In the Cold Dark Ground (38 page)

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?’

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.

Logan let her scoop up a couple of pockets’ full of assorted funeral food, then steered her down to the car.

‘Yeah.’ Logan shifted his grip on the phone, fingers already going numb as snow whipped in through the bare trees’ branches. ‘Look, I’ve told them to leave the food out, and the function room’s paid for till five. So anyone who wants it, is welcome.’

On the other end of the phone, Napier’s weirdo IT guru made lip-smacking noises. ‘
That’s very generous of you, my dear Sergeant McRae. The Magnificent Karl, and all associated officers of Bucksburn station, salute you! We’ll make sure it gets a good home. Oh my, yes.
’

Which meant the locusts would descend and the hotel would be lucky if the function room still had its carpet by the time they finished.

‘Thanks, Karl.’ He hung up and slipped his phone back in his pocket, keeping his hand there. Shivered.

Ding-Dong hadn’t been kidding: there was almost nothing left of Samantha’s static caravan. The axles and some drooping bits of metal sat amidst piles of blackened stuff. Bits of wall, bits of floor. Something that used to be a washing machine, its plastic door melted to a vitrified amber. All dead. All slowly disappearing under a duvet of snow.

He nudged at a mound. A charred Dean Koontz novel emerged, followed by what was left of a thick paperback with a zombie on the cover.

Nothing but ashes and death.

But then, what else did a life leave behind?

He kicked the books into the wreckage.

The question now was: what to do till midnight?

No point going all the way back up to Banff, to come all the way back again. Might as well take Susan up on her offer. Hang out, drink some tea, maybe watch a film. Then slip out, kill Reuben, and feed him to the pigs. Do it right and no one would know he’d even left the house. No one except for John Urquhart.

Still have to figure out what to do with him.

Logan turned back to the car.

Steel sagged in the passenger seat, head lolling against the window, mouth wide open. Snoring hard enough to make the Punto’s roof vibrate.

Oh joy.

Logan pulled up outside Steel’s house, behind the patrol car. Climbed out into the snow.

The street was quiet, expensive, secluded – a cul-de-sac lined with old granite buildings and trees on both sides. Their canopy of naked branches blocked about half of the flakes that spiralled down from the darkening sky, but let plenty through to pile up on the roofs and bonnets of fancy four-by-fours and family saloons.

Snow crunched beneath his feet as Logan picked his way along the road to the patrol car and rapped on the driver’s window.

It buzzed down, exposing a square face with thick eyebrows. ‘Help you?’

Logan showed her his warrant card. ‘Sergeant McRae. Anything happening?’

‘Nah. Kids came home from school about twenty minutes ago, Tesco van dropped off shopping at number twelve, other than that: quiet as the grave.’ A sniff. ‘Freezing our backsides off here.’

‘It’s OK, you can Foxtrot Oscar. I’ll stay over and keep an eye on the place. Just make sure someone’s back here for nine-ish tomorrow.’

She curled her lip and raised one of those family-sized eyebrows. ‘Yeah…’ Then reached for her Airwave. ‘Think I’ll check with my guvnor first, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Be my guest.’ Logan hooked a thumb back towards his manky rusting Punto. ‘But before you go, you can give me a hand getting DCI Steel inside.’

‘Ummmph…’ Logan dumped Steel on her bed, then stood back panting. ‘She’s heavier than she looks.’

‘Why do you think we’re all on diets?’ Susan hauled one of Steel’s legs up and undid the boot on the end.

The bedroom looked like something out of a catalogue: the bedding toned with the carpet and the curtains, the wallpaper went with the two chairs, and the wooden bed frame, wardrobe, vanity unit, and ottoman all had exactly the same twiddly bits.

He stepped over to the window as Susan got to work on the socks. ‘Hour and a half it took to get here. Traffic’s appalling.’ The front garden was almost swallowed by snow, the shrubs and bushes fading into soft outlines. Thick plumes of white purred from the patrol car’s exhaust, then it pulled away from the kerb. Off to fight crime. Logan smiled and turned his back on the scene. ‘And the
snoring
. Dear God, it was like being battered over the head with a chainsaw.’

‘Welcome to my world. Give me a hand with her jacket?’

They ate in the kitchen.

‘Nothing fancy, I’m afraid.’ Susan put a big bowl of pasta down in front of him, studded with mushrooms and flecks of bacon. Then she sat and watched him eat, her own plate untouched. ‘Are you feeling all right, Logan? Only you seem a bit … you know.’

‘This is lovely, thanks.’ He shovelled in another mouthful and tried for a smile. ‘I’m OK. You know: been a tough week.’

‘Well, if you need someone to talk to.’ She reached across the breakfast bar and took his hand.

‘Thanks.’ But two people in an illegal conspiracy was probably enough.

‘Come on, Monkeybum, time for bed.’

Jasmine stuck her bottom lip out and pulled on a kicked-puppy expression. ‘But I’m watching
Adventure Cat
with
Dad
.’

On the TV, a round fuzzy cat in a weird hat leapt off a space jukebox and ninja-kicked an oversized rat dressed as the King of Transylbumvania.

If Police Scotland really wanted to make inroads into the drugs trade, arresting everyone involved in children’s television would probably be a good start.

‘You heard your mum.’ Logan switched off the telly, then plonked a palm down on top of Jasmine’s head and ruffled her hair. ‘Teeth, then bed. And if you’re good I’ll read you some of your favourite book.’

‘But, Da-ad…’ Head on one side, making her eyes as big as they possibly could be – eyelashes fluttering.

Yeah, she was going to cause fights in pubs when she was older.

‘No
Skeleton Bob and the Very Naughty Pirates
for you then.’

‘Oh … poo.’ Then she hopped down from the table and went to do her teeth.

Logan checked his watch: eight o’clock.

Four hours to go.

Logan settled on the edge of the Peppa Pig duvet – covering Daddy Pig’s genitalia-shaped head – and picked the book up from the windowsill. ‘Are you sitting comfortably?’

It was strange, but after working with Detective Superintendent Harper, the family resemblance was actually pretty clear. OK, so the hair colour was different – Jasmine’s dark brown versus Harper’s off-blonde – but they both had the same strong jaw, the same lopsided smile. The same big ears.

Jasmine frowned at him. ‘Why do you always say that, before you read a story?’

‘Because I’m old.’ His hand drifted up, feeling the outline of his own ear. It wasn’t really that big, was it? Oh, sodding hell: it was. God, they were a family of elephant people.

He opened the book to a lurid illustration of a wee skeletal boy in a knitted pink suit and feathery pirate hat, on a boat, sword-fighting against what looked like octopus tentacles. ‘Ahem.’ He put on a cod West Country accent.

‘“The following tale, Dear Reader, I fear,

Is probably not for your sensitive ears,

The old and the wobbly, the scared and the sick,

Had better read something else pretty darn quick,

For this is a tale that’s both scary and true,

Of how Skeleton Bob joined a most
scurvy
crew…”’

Rasping snores thundered through the wall, making the paintings on this side vibrate. Logan lay flat on his back, on the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, with the evidence bag resting on his chest. Heavy. Pushing down on his heart.

A faint yellow glow oozed in through the curtains, picking out the edges of more catalogue furniture.

He pulled out his phone and checked the time: quarter past eleven. Give it another five minutes.

Surely Susan would be asleep by now? Then again, how anyone could sleep next to that racket was anyone’s guess. They said love was blind, but apparently it was deaf as well.

Four minutes.

Shadows made patterns on the ceiling, barely visible in the gloom. There an open grave, here a severed hand. Was that a claw hammer encrusted with blood and hair?