Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘OK, OK, I get it.’

‘Don’t forget.’ She thumped the door shut, then turned and huddled her way over to the B-and-B and let herself in. Paused on the threshold to wave at him.

Logan waved back.

Soon as the door closed, shutting off the light, he bent forward and boinked his head off the steering wheel. ‘Great...’

Why was it, sympathy just made things hurt so much more? Indifference, even animosity was fine — could turn that into anger and cope — but sympathy?

He boinked his head off the wheel again. ‘Ungrateful tosser.’

Yeah.

Logan turned the car around and headed back towards the station. Past the silent darkened houses and empty streets.

How was he supposed to investigate her for Napier? If she sat there, holding his hand while he switched Samantha off, what was he supposed to do? Thanks for the support at this difficult time, now do you mind if I screw you over and work for the Ginger Whinger behind your back?

The harbour was full of yachts, berthed up for the winter. A handful of tiny fishing boats tied up closer to the harbour entrance.

But if he didn’t investigate her, Napier would only get someone else in to do the job. And maybe that someone wouldn’t be quite as understanding of Steel’s little foibles. Or her bloody huge character flaws.

Gah.

Maybe it was all just a misunderstanding? A quick poke about in the facts of the case, and bingo: Steel’s exonerated. She’d be delighted that he’d cleared her name... Or she’d kill him for being a disloyal wee sod and investigating her in the first place.

Great. So the whole thing was a lose-lose for him.

He parked outside the Sergeant’s Hoose. Sat there staring out at the bay. All cold and still and dark. The lights of Macduff glimmered on the other side of the water.

And then there was Samantha...

The stones were back, clumping in his stomach.

Come on. Out.

A long, black, sigh huffed out of him. Then he got out and locked the car. Crossed the road.

A couple of women stood outside the Ship Inn, smoking cigarettes and shivering. One looked up and stared at him as he let himself into the Sergeant’s Hoose. Like he was something strange to be studied, in his bright-yellow high-viz jacket — the stripes fluorescing in the streetlight.

Logan thunked the door behind him and locked it.

Sagged.

Tomorrow was going to be... just... terrific .

God.

A soft furry body thumped into his leg, followed by a tiny prooping noise.

Logan let his breath out. ‘Cthulhu. How’s Daddy’s bestest girl?’ He unclipped his equipment belt and hung it on the end of the banister, then stuck his hat on top. Peeled off his stabproof vest and leaned it in the corner. Bent down and ruffled the fur between Cthulhu’s ears. ‘At least you still love me.’

She purred, little white paws treadling on the laminate floor.

A handful of post lay on the mat and he picked it up, flicking through it. Yet another election leaflet from the Lib Dems, one from the SNP, and a brochure about free hearing aids for the over fifties. And last an envelope with no stamp, no postmark, and a black border around the edge. Hand delivered.

Logan turned it over and paused, one finger poised to rip through the flap. Maybe not the best of ideas. Use a knife instead. He marched into the kitchen and dumped everything else on the table. Took a butter knife from the draining board and slit the flap open. Poured the contents out onto the countertop.

No razor blades or needles were taped under the flap, lying in wait for an unwary finger. Instead the envelope contained a gilt-edged rectangle of cardboard engraved in flowery script.

Right. Well there wasn’t much chance of him turning up for Hamish’s funeral, was there.

When he’d just switched Samantha off?

And besides, it probably wasn’t a good idea to be in the same postcode as Reuben, never mind graveyard. No telling what would happen. But it probably wouldn’t be anything good.

He propped the invitation on the windowsill, next to the dying herbs.

Then dug out a squat glass tumbler and poured in a slug of the whisky Hamish Mowat had given him. Toasted the rectangle of card. ‘Sorry, Hamish. But I can’t.’

Took a sip. Warm and fiery and leathery and smooth.

Wait a minute.

He frowned at the tumbler, and the lines of amber crawling down the inside of the glass. There had been a letter, hadn’t there? Wee Hamish had handed it over, then the doctor threw them out and Reuben started throwing his weight around.

Back through to the hall and the collection of coats, jackets, and fleeces.

It was in yesterday’s coat pocket.

The word ‘L OGAN ’ was scratched across the front in smudged trembling fountain-pen letters.

He sat at the kitchen table and opened it, while Cthulhu wound herself back and forth between his ankles.

Probably another appeal for him to take over Hamish’s criminal empire, because nothing said ‘Career Police Officer’ like running a stable of drug dealers, prostitutes, and protection rackets. Still, had to admire the man’s tenacity — even when he was dying he didn’t give up.

The contents were almost illegible, written in the same pained hand as the envelope. It must’ve taken Wee Hamish hours to do, given how weak he was at the end.

Wow.

Logan read the letter through again. Put it down on the table.

Took a mouthful of whisky.

Gave it one more read. Then picked Cthulhu up, carried her out into the hall, and closed the kitchen door, shutting her out. He cracked the window open, dug the kitchen matches out of the cupboard, held the letter over the sink, and set fire to it. Turning it back and forth until the flames took hold.

Heat seared the tips of his fingers and he dropped the burning letter into the sink. The gritty cloying smell of burnt paper filled the room.

The letter blackened around the words, then a line of vivid orange washed across it, leaving the sheet white and powdery, but still bearing Wee Hamish’s instructions. He jabbed the ashes with a wooden spoon, beating them into dust. No point taking any risks: the envelope suffered the same fate.

Gah...

Samantha lowered herself down on the couch next to him. ‘What we watching?’

‘Hmm?’ Logan looked up from the tumbler in his hands.

Some vacuous pap cop show lumped its way across the TV screen, about as divorced from the reality of actual policing as Henry the Eighth was from his wives.

Samantha poked him in the shoulder. ‘He didn’t divorce any of them. They were either annulled or beheaded. Well, except for the last one. And the one that died of natural causes. Don’t you ever watch QI ?’

Logan had a sip of the whisky. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Don’t do what?’

‘Don’t jump in when I haven’t said something out loud. Makes me look like a lunatic.’

She turned to the TV, nose in the air.

Onscreen, a man in an SOC suit wandered about a crime scene without wearing goggles or a facemask. Because, on television, no one ever got ripped apart in court for not following proper procedures. No, they could contaminate the scene to their hearts’ content, as long as the halfwit viewing public could see their pretty actory faces.

‘Look at these muppets. Bet none of them would last two minutes in the witness stand against Hissing Sid.’

‘It’s not my fault.’