In the Cold Dark Ground Read online

  He left his phone in its pocket. Kept going.

  It wasn’t too hard to follow Syd. His feet had left a scuffed path through the needles, the layer below darker than the ones on the surface. It wound its way between the trees, scratching a zigzag line down and off to the left. Where—

  Was that a shout?

  Yes. Somewhere off in the distance, but definitely there.

  Logan stopped, cupped his hands around his mouth in a makeshift loudhailer. ‘SYD?’

  Another shout.

  Nope, still no idea what he was saying.

  Needles slipped beneath Logan’s feet as he hurried down the slope and up the other side. ‘SYD?’

  He froze at the crown of the hill, surrounded by boulders and Scots pine. The ground fell away in front of him: a steep incline punctuated by rocks and gorse between hundreds of circular stumps where the trees had been harvested. A dirt track ran along the bottom of the hill, with another clump of gorse on the other side.

  Syd stood in front of it, waving his arms like he was trying to guide a plane in to land. Lusso lay on the ground at his feet, hairy yellow tail sweeping back and forth through the mud.

  Logan tried again: ‘WHAT IS IT?’

  Whatever Syd shouted back, it was swallowed by the wind and rain.

  ‘Sodding hell.’ No choice for it then. Logan scrambled down the slope, feet sideways to the drop, skirting the dark-green needles of gorse. Windmilling his arms as a clump of mud shifted beneath him, threatening to send him tumbling.

  Keep going…

  He clattered onto the track and skidded to a halt before he went over the edge and into a drainage ditch thick with rust-coloured water.

  Syd sniffed. ‘Took your time.’

  ‘What?’

  He raised a finger and pointed at a patch of broom. ‘In there.’

  Logan smoothed down the front of his high-viz jacket, then stepped over the ditch and onto the bank on the other side. ‘Can’t see any—’

  ‘Keep going.’

  Another couple of steps up the bank and… OK.

  There was a dip in the earth: semicircular with a chunk of lichen-covered granite at one end. Stalks of dead weeds poked up through the yellowed grass. And right in the middle, lying flat on its back, was the body of a man. Naked. Hands behind him. One leg crooked out at the knee, the foot resting against his other shin.

  His torso was a tie-die pattern of purples, blues, and yellows fringed with green, the bruises spaced randomly across pale-grey skin slick with drizzle.

  Syd’s voice came from the other side of the bush. ‘That him?’

  Logan blew out a breath. ‘Difficult to tell…’

  The head was covered with black plastic – like a bin-bag – fixed around the neck with thick strands of silver duct tape. There was a strange smell too. Maybe bleach?

  The pubic hair was a sickly yellowy-white, so it could be bleach.

  Probably bleach.

  Someone covering their tracks, trying to make sure they hadn’t left any DNA or trace evidence behind that could be identified. Yeah, good luck with that. Something always survived.

  Another smell lay under the bleach, something sweet and meaty and cloying. Like a chunk of mince, forgotten about at the back of the fridge, a couple of days past its sell-by date.

  Definitely dead.

  Logan unzipped his jacket and pulled out his Airwave handset. Punched in the Duty Inspector’s shoulder number. ‘Bravo India from Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

  Inspector McGregor’s voice crackled out of the speaker, sounding slightly plummy, as if she was eating something. ‘Go ahead, Logan.’

  ‘Guv? I think we might have found Martin Milne…’

  2

  ‘Sarge?’ Tufty pulled his eyebrows in, made his watery blue eyes all big and puppy-dog. Pouted, sinking his cheeks even further into his bony face. ‘Just in case: someone’s planning a surprise party Monday, right?’

  Droplets pattered off the peak of his cap, hissed through the needles on the trees, rippled the puddles at their feet.

  ‘Monday?’ Logan ducked in under a pine, using the canopy of needles to keep the worst of the rain off. Up above, between the branches, the sky was nearly touching the treetops. Heavy and dark.

  ‘Well, Tuesday morning. I know we don’t get off nightshift till seven, and most places will be shut, but someone’s organizing something, right?’

  Logan punched Calamity’s shoulder number into his Airwave handset. ‘Constable Nicholson, safe to talk?’

  A crackle, then her voice came through: ‘On my way back now, Sarge. I’ve taped the road off at the junction.’

  Tufty pulled one shoulder up to his ear. ‘Because it’s a big thing, isn’t it? Not every day you go from being a probationer to a full-blown instrument of justice.’

  ‘You got the tarpaulin, Calamity?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Course I’ve got the tarpaulin.’

  ‘Well hurry up then. Tufty’s going to suffer fatal rectal boot-poisoning if I have to put up with his whingeing much longer.’

  There was a little pout, then Tufty inched closer, peering down at the body. ‘Funny, isn’t it? Soon as you cover a person’s face like that, you make them less … human. Like it’s not really a person any more.’

  ‘It’s still a person.’ Logan put his Airwave back on its clip. Cupped his hands to his mouth and blew, filling them with warm fog. ‘Wonder how long he’s been lying there?’

  Tufty ducked, then worked his way through the jagged branches of the tree next to Logan’s, until his back was against the trunk. ‘First week I was on the job, there was this motorbike crash. Young woman, a girl really, didn’t make the corner – straight through a barbed-wire fence. She wasn’t wearing a helmet.’

  ‘All this rain. Probably not a lot of trace left on the body. Might get fibres off the bin-bag, though.’

  ‘Head came clean off.’

  Then there was the bleach. If whoever did it bleached the body while it was lying here, they might not have turned it over to do its back. Could be DNA there, protected from the rain and the elements.

  ‘Searched for ages.’ Tufty frowned. ‘I found it in a clump of dead nettles. She was staring up at me with this confused look on her face. Surreal…’

  The dirt track was the obvious point of entry to the scene. No sign of any tyre marks, though. So, they probably carried the body here from wherever they’d parked. Strange to go to all that effort when you could have just pitched it out of the boot.

  Maybe the road was blocked?

  Or maybe the victim was still alive when they got here? Maybe the killer made them walk from the car to here? Jesus, how frightened would you be? Naked, hands tied behind your back, picking your way along the forest road, knowing that when you got to where you were going, you’d be dead.

  ‘Anyway, we stuck the two bits back together and: bang, suddenly she was a person again. Never thrown up so much in my life.’ He shuddered, then blew out a billow of steamy breath. ‘See that? Probably getting frostbite.’

  ‘Feel free to shut up at any point.’

  Syd appeared from the woods behind them, hands dug deep into his pockets, golden retriever trotting in lazy circles around him. ‘Nothing.’

  Logan shrugged. ‘Worth a go. Thanks anyway.’

  ‘Been nice to get out and do something for a change. Retirement’s not all it’s cracked up to be. A lifetime of fixing-up the house and garden, DIY as far as the eye can see…’ A shudder. ‘Like a wheelbarrow: always in front of you.’

  Lusso loped over to Tufty and stuck his nose in the constable’s groin.

  ‘Errr…’ Tufty flattened himself against the tree. ‘Doesn’t bite, does he?’

  ‘Anyway, if you don’t need me, I’ll head off. She Who Must wants a trip to B&Q. Apparently the spare room needs new wallpaper.’

  ‘We’ll give you a shout about a statement.’

>   ‘And that pint you owe me.’ Then Syd clapped his hands. ‘Come on, Lusso, leave the poor wee loon’s winkie alone. We’re going home.’

  A bark made Tufty flinch, then the golden retriever turned and trotted after its master. Up the slope and away into the forest.

  Tufty wiped a hand down the front of his trousers, as if reassuring the contents that the nasty doggie had gone. Then squinted up at the heavy grey sky. ‘Think it’s cold enough to snow?’

  Probably.

  The rain fell.

  And fell.

  And fell.

  Sod this. He punched Maggie’s number into his handset. ‘Maggie, safe to talk? You got an ETA for us yet?’

  ‘As far as I know they’re en route, Sergeant McRae.’

  ‘Well … if you hear anything, let us know, OK? It’s hammering down out here.’

  He hooked the Airwave back into place, wrapped his arms around himself and tucked his hands into the armholes of his stabproof vest.

  Tufty made a sound like a deflating whoopee cushion. ‘First time in my life I’m actually looking forward to a Major Investigation Team waltzing in and taking over. Let them stand about in the rain for a change.’ He stamped his feet. ‘How long’s it take to get up here from Aberdeen, anyway? What are they doing, walking?’

  ‘You remember what I said about rectal boot-poisoning?’

  And the rain fell.

  ‘Up your end a bit…’ Logan tugged at the tarpaulin. Then nodded. ‘OK, pin it down.’

  Calamity lowered a rock onto the edge of the blue plastic. Then another one. And another. Her black bob stuck to the sides of her face in rain-twisted strands, making her look a bit like a damp crow. She sniffed, then wiped a gloved hand under her pointy nose. Every time she bent over, water poured out from the brim of her bowler hat, spattering down her high-viz jacket. ‘Can’t feel my fingers.’

  ‘Just in case: we’re having a celebration after work on Tuesday morning, aren’t we? For Tufty’s coming out party?’

  Calamity thunked another rock into place. ‘Thought Isla was organizing something.’

  ‘Do me a favour and check, OK?’ He tugged on the tarpaulin, securing the last corner with a big lump of quartz. ‘He’ll sulk for months if we don’t.’

  She stood and stretched, hands in the small of her back, staring down at their makeshift crime-scene marquee. ‘What do you think: is this Martin Milne?’

  ‘Hope so.’

  ‘What if it’s not?’

  Logan ducked under the tree again. Waved Calamity over and dug out his phone.

  She squeezed in under the branches next to him as he scrolled through the photos of a naked man, lying on his back on a forest floor, with a black plastic bag duct-taped over his head. ‘Got one distinguishing feature.’ He zoomed in on the left shoulder – a tattoo was just visible through the multicolour rainbow of bruises – held the phone out. ‘That look like a dolphin to you?’

  She squinted, tilted her head to one side. ‘Could be a whale…? No, look, it’s got a unicorn horn: narwhal.’

  ‘Is it?’ He took the phone back and frowned at it. ‘Could be. Did Martin Milne have a tattoo?’

  ‘You know what I think?’ Calamity pointed a toe at the tarpaulin. ‘Serial killer.’

  Logan put his phone away. ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘Isn’t meant to be. Look at it: middle of nowhere, dead body, dumped with a bag over its head.’

  ‘Calamity—’

  ‘And it’s not the first one, either. What about that student, Emily Something, turned up dead in woods near Inverurie a week and a half ago?’ Calamity nodded to herself. ‘Could be dozens of dead bodies out there, dumped in woodland all over the northeast.’

  ‘You been watching Scandinavian crime dramas again?’

  ‘Five quid says the post mortem turns up sexual activity, before and after death. That’s what the bag’s for: he’s dehumanized the victim by hiding the face. Doesn’t want to be looked at while he does his thing.’

  ‘Don’t you start as well. Had enough of the “doesn’t look like a person” thing from Tufty.’

  ‘Exactly my point. There’s a murder victim lying right there.’ She pointed. ‘Someone’s brother, father, son, husband. Someone with hopes and dreams, like you and me. And we’re standing here chatting about Tufty’s party. Been dehumanized.’

  Ah…

  Logan put his phone away. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Another fiver says we find the next body before the fortnight’s out.’

  ‘Get on to Isla: see if we’ve got any missing persons with a narwhal tattoo on their left shoulder.’ A frown. ‘Actually, don’t. Tell her any sort of tattoo will do. Don’t care if it’s a dolphin, elephant, narwhal, or Sandi Toksvig riding a unicycle, if there’s a misper with a tattoo on their arm I want to know about it.’

  ‘Sarge.’

  ‘With any luck we’ll solve this before the MIT turn up and trample over everything.’

  Calamity got on the Airwave. ‘Constable Nicholson for Constable Anderson, safe to talk?’

  A tiny voice crackled out of the speaker, sounding as if it belonged to a wee girl. ‘Go for it, Calamity.’

  ‘Isla, I need you to search the misper database for us…’

  Then a piercing whistle crackled from the brow of the hill and there was Tufty, waving. A man in an overcoat struggled up next to him, then another, and a third. All with mud clarted up to the knees of their suit trousers.

  Speak of the devils and they shall appear.

  They struggled their way down the hill, holding on to each other in an admirably stupid display of team spirit. Meaning if one of them went down he’d take the other two with him.

  At least Tufty had the common sense to steer clear of them. He picked his own path through the gorse and tree stumps, until he stood in front of Logan. Then jerked a thumb at the suits. ‘Found this lot wandering in the woods, Sarge. Can we keep them?’

  The tallest of the three picked spiny green bristles out of his navy overcoat. ‘We were not wandering.’ Water dripped from the brim of his trilby hat, something else dripping from the end of his little pink nose. A sniff. Then he raised his hat, showing off a spiky mop of gelled blond hair. ‘Logan.’

  ‘Well, well, well. Defective Sergeant Simon Rennie, as I live and breathe.’ Logan smiled, then lowered his eyes to Rennie’s dirt-spattered trousers. ‘Were we playing in the puddles?’

  ‘Bloody place is like a swamp. With trees. And mud. A muddy foresty swamp.’ He stuck his hat back on. ‘Steel’s on her way. Till she gets here, this is DC Owen…’

  Owen – a broad-shouldered lump of a man with greying curls plastered to his head by the rain. A nod. ‘Sarge.’ His teeth looked as if they’d been designed for a mouth three times bigger than his, poking out at all angles.

  ‘…and this is DC Anthony “Spaver” Fraser.’

  Fraser’s nose had been destined for the same oversized face as Owen’s teeth. ‘Sergeant.’ He jerked it in the direction of the tarpaulin. ‘That our body?’

  ‘Not yet it isn’t.’ Logan held his hand out towards Tufty. ‘Constable Quirrel, pass me the Sacred Wooden Stick of Crime-Scene Dominion.’

  There was a pause as Tufty blinked at him. Then realization must have dawned, because two seconds later a branch was pressed into Logan’s grasp. It wasn’t big – about two foot long, with a forked bit at the top. ‘Here you go.’

  Logan offered it to Rennie. ‘Do you accept the Sacred Stick?’

  A lopsided grin. Then he took the little branch and held it aloft as if he’d just pulled Excalibur from the stone. Posing. ‘I hereby claim this crime scene for Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Tiberius Steel and the glory of the Sontaran Empire!’

  ‘Good for you.’ Logan wiped bits of bark from his palm. ‘Body’s an IC-one male: tattoo on the upper left arm. Heavy bruising to the torso, bin-bag over the head. Duty doctor, Procurator Fiscal, pathologist, an
d Scenes Examination Branch have been informed.’ He turned. ‘Tufty, Calamity: pack up, we’re out of here.’

  She shifted the Airwave handset to her other ear and nodded.

  Rennie frowned. ‘But what about guarding the scene? Aren’t you going to—’

  ‘Not our scene any more. You’ve got the Sacred Stick, remember?’

  His eyebrows went up, making a short row of wrinkles between them. ‘But—’

  ‘Body was probably dumped using the logging road. Get someone to search for tyre tracks. And don’t stand there with your gob hanging open, you look like a goldfish.’

  A click, as Rennie closed his mouth. ‘Can’t we just—’

  ‘Probably not. But make sure you get your common approach path sorted before the PF and the Pathologist get here, or they’ll make you eat your hat.’ Logan patted him on the shoulder. ‘Oh, and I want my tarpaulin back when you’ve finished with it.’

  The hill was a lot steeper on the way up than the way down, and by the time they reached the top sweat was trickling down between Logan’s shoulder blades and into his pants. He paused at the crest, looking back towards the makeshift SOC tent, breath fogging the air in thick white puffs.

  Calamity’s face had gone all flushed and shiny. She gave him a lopsided grimace. ‘Got a bad feeling about this.’

  ‘They’ve investigated murders before.’

  ‘Only two types of people wear trilby hats, Sarge: auld mannies and tossers.’

  ‘Really?’ Tufty unzipped his high-viz jacket and flapped the sides. Steam rose from his stabproof vest. ‘I think they’re kinda cool.’

  ‘Which proves my point.’ She took off her bowler hat and fanned herself with it. ‘And why’s he holding that stick?’

  ‘He thinks it makes him in charge. How did you get on with Maggie?’

  ‘Strange stick obsession and a trilby hat.’ Calamity did a bit more grimacing. ‘He’s a tosser, isn’t he?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Rennie isn’t a tosser.’

  Down at the base of the slope, Rennie was directing his constables as they did a preliminary sweep of the scene – standing on a tree stump and using the Sacred Stick like a conductor’s baton. He was getting into it, swinging his arms about, wheeching the stick back and forth.