Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

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.’

‘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.