In the Cold Dark Ground (6 page)

‘Work in progress.’

‘Cool. Cool. So spend a couple of grand – ten, fifteen tops – and you could probably flip it for a pretty decent profit. I could help, if you like?’ He reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a business card. ‘Got a couple of boys I use. Did three places for me last year. Good finish too, none of your cowboy rubbish. They’ll do it at cost, you know, as you and me go way back.’

Logan turned the card over. Then over again. ‘The house belongs to Police Scotland. I just live there.’

‘Ah. Not quite so cool.’

And let’s face it – their last transaction didn’t exactly help.

Trees and fields swept past in the gloom. A handful of cars coming the other way, stuck behind a big green tractor with its orange light flashing. The windscreen wipers played their mournful tune.

Urquhart tapped his fingers along the steering wheel again. Then, ‘You want I should put the radio on?’

It was going to be a long night.

On the other side of the glass, Aberdeen twinkled in the distance and darkness like a loch of stars.

Logan leaned against the windowsill.

The red, white, and green flashing lights of an airplane tracked across the sky, making for Dyce airport.

Muffled voices came through the door behind him – it sounded like an argument, but the words were too faint to tell what it was about.

And then the door opened and John Urquhart stepped out into the corridor. Closed the door behind him. ‘Sorry about that.’

Logan nodded at it. ‘Reuben?’

‘Nah. Doctor’s kicking up a fuss. Says Mr Mowat’s too weak to see people, he needs to sleep. So Mr Mowat tells him to pick which kneecap he’d like removed with a jigsaw, and suddenly Dr Kildare decides that visitors are fine.’

‘Funny how that works.’

‘Yup.’ Urquhart joined him at the window, frowning out into the darkness. ‘Reuben’s…’ A hissing sound, as Urquhart sucked at his teeth. ‘Yeah. Going to be interesting times ahead.’

Logan turned his back on the darkness. ‘Is he planning something?’

‘The Reubster? The Reubenator? Ruby-Ruby-Reuben?’ A little laugh. ‘Anyway, you can go in now.’ He opened the door and held it for Logan.

Picture windows made up two walls, the view hidden away behind louvre blinds. It was dark in here, with a wooden floor, a couple of leather armchairs by the French doors, a settee and a coffee table opposite them in the gloom. And right in the middle, lit by a single standard lamp: a hospital bed – set up where its occupant would have an uninterrupted view out over the garden and the city beyond. A sweet earthy scent filled the room, presumably coming from the pair of joss sticks on a low table, their twin ribbons of smoke coiling around each other like ghosts.

The bed was grey and huge, bracketed by banks of equipment and drip stands, all hooked up to the paper skeleton lying there.

Wee Hamish Mowat’s skin was milk-bottle pale, his veins making dark green-and-blue road maps under the surface. Beneath the liver spots and bruises. Wisps of grey clung to his scalp in demoralized clumps. Cheekbones like knives, his nose large and hooked – getting bigger as the rest of him shrank. Watery grey eyes blinked out above the plastic lip of an oxygen mask.

Had to admit that the doctor was right: Wee Hamish didn’t look up to visitors. He didn’t look up to anything at all.

Logan pulled on a smile and walked over, trainers squeaking on the wooden floor. ‘Hamish, you’re looking well.’

A trembling hand reached up and pulled the oxygen mask away. ‘Logan…’ Voice so thin and dry it was barely there. ‘You came.’

‘Of course I came.’ Logan stood at the foot of the bed.

A shape lumbered out of the gloom: a bear of a man; tall and broad, with a massive gut on him. His face was a landscape of scar tissue, knitted together by a patchy grey beard. Dark sunken eyes. A nose that was little more than a knot of squint cartilage. All done up in a sharp suit, tie, and shiny shoes.

When he smiled, it was like small children screaming. ‘Well, well, well.’ The words were thick and flat, dampened by that broken nose. ‘If it isn’t Sergeant McRae.’

Logan didn’t move. ‘Reuben.’

A bone-pale hand trembled into the air above the sheets. ‘Boys…’

Reuben turned to Wee Hamish and his smile softened. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Mowat, the sergeant and me have come to an accord, like. Haven’t we, Sergeant?’

The machines beeped and hissed and pinged.

Then Logan nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ Wee Hamish took a hit on the oxygen, closing his eyes as he breathed. Then sank deeper into his pillows. ‘John … can you get … Logan a seat?… And … bring the Glenfiddich. … Three glasses.’ More oxygen.

‘Yes, Mr Mowat.’ Urquhart hurried off to the corner and came back with a wooden chair. He placed it beside the bed, level with Wee Hamish’s elbow.

Logan sat. Scraped the chair around by thirty degrees to keep Reuben in sight. ‘How are you feeling, Hamish?’

A long, rattling sigh. ‘I’m … dying.’

‘No, you’re—’

‘Please, Logan.’ He placed a hand on Logan’s – bones wrapped in cold parchment. ‘Just … shut up … and listen.’ He buried his face in the oxygen mask again. Three long damp breaths. ‘You have … power of attorney. … If I … slip into anything, … you tell them … to let me … die. … Understood?’ The hand tightened. ‘I don’t … want these hacks … keeping a sack … of gristle and mush … breathing for … the hell of it.’ A smile twitched at the edge of his lips. ‘Promise me.’

Logan stared at the liver-spotted claw covering his own hand, then up at Wee Hamish. The hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Why not? It wasn’t as if he’d never had to make
that
decision before. ‘Promise.’ Twice in one day.

Urquhart came back to the bed, carrying a tray with three crystal tumblers, a bottle of whisky, and three glasses of water. He lowered it onto the foot of the bed, then backed away out of sight.

Wee Hamish trembled a finger at the tray. ‘Do the … honours, … would you?’

The foil cap was still on, so Logan slit it open with a fingernail. The cork squeaked out of the neck, then came away with a pop.

Logan poured a finger of mahogany-coloured whisky into each tumbler. A rich leather-and-wood scent coiled up from the crystal as he placed one into Wee Hamish’s hand.

It wobbled, grasped in knotted fingers as it was raised in toast. ‘Here’s … tae us.’

‘Fa’s like us?’

Reuben picked his glass from the tray, intoning the final words like a death sentence. ‘Gey few, and they’re a’ deid.’

They drank.

One line of whisky dribbled down the side of Wee Hamish’s chin. He didn’t wipe it away. Picked up the oxygen mask instead and dragged in a dozen rattling breaths.

Reuben just stood there. Looming.

Over in the corner, someone cleared their throat.

The machines bleeped.

Finally, Wee Hamish surfaced. ‘Tired…’

A man appeared at his shoulder, glasses flaring in the room’s only light. He’d rolled his sleeves up to the elbow and tucked his tie into his shirt, between the buttons. He fiddled with one of the machines, then licked his lips. Stared off into the gloom, not making eye contact with Reuben. Probably thinking about that threatened jigsaw. ‘I’m sorry, but Mr Mowat really needs to
rest
.’

Reuben grunted, then jerked his chin up, setting the folds of flesh wobbling.

Wee Hamish reached beneath the sheets and produced an envelope. Held it out to Logan. It fluttered like a wounded bird. ‘Take the … bottle … with you. … Drink it … for me.’

Logan swallowed, then reached out and took the envelope. Slipped it into his jacket pocket. Stood. Patted Wee Hamish on the arm. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Goodbye … Logan.’

Stars glared down from the cold dark sky. Aberdeen’s streetlight glow hid them from view on one side, but on the other they stretched across the baleful darkness like angry gods.

The house lights reflected back from Urquhart’s shiny black Audi.

Reuben closed the front door and stepped down onto the gravel driveway beside Logan. ‘He’s dying.’

Really? What gave it away? The machines? The smell? The terrified doctor?

Logan nodded. Kept his mouth shut.

‘Soon as he does, that’s it. I’m the man, you got me? I say jump, you don’t ask “why”, you ask “how high”.’

‘It’s a different world, Reuben. I’ve not been CID for years.’ He shifted Wee Hamish’s bottle from one hand to the other. ‘I’m a uniform sergeant way up on the coast.’

‘Don’t care if you’re a pantomime dame in Pitlochry, you’ll do what you’re told.’

Logan did his best not to sigh, he really did. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this.’

‘Oh aye, it does. Cause I
say
it does.’ The big man stepped in close. ‘Your protection dies with Mr Mowat. You either get with the team, or you and me are going to have
words
.’

The whisky bottle was cold and solid in Logan’s hand. It’d make a pretty decent weapon.

Reuben grinned, then dropped his voice to a growling whisper. ‘Well, I’ll have the words, you’ll be too busy screaming.’

Could batter Reuben’s brains in right here and now. Probably. As long as he got the first blow in. And kept on going till the huge sod stopped breathing.

Logan stared back at him. ‘Grow up.’

Reuben lunged, grabbed Logan by the throat and shoved him back against the car, held his big scarred face close. The words came out on a wave of bitter garlic. ‘Listen up and listen good, you wee shite, I will skin you alive, do you hear me? And I’m not being metaphoric, I will take a knife and slit the skin from your pasty wee body!’

The whisky bottle came up, ready to hammer down.

Then Urquhart’s voice boomed out from the door. ‘STOP IT RIGHT THERE!’

No one moved.

‘Mr Mowat was very clear about this, Reuben. What did he say?’

Reuben hissed another sour breath out through gritted teeth. Then he shoved Logan and stepped back at the same time. Shot his cuffs. Glowered.

Urquhart took out his keys and plipped the Audi’s locks. ‘OK then.’

A huge paw came up, one finger prodding at Logan’s chest. ‘Enjoy your whisky,
Sergeant
. I’ll be in touch.’ Then he turned on his heel and lumbered back into the house.

Logan sagged a little. Opened the car door and settled into the passenger seat. Clutched the bottle against his chest where Reuben had poked him.

The front light went out, plunging the driveway into darkness.

‘So…’ Urquhart put the car in gear and drove down the drive towards the gates. ‘You and the Reubster, then.’

‘Who does he think he is? Threatening
police
officers?’ Logan hauled on his seatbelt. Kept his face forward. ‘Moron.’

‘Yeah, Rubey Doobie Doo. Hmm.’ The gates buzzed open and Urquhart took them out onto a narrow country road. ‘You know he’s moved into Mr Mowat’s other house? Set himself up like lord of the manor over there in Grandholm. You ever meet his fiancée?’

Logan stared across the car. ‘Someone’s
marrying
that?’

‘Big Tam Slessor’s daughter.’

Ah. A marriage made in the Hammer House of Horror studios.

‘Yeah, Mr Mowat gave them the Grandholm place for an early wedding present. I got them a dozen towels and a fondue set from John Lewis. Very classy.’ He turned right at the junction, heading for Aberdeen along the dark winding road. The Audi’s headlights reflected back at them from the rain-slicked tarmac. ‘You getting them anything?’

How about a shallow grave?

Trees whipped past the windows.

Logan shifted in his seat. ‘When I asked you if Reuben was planning anything, you laughed.’

‘Well, you know Reuben. These days he’s all about the strategic planning.’ Urquhart cleared his throat. ‘Mr McRae?’

The headlights caught a stiff bundle of feathers in the middle of the road – a pheasant, with its bottom half flattened and stuck to the road.

‘See, I was wondering… When Mr Mowat’s gone, he wants you to take over, right?’

‘I’m a police officer.’

‘Yeah, but he wants
you
, right? He doesn’t want Reuben. Doesn’t think the Reubmeister’s up to running the show. Thinks it’ll all just collapse into anarchy and war: all these guys coming up to carve Aberdeen into bite-sized chunks.’ A hand came off the steering wheel, ticking them off one finger at a time. ‘Malk the Knife from Edinburgh, the Hussain Brothers from Birmingham, the Liverpool Junkyard Massive, Ma Campbell from Glasgow, and Black Angus MacDonald with the Dornoch Mafia.’ A frown. ‘I know for a fact the Hussains are already sniffing about.’

They weren’t the only ones. Not if Lumpy Patrick was telling the truth. Which would be a first.

Drizzle misted the windscreen, and Urquhart put the wipers on. ‘Anyway, point is: they’re lining up to take their chunks. And soon as Mr Mowat’s gone, they’ll be here. And it’ll be war.’

‘And Reuben can’t stop it?’

Urquhart bared his teeth. ‘Tell the truth? I think he’s looking forward to it.’

Logan waited for the Audi’s tail-lights to disappear around the corner before letting himself into the Sergeant’s Hoose. Closed and locked the door. Put the snib on, just in case. Probably wouldn’t hurt to get a chain fitted. Maybe one of those metal bar things as well…

Not that it’d stop Reuben or his minions from coming in the window.

Still, that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for them.

He clicked the switch, setting the hall’s bare bulb glowing. ‘Cthulhu?’

Samantha poked her head out from the lounge. ‘You’re still alive, then. No trip to the pig farm for you?’

‘Not tonight. Not till Hamish Mowat dies.’

‘You want a tea?’

‘Nope.’ Logan held up the bottle. ‘Present.’ Through to the kitchen for a tumbler, which got a good splash of the Glenfiddich.

Samantha’s hand on his shoulder. ‘You need a plan, you know that don’t you?’

He rolled a sip of warm leathery whisky around his mouth. ‘Thought I’d give Beaton and Macbeth your photo from Rennie’s engagement party. You always liked that one. Get them to match your make-up.’

‘This is serious, Logan. Reuben’s dangerous, you
know
that. If you don’t do what he wants, he’ll kill you. Slowly.’

‘Can’t decide what to do about all the piercings, though. I mean, he’s a nice enough guy, but I don’t fancy Andy fiddling about getting your nipple ring back in. Never mind the more intimate ones. Maybe he could get George to do it?’

‘You need a plan!’

‘I know George has got huge hands, but she’s not as rough as she looks. Did I tell you she breeds chinchillas?’

‘God’s sake, Logan,
listen
to me. Reuben will grab you, torture you, kill you, then feed you to Wee Hamish’s pigs. Is that what you want? Are you
happy
with that?’

Another sip of whisky. It seeped through his innards, spreading across his chest. He lowered his head. ‘I’m a police officer.’

‘And I don’t care.’ She stepped in front of him. ‘You have to kill Reuben, or you have to get the hell out of Narnia. If you don’t, you’re pig food.’

‘Maybe not.’ Logan swirled the tumbler, leaving smears of whisky around the glass. ‘Maybe he’ll go to Professional Standards and tell them I sold my flat to one of Hamish Mowat’s minions for twenty grand over the asking price?’