Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘Logan—’

‘No wonder Helen...’ He picked up the book and slammed it down again. ‘Five years since the fire. Five years of you lying there. We only went out for two. I’ve known coma you nearly three times as long as the real thing.’

She pulled her legs from his lap and stood. Then knelt in front of the couch, holding his elevated knee. ‘Do you want me to go?’

‘If you’d died five years ago, I could’ve mourned and moved on. But this...’

‘I’ll go if you want me to.’

The doorbell launched into its flat, two-tone, bing-bong .

Samantha sighed. Hung her head. ‘Saved by the bell.’

‘I don’t know what I want.’ He stood. ‘But this isn’t helping.’

Bing-bong .

‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ Logan headed into the hall, unlatched the Yale, and opened the door.

The man on the pavement smiled, making the pockmarks on his cheeks dimple. He had a black umbrella, black overcoat, black suit, and black shoes. The only concession to colour was the green silk shirt. He stuck his hand out. ‘Mr McRae. You ready?’

Logan frowned at him. Why did he look familiar?...

Oh.

Damn.

Something curdled deep inside Logan’s stomach.

‘You’re John Urquhart.’

‘Guilty as charged.’ Urquhart shrugged, then he turned his offered handshake into a hitchhiker’s thumb and jiggled it at a black Audi TT. ‘Thought it might be best if I gave you a lift, like. Mr Mowat’s really looking forward to seeing you. Been ages.’

Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘This a request, or an order?’

‘Nah, don’t...’A grin. ‘It’s not an order . God, no. If it was an order it wouldn’t be me, it’d be three huge guys with a sawn-off, some duct tape, and a Transit van. Nah, this is just in case you and Mr Mowat have a wee dram or something. Don’t want you getting pulled over for drink-driving, right? That’d be embarrassing.’ The thumb came around and Urquhart poked himself in the chest with it. ‘Designated driver.’

So it was go with Urquhart and have a drink with a dying gangster, or wait at home for the three guys and an unmarked van.

Not much of a choice.

And Napier would twist either into a sign of guilt, even the duct-tape-and-van option. Tell me, Sergeant McRae, don’t you think it’s suspicious that Wee Hamish Mowat’s boys picked you to abduct? Why would they pick you? What makes you so special to the man who runs Aberdeen’s underbelly?

Still, at least this way he’d get to keep all his teeth.

‘OK.’ Logan let his shoulders droop. ‘Let me get some shoes on.’

The Audi purred through Oldmeldrum. Past the knots of newbuilds lurking beneath the streetlights, the old church, the garage, bungalows, old-fashioned Scottish houses, and out into the fields again. The purr turned to a growl as they hit the limits.

Logan turned in his seat, looking out through the rear window as the town receded into the darkness.

Urquhart raised his eyebrows. ‘You OK?’

He faced front again. ‘Used to know someone who lives there.’

‘Right.’

The Audi’s windscreen wipers swished and thunked back and forth across the glass. Swish, thunk . Swish, thunk .

Urquhart tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the wipers. ‘No offence, but your house is a bit... Let’s call it a development opportunity, yeah? Fix up the outside: some render, bit of pointing, coat of paint. Get those boarded-up windows ripped out and replaced with a bit of decent UPVC.’ He frowned, bit at his bottom lip for a bit. ‘What’s the inside like? Bit manky?’

‘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.