In the Cold Dark Ground (26 page)

Her voice was thin and shaky. ‘Laz? Laz?’ Blood covered the lower half of her face, more pulsing out of her battered nose. Dripping from her split lip. ‘Unnngh…’ She wobbled there, eyes fuzzy and unfocused.

Logan whipped his head forwards, then back again – hard and fast, looking to connect with one of the bastards’ face. But they weren’t stupid enough to stand that close.

The pressure on his arms increased and those burning wires forced a growl out between gritted teeth. Made his legs sag. ‘Get off!’

The big guy laughed. ‘Aye, right.’ The voice was familiar: Smiler. The chatty one from the back of the Transit van.

His wee friend stepped in front of Logan. That would be Captain ABBA, with the stupid sideburns and ponytail, both hidden behind a black ski mask. ‘Either you hold still and shut up, or I’m gonna slice you open, understand?’ An eight-inch blade gleamed in the hall light, then came down to rest against Logan’s throat.

He froze.

‘Good boy.’

The front door opened and number three came in. Thin and slightly hunched as if all that time playing on a Nintendo DS had curved his spine. Mr Teeth. He closed the door behind him. Nodded at Logan. ‘Aye: in case you’re wondering, like, this is by way of a warning.’

He grabbed a handful of Steel’s hair then battered her head off the wall hard enough to dent the plasterboard. Did it again.

Mr Teeth let go and she slumped to the floor.

Logan struggled forward and a sharp line clawed at his throat.

‘Oh no you don’t.’ Captain ABBA twisted the blade, making the line sting. ‘You stand there and you
watch
.’

His mate knelt astride Steel, one hand wrapped in her hair, the other coiled into a fist that snapped forward and battered her head back. Again. And again.
Thud
.
Thunk
.
Thud
.

Then Mr Teeth let go of Steel’s hair and sat back. ‘There we go.’

Her head lolled to the side, blood dripping onto the floor.

Smiler leaned in close. ‘You do what you’re told, McRae. Cos if you don’t: what happened here tonight? That’s going to look like a Christmas party at your nan’s house. OK?’

Mr Teeth nodded at his mates. ‘We done?’

‘Almost.’ Captain ABBA lowered the knife, then hammered a fist into Logan’s stomach, taking his legs out from under him as fire and ice rippled through the scarred muscle.

Smiler let go and Logan slid down the balustrade, hauling in great jagged gasps of air. The world screamed, like a million wasps had gone off at the same time.

Thump
. The hallway twisted through ninety degrees, leaving him lying on his side on the laminate floor with tiny black dots circling around the ceiling. Getting bigger. And louder. And then…

Darkness.

… sounds. Grunting…

Dots swirling around the swinging lightbulb overhead…

… muttered voices too faint to make out…

An engine starting…

UP. GET UP AND HELP HER!

Logan forced himself over onto his front.

Gritted his teeth and pushed himself up onto his knees.

Flecks of snow twisted in through the open door.

Steel lay where she’d been left, slumped as if someone had cut all her strings.

Logan hauled himself upright, using the balusters. Staggered over to the door, one arm wrapped around his burning stomach.

White blanketed the parked cars, thick flakes shining in the streetlights’ glow. No sign of Reuben’s thugs. No sign of the Transit van.

Logan stepped out onto the pavement, but a groan behind him made him stop.

Steel.

Inside, he slammed the door shut and knelt beside her. ‘You’re OK. Are you OK? Hello?’

‘Urgh…’

He brushed a strand of damp grey hair away from her face. Her nose was squint, blood thick on her top lip and down the side of her cheek nearest the ground. One eye was swelling already, the skin around it angry and red.

‘Gnnnngh…’

Logan grabbed his phone and called the police.

‘It’s OK, Sergeant, you can see her now.’ The nurse pointed at the double doors in the corner.

‘Thanks.’ He creaked his way out of the plastic chair, standing up in stages like opening a Swiss Army Knife.

‘You sure we can’t get you something? Only you look—’

‘I’m fine.’ Logan reached up and ran his fingers along the line of gauze taped across his throat, where Captain ABBA’s knife had been. ‘Barely a scratch.’

‘Right, well I’m sure you know best. I’m only a healthcare professional after all, what would
I
know?’ Then she stuck her nose in the air, turned around, and marched off.

Logan hissed out a breath, then limped across and pushed through into a corridor that stank of disinfectant and despair. Steel’s room was halfway down – her name written on a little whiteboard outside it, like the prison cells in Fraserburgh. He opened the door and stepped inside.

The private room was dark, except for the reading light over the bed. It drained the colour from Steel’s skin, leaving it grey and creased. At least, where it wasn’t blue and purple. She was lying back, with about half a dozen pillows jammed in under her head. They’d smeared something over her swollen eye – making the bruised skin glimmer – and stuck a thick strip of white tape across the bridge of her nose, holding down a wodge of gauze.

He eased himself onto the edge of the bed. Tried not to wince. ‘You look … well.’

Steel’s one good eye narrowed. ‘My node hurds.’

‘They say it’ll take a couple of weeks, but you won’t even know your nose was broken.’

‘Ad my ribs.’

‘They’re going to keep you in overnight for the concussion, but other than that, you’re fine.’

‘Feel lige sombone’s burdig pee-stayned maddresses in my hebd.’

Logan patted her leg beneath the blanket. ‘Susan’s on her way up. Should be here soon.’

The one good eye widened. ‘Nooo. Don’d wand her to see me lige this.’

‘Tough. She’d kill me if I kept it secret.’ He gave the leg a squeeze. ‘Did you get a good look at them?’

‘Tell her I’mb
fide
!’

‘She’s coming whether you like it or not. Now, can you ID who attacked you?’

A one-sided frown. ‘Big basdard, with a sgee mask ond.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I saw. Three of them.’ He stared up at the ceiling tiles. ‘Been a hell of a day, hasn’t it?’

‘I hade Bandff.’

Another squeeze. ‘Get some sleep. And thanks. For staying with me and drinking too much.’ He pulled on the best smile he could muster. ‘I appreciate it.’

Steel sank back into the pillows. ‘You’re sudge a big girl’s blouse…’

Logan slipped back out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Closed his eyes and swore.

‘How is she?’

When he opened his eyes again, Rennie was right there in front of him, along with DS McKenzie. The pair of them looked as if they’d just heard the family dog had died.

‘She’s fine. A bit battered and bruised, but nothing permanent.’

McKenzie moved towards the door, but Logan put an arm out.

‘Best not. Let her rest.’

‘Right.’ McKenzie nodded, setting that curly brown bun of hers wobbling. ‘OK.’

Rennie pulled out his notebook. ‘Any idea who did it?’

Oh yes. But even if he told them, what good would it do? Even if they
could
find out Smiler, Mr Teeth, and Captain ABBA’s real names, what would happen? Would Reuben’s three stooges go down quietly, or would they drag Logan kicking and screaming with them?

He shrugged. ‘They wore ski masks and boilersuits. One big, muscly; one thin; one short-arse.’

McKenzie had a quick look up and down the corridor, then lowered her voice. ‘You know what this means, don’t you? Malk the Knife’s boys are spooked by the investigation.’

Rennie bared his teeth. ‘Ooh, that’s not good.’

‘They know we’re getting close and they’re trying to warn us off.’ She leaned closer to Logan. ‘Did they say anything?’

‘Thought you were supposed to be babysitting Martin Milne.’

A sneer. ‘Think this is a
bit
more important, don’t you, McRae? Now answer the question: did – they – say – anything?’

‘The one who attacked Steel, said it was a warning.’

‘I
knew
it. Maybe…’ She trailed off as an orderly squeaked by pushing an empty porter’s chair. Waited for him to fade from view. ‘We should let Detective Superintendent Harper know. If they came for Steel, they might be after her too.’

‘Good point.’ Rennie pulled out his phone and dialled. Listened in silence for a moment. Then, ‘Super?… Yeah, it’s DS Rennie.’ He wandered away. ‘Look, I know it’s late, but…’

DS McKenzie narrowed her eyes. ‘And how come you got off without a scratch on you, McRae?’

‘What about this?’ He pointed at the line of gauze. ‘Tried to slit my throat.’

‘Yeah, right.’ She pulled out her own phone. ‘I’ll get a guard on the Guv’s room.’ She walked off in the other direction, leaving Logan on his own outside Steel’s door.

He stood there as they got things organized. ‘I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.’

Pair of idiots.

As if Malcolm McLennan would get his people to attack a senior police officer investigating a crime
he
was involved in. Talk about a perfect way to draw attention to yourself. You didn’t build a huge criminal empire by being stupid.

But Reuben? Oh he definitely
was
that stupid.

Logan headed down the corridor, through the double doors back into the waiting area, and turned his mobile phone on again. Fully charged. According to the home screen there were half a dozen text messages and three voicemails waiting. Well they could wait. He brought up his call history – John Urquhart’s number was top of the list. He called it.

Through the waiting room windows, the snow seemed thicker. Taking its time to drift down from the dark marbled sky.

He sank into one of the chairs, in the lee of a drooping cheese plant.

The phone rang. Then, finally, someone picked up. ‘
Yup?
’

‘Urquhart, that you?’

‘
Mr McRae! Where have you been? I left messages and every—
’

‘You tell Reuben—’

‘
—got to watch out, OK? Reuben heard about you being executor for Mr Mowat’s will and went berserk. I mean total card-carrying, machete-wielding, berserk. He’s going to get people to come after you, says you need to learn your lesson. You’ve got to—
’

‘Too late. They’ve been.’

‘
Ah.
’

‘Three of them: the guys with the Transit van.’ Logan leaned forward, scrunching himself around the phone. Making his stomach ache. Stoking the fires. ‘You pin your ears back, and you take notes: they attacked a friend of mine and they put her in hospital. If I get my hands on them, I’m going to make Jeffrey Dahmer look like Santa Bloody Claus. Are we clear?’

Silence from the other end of the phone.

‘You still there? I want names.’

‘
Yeah… Erm… The guys we’re talking about are only obeying orders, Mr McRae. They get told to rough someone up, they don’t ask why. They do what they’re told.
’

‘I got the gun.’

A sigh. ‘
Look, I know where you’re coming from, but they’re only, like,
minions
, OK? They’re replaceable. Reuben’s got lots more where they came from.
’

Don’t punish the dog that bites, punish the owner.

‘I don’t care.’

‘
…your nonstop Saturday love songs for the next half hour. So, let’s kick off Valentine’s Day with a bit of Lucy’s Drowning, and their big hit from last year: “The Circle of You”…
’

Logan gritted his teeth and fumbled a hand out from beneath the duvet. Thumped his hand down on the snooze button. Then lay there, shivering. A puddle of sweat sat in the centre of his chest, running in lukewarm dribbles down his ribs.

God.

Someone had swapped his heart for an angry rat – it scrabbled at his insides, digging its claws into his lungs. There was another one inside his head, gnawing away on his brain with yellowed teeth.

Didn’t matter how expensive the whisky was, the hangover was just as bad as supermarket own-brand Sporran McGutRot.

He rubbed a hand across his clammy forehead and blinked at the ceiling. Allan Wright, Gavin Jones, Eddy Knowles. AKA: Smiler, Mr Teeth, and Captain ABBA.

Come on then, what was he going to do to them?

What
could
he do to them?

Oh it was all bravado and macho posturing last night on the phone, but now? In the cold morning light, with a raging hangover?

‘Urgh…’

A third rat clawed its way into his bladder.

Time to get up for a pee, some paracetamol, and about a pint of coffee.

Revenge would have to wait.

A puffball of white chrysanthemums scented the room, almost covering up the sickly hospital odour. They sat in a big plastic vase, at the side of Steel’s bed.

She was propped up, with a cup of tea and a scowl. At least it looked like a scowl. Difficult to tell, what with all the bruising and swelling. The strip of white gauze covering her nose was almost fluorescent against the dark-purple skin that surrounded both eyes. One of them about the size and shape of a broken orange. ‘What are
you
looking at?’ Her pyjama top was a pale sky-blue, with happy penguins frolicking all over it.

A couple of cards stood on the bedside unit – one was from a shop, all pink with ‘
F
OR
M
Y
L
OVING
W
IFE
’ on the front. The other was obviously handmade. It was covered in wobbly red hearts, bits of glued-on pasta, and enough glitter to choke a thousand fairies.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day.’ Logan unzipped his jacket and the hoodie underneath, then dumped the paper bag from the baker’s on the covers. ‘Got you some pies and stuff.’

As if that was going to make up for last night.

‘Head feels like someone’s scooped everything out and replaced it with a fat kid on a pogo stick.’

‘On the plus side, you sound a lot better.’ He helped himself to a rowie. ‘Where’s Susan?’

‘Give me that.’ She snatched the rowie from his hand and ripped a bite out of it. Winced. Chewed. ‘They catch those scumbags yet?’

‘Early days. Feeling any better?’

‘I’m lying in a hospital bed, wearing penguin PJs, suffering a hangover you could sand floorboards with. How do you
think
I’m feeling?’

The door opened and Susan shuffled in, carrying two plastic cups in a cardboard holder. She’d gone all countrified in tweed trousers and a checked shirt, like a slightly chunky Doris Day meets
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
. ‘Logan!’ She crossed and put the holder next to the chrysanthemums, then wrapped him in a hug. It was warm and smelled of home.

She frowned up at him. Then stroked the gauze taped across his throat. ‘Does it hurt?’ The wrinkles around her eyes deepened.

‘Stings a bit, but other than that.’ Shrug.

‘
Stings
a bit?’ Steel made a strange bunged-up snorting noise, then snarled another bite out of her breakfast, talking with her mouth full. ‘I could’ve died. Don’t hear me moaning on about it, do you?’

‘Yes. All morning.’ Susan’s hand was warm against Logan’s cheek. ‘You look tired.’

‘He looks like a wannabe drug dealer. A hoodie, for God’s sake. How old are you?’

‘Don’t be rude.’ Susan bent down and kissed Steel on the forehead. ‘And I’ve talked to the doctors – you can go home after you’ve seen the consultant. Isn’t that nice?’

‘Sooner the better. I’m allergic to penguins.’

‘Well I think you look cute.’ She stroked Steel’s rampant-weasel hair. ‘Do you need anything else?’

‘My fake fag’s out of liquid. And I want a Bloody Mary. And some chips.’

‘Chips? What happened to the diet?’

‘Sod the diet.’

‘No chips.
Or
vodka.’ Susan stood. ‘You want anything, Logan?’

‘Thanks, but I can’t stay. Going down to Aberdeen. Thought I’d clear some stuff out of Samantha’s…’ He cleared his throat. ‘Out of the caravan.’

Susan’s hand was warm on his arm. ‘Stay and have a coffee. I know Roberta’s glad you’re here, even if she’s too rude and grumpy to say it.’

‘Hoy! I’m no’ rude and grumpy, I’m at death’s door.’

‘Keep telling yourself that.’ Another kiss, then Susan grabbed her coat and headed out the door. ‘Back soon.’

As soon as the door swung shut, the frown faded from Steel’s face leaving it lined and sagging. ‘Pfff…’

‘Sore?’

‘Ribs look like a paisley-patterned map of Russia.’

He dipped back into the paper bag and pulled out a pie. Handed it over. ‘I’m sorry.’

She waved a hand at him. ‘Wasn’t your fault.’

Yes it was.

The coffee tasted like boiled dirt, but he drank it anyway, washing down the last of his rowie as Steel got gravy all over her chin. Sitting there, the picture of innocence, with two black eyes.

There was no way she’d fitted up Jack Wallace.

Deep breath. ‘Look, this thing with Napier…’

‘He’s a dick.’

‘I know, but—’

‘He hates me, OK? Man’s got terrible taste in women.’ She shrugged and got more gravy on her face. ‘I wouldn’t toe the line in a disciplinary investigation, so he thinks I’m dodgy. Thinks I play fast and loose with the rules. I’m no’,’ she made quote bunnies with her fingers, ‘“invested in the process”. Whatever that means.’

Logan put the paper bag down. ‘What investigation?’

‘Nothing important.’

He stared at her.

She polished off the last mouthful of pie, then wiped her mouth with the corner of the bed sheet, leaving a thick brown smear. As if she’d had an embarrassing accident.

The sound of a floor polisher whubbed in the distance.

‘OK, OK.’ A sigh. ‘It was four years ago. A junkie claimed the arresting officer dangled him off the fifth storey of the Chapel Street car park.’

Oh.

Logan sat back. ‘It was Magnus Finch, wasn’t it?’

‘Doesn’t matter. What matters is Napier’s had a wasp up his backside about me ever since, because he doesn’t understand the word “loyalty”.’

‘Magnus Bloody Finch.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘He was selling heroin to schoolkids.’

‘Told you: doesn’t matter.’

‘Only they had to go to his squat to buy it. And they had to shoot up there too. He told them it was a safe environment.’

‘You got any more pies?’

‘A fifteen-year-old schoolgirl got raped. First by him, then by three of his coke-head friends.’

‘Laz, it’s—’

‘I didn’t dangle the bastard on purpose. I arrested him, there was a scuffle, and he nearly went over the edge. I just…’ Logan cleared his throat. ‘I made him give me the names of his accomplices before I pulled him back.’

Steel pulled the paper bag towards her, and went pie diving. ‘Ooh, is that a bridie? No’ had one of them for ages.’

‘You were covering for me.’

‘It’s what family do.’ She took a bite, giving herself a pastry-flake smile. ‘Mmmm.’

She’d started a four-year grudge with Napier for him. To
protect
him. And here he was investigating her.

Way to go, Logan.

Steel picked a bit of mince from between her teeth. ‘So come on, then: what about “this thing with Napier”?’

He forced a smile. ‘Did you know his first name’s Nigel?’

The Fiat Punto’s wheels bumped up onto the snow at the side of the road. Logan left the motor running for a bit as the snow drifted down onto the rutted surface.

Trees surrounded the car, stretching off into the gloom on either side, lining the forestry road, their branches drooping with thick layers of white. Further in, there was nothing but grey.

He killed the engine and climbed out of the car. Walked around to the passenger side and fished about under the seat for the polished wooden box. Snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, pulled out the semiautomatic pistol and checked it. Magazine was full. Safety catch was on.

Logan screwed the silencer into place, and slipped the gun into a carrier bag. Then he went back into the footwell for the cheap green cagoule he’d picked up in Banff. Pulled it on, and headed off into the woods.

The oak and beech at the roadside gave way to ordered rows of pine, all standing to attention like soldiers on parade. Fifteen to twenty feet in, there was no sign of snow. It hadn’t managed to penetrate the canopy overhead, leaving his boots to scuff through drifts of discarded needles. Everything smelled of mushrooms and earth, and the bitter-tar tang of pine.

He picked his way over fallen branches, around the towering shields of roots at the base of fallen trees, past drainage ditches and clumps of jagged gorse.

Should be far enough from anywhere now.

That was the great thing about Forestry Commission land: everyone stuck to the official paths, and there were none for miles around here.

He stopped in the lee of a great fallen spruce – its flat pan of roots still full of dirt and stones – and pulled up the cagoule’s hood. Tightened the drawstrings. Then opened the carrier bag, reached in and took hold of the handgrip. Clicked off the safety catch with his thumb. Wrapped the bag’s handles around his wrist.

Before, when it was him versus Reuben, one-on-one, shooting the fat bastard would’ve been murder. But now? After what happened to Steel? After the threats to Jasmine and Naomi?

There wasn’t a choice any more.

‘OK.’ Logan raised the gun and aimed at the trunk of a wooden soldier, left hand cupping the right, pulling with one arm, pushing with the other. Then squeezed the trigger.

Phut
.

It kicked, jerking up through thirty degrees, the plastic bag billowing out with the escaping gas from the explosion. A shower of bark burst from the tree, and the bag sagged around his hand – dragged down by the weight of the ejected cartridge.

Another squeeze.

Phut
.

The kick didn’t seem so bad this time. Another shower of bark. Another empty cartridge rolled about in the bottom of the saggy carrier bag.

One last time for luck.

Phut
.

The cartridges clinked against each other as he picked his way through the trees to the victim. Three bullets, all within a circle of about four inches. Good enough.

Reuben was easily twice as wide as the trunk.

Logan placed the carrier bag on the needle-strewn forest floor, there was a ragged hole where the bullet had torn its way through the thin plastic, but other than that, it was untouched. Blackened a bit by the gunshot residue, perhaps, but it was better in there and on the sleeves of the cagoule than all over him. He peeled off the cagoule, turned it inside out and wrapped it around the bag.

The plasticky package went in another carrier, along with the discarded blue nitrile gloves.

All set.

Even with all the windows open, the place smelled of neglect. How long had it been – six months since he was last here? Eight? Something like that.

Snow blanketed the thin strip of woods behind the caravan park, broken by the thick grey mass of the River Don where it wound its way between here and the sewage works, before twisting away under the bridge, off past Tesco’s and out of sight.

The sound of traffic growled in through the windows – everyone crawling around the Mugiemoss Roundabout, getting ready to do battle with the Haudagain. Poor sods.

Logan placed another armful of horror novels in the cardboard box. Stephen Kings mostly, with a smattering of H. P. Lovecraft and some James Herbert thrown in for good measure. The living room was full of the things: lined up on shelves, piled up in corners. Another trip turned up some Dean Koontz and Clive Barkers.

He folded the box lid in on itself and printed ‘BOOKS’ across it in thick marker-pen letters. Carried the thing through into the hall and stacked it with the other two.

Stuck the next empty box in the middle of the living room carpet.

Right, videos.

His phone rang between
I Spit on Your Grave
and
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
.

‘McRae?’ He tucked it under his chin and grabbed
Cannibal Holocaust
and
Night of the Living Dead
.

‘
Sergeant McRae, it’s Detective Superintendent Harper.
’

Wonderful.

‘Sir.’
Friday the Thirteenth Part III
and
The Thing
.

‘
You didn’t turn up for your shift today.
’

‘That’s because I’m not meant to
be
on shift today.’
An American Werewolf in London
and
Student Bodies
. They went in the box.

No reply.

Wolfen
,
The Howling
,
Videodrome
,
Children of the Corn
,
A Nightmare on Elm Street
. Never let it be said that Samantha didn’t find a theme and stick with it.

‘
Logan, I heard what happened last night.
’

Oh, so he was ‘Logan’ now, was he?

‘I know. Rennie called you.’
Razorback
,
Day of the Dead
,
Fright Night
. The cases clattered on top of the ones already in the box. Not that anyone would want them down the charity shop. Who watched videos any more? Who even had a video player?

‘
Anyway, I wanted you to know that we’ve got a guard on DCI Steel’s room. She’s going to be fine. And when they release her, there’ll be a car outside her house too.
’