Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

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.