In the Cold Dark Ground Read online

  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?’

  ‘Yes, but you didn’t know you were selling to someone dodgy.’

  ‘Think that’ll matter to Napier?’ A grimace. ‘I could fit Reuben up? Get him sent down for something. Keep him out of the way for eight to twelve years.’

  ‘And all he has to do is make one phone call to the outside world and have some of his minions pop up to Banff and do the job for him.’ A sigh. ‘Oh, Logan…’ She stepped in, her body warm against his chest. Reached up and kissed him. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to kill Reuben.’

  — Thursday Dayshift —

  when the elder gods die

  7

  ‘Of course they’re no’ connected, you idiot.’ Steel had a pull on her e-cigarette, then let the steam trickle out of her nose. It found its way down the wrinkles either side of her mouth. Then the ones around her eyes deepened. ‘Now, does anyone else have a stupid question?’ Her grey suit looked as if someone much larger than her had slept in it. Whoever it was had done something unmentionable to her hair as well. Possibly involving an electric whisk, a Van de Graaff generator, and a bucket of wallpaper paste.

  The DC lowered his hand and mumbled something. Pink flushed the back of his neck, darkening the skin above his suit jacket.

  Steel had a dig at her underwire and settled on the edge of a table parked beneath the whiteboard. The board took up nearly the whole wall of the station’s Major Incident Room.

  The conference table in the middle of the room was packed with uniformed and plain-clothed officers. They’d commandeered every chair in the place, set up in a long line facing the board. More Uniform stood around the walls, arms folded across their black police-issue T-shirts.

  ‘Moving on.’ Steel stopped fiddling with her upholstery for long enough to point her fake cigarette at the whiteboard. An array of photographs – much like the ones Logan had on his phone – were Blu-Tacked across the shiny white surface, along with an OS map of the woods. ‘Post mortem is at ten. Till then, the powers that be are no’ letting us unwrap our present.’

  The e-cigarette clicked against a close-up of the bin-bag taped over the body’s head.

  Another hand went up. ‘Guv: how come?’

  She didn’t look at the questioner. ‘What did I say about stupid questions?’

  The hand went down again. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

  ‘Soon as they break the seal and invalidate the warranty, DS Dawson will be taking an ID photo and emailing it straight up. If we’re lucky, one of the local bunnets will recognize our victim. But just in case: I want posters. Becky? You’re on that. Blanket coverage.’

  A large woman in a black suit nodded, sending her frizzy brown hair wobbling. ‘Guv.’

  ‘Next.’ She tossed a pile of printouts to the person sitting nearest – a thin bloke in a cheap fighting suit and seven-quid haircut.

  He took one, then passed the rest on.

  She waited for the printouts to get halfway around the room. ‘We got an MO hit on the database. Naked body, battered, bag over the head, dumped in woods. Last one belonged to a Lithuanian pimp operating on Leith Walk, Edinburgh, six months ago.’

  The stack had made its way as far as Logan. Steel’s handout had half a dozen photos on it: different views of a body like the one from yesterday, only this victim was lying on a mortuary slab instead of the forest floor and the bag over his head had been slit open, revealing a gaunt face with a hooked nose and crooked teeth. More bruising. Both eyes swollen shut.

  ‘Allegedly, Artu¯ras Kazlauskas didn’t bother asking Malk the Knife’s permission before hooring women out in his city, so Malky sent someone round to teach him some manners. Details are the same, right down to the body getting a dose of bleach after death to mask DNA and trace evidence.’ She took a sheet of paper from a folder and stuck it to the whiteboard with some fridge magnets. It was blown-up from a magazine, part of the text running down one side of the image. A man with a short haircut, baggy eyes, cheery cheeks, and a tuxedo. It was the kind of face that belonged on a Rotary Club steering committee, that always bought the first round, that invited friends from work over for a barbecue, and never forgot the receptionist’s birthday.

  Steel poked it in the forehead with her fake fag. ‘Malcolm McLennan, AKA: Malk the Knife. Edinburgh’s Mr Huge. You run drugs, guns, illegal immigrants, or prostitutes in the city, he gets a cut or you wind up missing important bits. If you’re lucky.’

  Logan turned his sheet over. There were another three bodies pictured on the back. All naked, all male, all battered, all with bin-bags duct-taped over their heads.

  Steel sniffed. ‘And before some smart aleck asks the obvious question: no, we don’t know who killed this lot. Don’t even know if it’s the same person each time. And the Organised Crime and Counter Terrorism Unit can’t prove Malky ordered the killings either. So they’re about as much use as Rennie in a knocking shop.’

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Logan turned the paper back over again. Jessica Campbell was bringing drugs into Aberdeenshire from Glasgow. And now Malcolm McLennan was killing people in Banff. John Urquhart was right: Wee Hamish Mowat might not be dead yet, but the big boys were already muscling in.

  Which meant that sooner or later, Reuben was going to kick back. Hard.
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  The post-briefing rush for the canteen and the toilets thundered through the station as Steel lounged by the Major Incident Room window, smoking her fake cigarette and exploring her armpit with one hand while the other pinned a mobile phone to her ear. ‘Yeah… Nah… Did he?… Yeah…’

  Logan folded the printout with its dead bodies into four and stuck it on the table.

  Rennie slouched over. ‘You run B Division, right?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The guvnor wants a couple of bunnets to go door-to-door when pics of the victim’s face come in. You can spare me two or three, can’t you?’

  Logan stared at him. ‘First: you don’t get to call my divisional officers, “Bunnets”.’

  Rennie pursed his lips. ‘Someone’s touchy the day.’

  ‘Second: my divisional officers will be busy policing B Division. They will not have time to go running about doing your legwork for you.’ Logan took a couple of steps, then poked Rennie in the chest. ‘Third: most of them have been in the job a lot longer than you, and they deserve a bit of respect. Are we clear?’

  Rennie’s bottom lip popped out. ‘Only asking.’

  He stepped closer, till they were nearly nose-to-nose. ‘Well don’t.’

  There was a snort from the corner, then Steel’s gravelly tones burst across the room. ‘For God’s sake, will you two just kiss and get it over with? Could cut the sexual tension in here with a spoon.’

  Logan stayed where he was. ‘Detective Sergeant Rennie and I were discussing resource allocation.’

  ‘Nah, you pair were about to whip out your truncheons and give each other a good seeing to. But far be it from me to stand in the way of young love: if you promise no’ to give Rennie back with his arse all covered in lovebites, you can “discuss resource allocations” to your heart’s content.’

  ‘What?’ There was a shudder, then Rennie backed away wearing his spanked child expression. ‘I only wanted a couple of bodies to help with the ID. You didn’t have to get all threatening about it. Was only—’

  Steel rapped her knuckles on the tabletop. ‘Rennie: coffee. Two and a coo.’