large polished granite plinth. The headstone was still missing Hamish’s name, but at least now he’d be reunited with his wife and son. His grave lay open, the coffin at the bottom spattered with handfuls of cold claggy dirt as one by one the mourners paid their final respects.

From here the ground sloped down towards a high stone wall, with nothing on the other side but grey-green fields fading into the haar. It blanked out the horizon, oozing in from the North Sea, reaching its grey arms towards the graveyard.

A knot of large men with short hair stood over by a mausoleum, smoking. Another knot of women passed around a hipflask. Lots of murmured conversations and backslapping going on.

Must be strange being a gangster. There wasn’t much opportunity to network in a social setting. Unless they had conferences and festivals no one had told Logan about. Four nights in an anonymous hotel in the Midlands, watching presentations on the latest way to break someone’s kneecaps, body disposal 101, kidnapping for fun and profit.

That tartan turban appeared again, weaving its way between the headstones, bringing DI Singh with it. He stopped right in front of Logan. ‘Well, well. If it isn’t Sergeant McRae.’

‘Detective Inspector Singh.’

‘Didn’t think we’d see you here, Sergeant. And sitting down the front too.’

The other mourners made a bubble around them, as if going out of their way not to get contaminated by the stench of police.

‘Tell me, Sergeant, were you a close friend of the deceased?’ Narveer’s face was impassive, voice clipped. So much for Mr Nice Inspector.

Harper emerged from the church and stopped next to him. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t—’

‘Your sidekick’s already done that bit.’ Logan crossed his arms. ‘And for your information, yes: I knew Hamish Mowat. I was in Aberdeen CID for ten years, I’ve investigated a lot of the people here. The local ones anyway. Even managed to put a few of them away.’

Harper jerked her thumb at a tree standing guard in the corner of the graveyard. ‘Let’s take a walk.’

She picked her way between the tombstones, with Narveer close behind her. Logan dawdled along at the rear.

He could tell her to mind her own business. Tell her it was his day off and he could do whatever he bloody well liked with it. Tell her to take a running jump into a skip full of broken bottles and rusty nails. Tell her to take Police Scotland and shove it so far up—

He bumped to a halt, as someone walked into him. ‘Sorry.’

It was a short man, with close-cropped hair trying to draw attention away from the spreading swathe of shiny scalp. Hooded eyes looked Logan up and down. Then a smile spread across his face. When he spoke, the accent was pure Morningside: ‘No, my fault. Wasn’t watching where I was going.’ He nodded back towards the church. ‘Lovely service, wasn’t it? Hamish would have been proud, don’t you think, Sergeant McRae?’

Logan pulled his chin in. ‘I’m sorry, have we…?’

The wee man stuck out his hand. ‘Malcolm McLennan. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

Malcolm McLennan, AKA: Malk the Knife.

Oh Christ. Harper would
love
that.

Malcolm McLennan’s smile positively sparkled. ‘I understand you’re looking into the death of that unfortunate gentleman in Macduff, Sergeant. What was his name … Peter Shepherd?’ A sigh. ‘Ah, it’s a terrible thing. The grapevine tells me he was beaten, bagged, and bleached.’

Of course it did.

‘Well, Sergeant, I know imitation is meant to be the sincerest form of flattery, but it’s not so flattering when it brings with it the unwarranted scrutiny of the police. Don’t you think?’

‘Are you saying your people didn’t kill him?’

‘Well, of course they didn’t. My people don’t kill
anyone
, Sergeant, we build affordable housing for hardworking families. We undertake public construction works. We raise money for Alzheimer’s research.’ A shrug raised the shoulders of what was probably a very expensive suit. ‘We try to do our bit.’

Logan returned the smile. ‘So all that stuff about prostitution, protection rackets, illegal firearms, people trafficking, drugs – that’s, what, a misunderstanding?’

‘Exactly.’ McLennan winked. ‘But if it
were
true I can assure you we’d have no interest in someone like Peter Shepherd. You’re following a trail of breadcrumbs, through the woods, to the wrong cottage. This one doesn’t lead home.’

No it led to Granny’s cottage, and the wolf was in residence.

‘So the fact that you lent him two hundred thousand pounds was just a coincidence?’

‘Two hundred…?’ Wrinkles appeared between his eyebrows. ‘Who told you that? Why would I lend him money?’

‘Because his company was going bankrupt.’

McLennan leaned in closer. ‘Trust me, Sergeant McRae, I don’t invest in failing businesses. If I’m interested in them I wait for them to fail, then I scoop up the assets once they’ve gone into receivership. I don’t throw money away.’

Had to admit he had a point. Why give Shepherd a loan he couldn’t pay back, just to get your hands on a container logistics company that’d be bankrupt by the end of the month anyway?

‘So if it wasn’t your people, who was it? Hypothetically.’

‘Ah, if I knew that, Sergeant McRae, I’d tell you. And if I find out, don’t worry: I’ll be doing my civic duty.’ The smile fell from his voice. ‘I don’t take kindly to people trying to fit me up.’

A couple walked by, glaring at each other and muttering in low voices.

Someone laughed in the distance.

The sound of car engines starting filtered through from the other side of the graveyard wall, as people departed the land of the dead.

Malcolm McLennan patted Logan on the arm. ‘Glad we cleared that up.’ He turned and walked off towards the road, joining a couple of massive goons in identical black suits.

They held the gate open for him, then stood there, staring back at Logan. Then they were gone.

He huffed out a long breath. Let his shoulders droop a bit.

Malcolm McLennan had
heard a lot about him
. Great.

Logan joined Narveer and Harper under the tree. ‘Someone in the Major Investigation Team can’t keep their big gob shut.’

Harper clicked a white tab of gum from a blister pack and popped it in her mouth, voice cold and hard. ‘Have you and Malcolm McLennan been friends long, Sergeant? Because you looked
very
chummy.’

‘Never met the man till two minutes ago.’

‘Could’ve fooled me. You’re not in CID any more, Sergeant, and yet here you are, rubbing shoulders with half the organized crime families in Scotland. Odd that, isn’t it?’

Logan folded his arms and leaned back against the tree. ‘McLennan says his people had nothing to do with Shepherd’s death. Says someone’s fitting him up.’

Narveer shrugged. ‘He would say that, wouldn’t he? Not exactly going to admit to it.’

True.

‘I didn’t know him, but he knew me. He knew how Shepherd’s body had been staged. Someone on the MIT’s talking.’

Harper chewed. ‘Oh I can believe that. And who’s my prime suspect?’ Her finger jabbed Logan in the chest. ‘You. Who the hell do you think you are? Coming down here and barging in, interfering with
my
investigation.’

‘I didn’t interfere with anything. It’s—’

‘What were you trying to do, muddy the waters? Warn someone off? Why are you even here?’

Logan’s back stiffened. ‘Are you finished?’

‘First you’re obstructive, then you’re useless, then you can’t even make a cup of coffee without turning it into a disaster, and now you’re talking to
my
suspects behind my back!’

‘Oh don’t be so—’

‘I have given you
every
chance to redeem yourself, Sergeant, but you
still
keep screwing up. If you ever go anywhere near Malcolm McLennan again, or anyone else, without my express written permission, you’re finished. Are we clear?’

‘He bumped into me! How am I—’

‘I said,’ she was getting louder with every word, ‘are – we – clear?’

Narveer turned away, taking a surprising amount of interest in a lichen-crusted headstone.

Logan stared at her. Let the silence grow. Then pulled on the coldest smile he could. ‘Very, sir.’

‘And don’t think I won’t be discussing this with Professional Standards.’

‘You do that,
sir
.’

A wave of shadow crashed across the fields, sweeping the sunlight before it. It crested the hill and swallowed the graveyard, plunging it into a gloom that washed all warmth from the air.

Logan stuck his hands in his pockets and pulled his shoulders up to his ears.

Clouds made a heavy grey lid, blanking out the sun.

Twenty minutes, hanging about outside the church, and there was still no sign of John Urquhart. How was Logan supposed to get home?

A handful of mourners lingered at the graveside. OAPs with curved spines and hooked noses. Glittering eyes and hands like claws.

Tiny pale flakes drifted down from the sky, melting as soon as they landed. But when Logan breathed out his breath left vapour trails.

Where the hell was Urquhart?

He worked his way over to the gate, peering round the high churchyard wall at the dozen or so cars still parked along the verge. Urquhart’s Audi was there.

More snow.

Sod this. Might as well call for a taxi. He pulled out his phone.

‘Laz?’ A voice behind him. ‘Aye, it is. Thought it was you.’

Logan turned. ‘Doreen?’ A smile broke out on his face. ‘Good grief, Doreen Taylor. It’s been … what?’

‘Year and a half: Baldy Bain’s retirement bash.’ She hadn’t changed a bit – still looked like someone’s plump aunty, dressed in a trouser suit and frumpy brown pudding-bowl haircut. Doreen pointed at the hunched figure next to her. ‘You met DC Shand? No relation.’

He held up a long tapered hand. ‘Hi.’ When he opened his mouth, the reek of long-dead garlic staggered out.

‘Iain, this is Sergeant McRae – used to be my acting DI back in CID.’ She beamed. ‘Logan, Lazarus, McRae. What brings you here?’

Not another one.

‘Wanted to see who turned up. You know: rumours.’

She shuddered. ‘Tell me about it. Half the druggies in town are convinced World War Three’s going to kick off in Tillydrone.’

He pointed at the church. ‘You?’

‘Much the same. We’re in Serious and Organised now. The boss wanted a heads up on who’s sniffing about Wee Hamish Mowat’s old territory. See if we can nip some of that in the bum before it starts.’

‘Right. Right.’

A couple of the wizened old gravesiders shuffled out through the gate and away.

‘So…’ Logan shrugged. ‘You see much of Biohazard?’

‘Argh.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He’s with the Divisional Rape Investigation Unit. Had to share a car with him on a shout last week and I swear to
God
a human being shouldn’t be able to produce smells like that, it’s not normal.’

Happy days.

‘Don’t suppose you guys are heading back into town?’

‘Before we freeze to death.’ She peered up at the sky and flecks of snow settled on her fringe. ‘See when I retire? I’m emigrating somewhere warm.’

‘Any chance of a lift?’

Logan sat in the back of the pool car, Doreen in the passenger seat, with DC Shand behind the wheel. Driving them along the twisting South Deeside Road. The snow was getting heavier, thickening, highlighting the bare branches of trees on either side.

She turned to look at him. ‘You hear the latest? They’re talking about merging Aberdeen City and Moray-and-the-Shire back together again.’

Logan groaned. ‘What was the point of splitting them up in the first place, then?’

‘Exactly.’

His phone dinged in his pocket and he pulled it out. Text message:

Sory dude, gt tyed up with R – can U hang on a bt?

John Urquhart.

Doreen produced a hanky and blew her nose. ‘Can you imagine how much money we wasted changing everything from Grampian Police? All the signage, all the posters and bits and bobs?’

Be nice to ignore it, but then again he needed Urquhart. No point being in a one-person conspiracy to commit murder.

Logan thumbed out a reply.

It’s snowing. I’m getting a lift into Aberdeen.

Send.

‘Madness, isn’t it?’ She tucked her hanky away. ‘So, all that time and effort, and now we’re going to have to change it all back again.’

Shand shook his head. ‘Bet they won’t let us call it Grampian Police though.’

‘Don’t see why not. Tayside still get to be called Tayside.’

‘True.’

Ding
.

Sory its all hands 2 the pumps :( gt meatngs 2 orgnize 4 all the factiens!!!

Cn you get Yrslf back to Banffg or d U neeed a hurl?

Call that spelling? Maybe Urquhart had chucked a load of Scrabble tiles in the air and typed out whatever random order they fell in?

Ding
.

Gv me a txt whn U wont to go back. Gt smthig 4 U!!!

What the hell was that supposed to mean: ‘Gt smthig 4 U’?

‘Still it could be worse, I suppose. Remember Big Gary McCormack the desk sergeant, Laz?’

‘Mmm?’

Ah right: got something for you.

‘He left when they screwed with the pension and pay-and-conditions; went and got himself a cushy number doing Health and Safety for one of the oil companies.’

What is it?

Send.

‘Got made redundant two weeks ago. Now he’s back trying to interview for a constable’s position. How humiliating is that?’

Ding
.

Smthig from mr M. VG preznt!!!

A present from Wee Hamish Mowat? God knew what that was. Probably another chess set.

Logan lowered his mobile and stared out of the window. The trees died away as the car slowed for the limits into Aberdeen. The granite houses had lost their sparkle beneath the clouds, darkening as the snow hit the stone and melted, leaching away the last of the sun’s heat.

Might not be
such
a great idea to have all these messages from one of Wee Hamish’s men on his phone. He deleted all Urquhart’s texts. Not that it would make any difference – the forensic tech guys would be able to get them back without too much trouble. And even if they couldn’t, a quick squint at the phone company’s metadata would show who he talked to and for how long.

Should really ditch the sim card and get a burner. Keep it untraceable.

But then… He scrolled down through the saved messages to the ones listed under, ‘
S
AMANTHA
’.

Logan, where the hell are you? Film’s about to start. I’ve got popcorn, but no boyfriend.

Don’t make me chat up this guy with hairy ears.

Next.

Just so you know, I’ve had a few drinks after work and been to Ann Summers. So brace yourself!

Next.

I hate Edinburgh. Want to be home! Screw hotels and screw hotel breakfasts and screw forensic conferences. Not doing this again. HOME HOME HOME HOME HOME!

Next.

The thing blared out its ringtone and Logan flinched. It tumbled from his fingers into the footwell. ‘Gah…’ He snatched it up and pressed the button. ‘What?’

‘
Sergeant McRae.
’ Oh joy, the dulcet tones of Detective Superintendent Harper the Harpy. ‘
You and I need to talk.
’

‘It’s my day off. If you want to shout, snipe, or belittle me you can wait till I’m on duty again. Till then, feel free to sod off.’

The pool car slowed as it approached the roundabout.

Silence from the phone.

Probably shouldn’t have said that last bit. But you know what? Screw her. Today was bad enough without having to kowtow to some jumped-up, holier-than-everyone, Central-Belt tosser on an ego trip.

An articulated lorry roared across in front of the car, the driver with one hand firmly engaged in trying to remove his own brain via his nose.

Still nothing from Harper. Maybe she’d felt free and sodded off?

‘You still there?’

‘
Do you normally talk to superior officers like that, Sergeant?
’

‘OK, I’m hanging up now.’

‘
Sergeant McRae, how dare—
’

‘Tell you what, if you’re so offended and upset, you go right ahead and put in that complaint with Professional Standards. Have me thrown off the MIT. You won’t have to put up with my “incompetence” and I won’t have to put up with
you
.’ Blood thumped in his ears, the back of his arms itching in time with it. ‘Do us both a favour.’ He jabbed the call end button with his thumb. Bared his teeth at it. Then thumped his phone down on the seat beside him.

It burst into song again. Same number.

Decline.

And again.

He switched his phone off.

The car crawled up South Anderson Drive. A wee bit of snow and everyone drove like an old wifie, peering out over their steering wheels, doing five miles an hour. Could get out and walk quicker than this.

Doreen swore, then pulled out her buzzing mobile. ‘DS Taylor. … What?… Yes, no, Boss. … Yes, we’re heading over to the wake. … Sergeant McRae?’ She looked back over her shoulder at him. ‘Yes, we’re giving him a lift. How did you— … No, he’s right here. You want to talk to him?… Oh. OK.’ Wrinkles lined up between her eyebrows. ‘Are you sure, Boss? Don’t mean to be funny, but we’re supposed to— … Right. I understand. Soon as we can. … Yes, bye.’