Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Another sip. Then he put on a posh Scottish accent, ‘Tell me, Detective Inspector McActor, while you were parading all over the scene of the alleged crime, did you remain on the common approach walkway? No? Did you have the hood of your Tyvek suit up? No? You felt it was more important to show off your magnificent head of flowing hair? I see...’

‘This thing between you and Reuben has been brewing for years.’

‘And were you wearing your goggles and mask, or did you ponce about spewing your own DNA over everything? And did...’ Logan jabbed a hand at the TV, dropping back to his own voice. ‘Oh for God’s sake. Look at it: you don’t pick up a murder weapon with the pen from your pocket! What are you, a moron ? How did this idiot get admitted to a crime scene?’

‘You broke his nose. He was never going to forgive you for that.’

‘Who wrote this garbage?’

‘Logan!’ She turned and grabbed his face in both hands. ‘Listen to me: I’m right, Wee Hamish is right — you have to kill Reuben. Have you even got a plan?’

On the TV, DI McActor was snogging one of the Scenes Examination Branch, in the middle of the crime scene, with the body lying at their feet.

Deep breath. Logan lowered his eyes and ran a fingernail along a chip in the rim of his glass. ‘I’m trying not to think about it, OK? I don’t want to kill Reuben. I don’t want to kill anybody.’

‘You have to start planning for it, you know that. Fitting him up isn’t going to do it.’ She let go of Logan’s face and poked him in the chest. ‘Come on: how, when, where, and what do you do with the body afterwards?’

He let his head fall back and stared up at the stippled white ceiling for a moment. ‘Gun. Has to be a gun. And it has to be soon. Somewhere out of the way with no witnesses. And there’s no point burying him, it’d take forever to dig a hole big enough.’ Logan swirled the dregs of his Glenfiddich around the glass, leaving trails up the side of the glass. ‘Fire. Stick the body in a car and set fire to it. Burn off any trace evidence and DNA. When they find the body they’ll think it was one of the rival gangs trying to muscle in.’

She smiled. ‘There you go. I’m proud of you.’

Wonderful.

Assuming he could lure Reuben to somewhere out of the way without anyone else showing up. Assuming he could actually pull the trigger. Assuming Reuben didn’t kill him instead.

And then all he’d have to do was pray that Reuben hadn’t lodged an insurance policy with a solicitor somewhere. In the event of my untimely death, the following letters are to be sent to the media and Professional Standards for the purpose of screwing Sergeant McRae to the wall by his testicles.

Speaking of which.

He pulled out his phone and turned it on again. Scrolled through the call history. And selected a number. Then listened to it ring.

Click . ‘ You’ve reached the desk of Chief Superintendent Napier, I’m unavailable at the moment, but you can leave a message after the tone. ’

Of course he wasn’t there — it was nearly midnight.

Beeeeep .

‘It’s Logan. McRae. I’ve been thinking about your investigation.’

Samantha stared at him, both eyebrows raised.

‘I’m in.’

‘ ...neighbour killed himself, because his business went bust. There’s fat cats whooping it up in London and his wife’s got to bury him in a council grave. Where’s the social justice in that? ’

Logan groaned beneath the duvet.

‘ Well, that’s a good point. OK, next up we’ve got Marjory from Cullen. Go ahead, Marjory. ’

There was a proop-meep noise and something heavy landed on his bladder. ‘Argh...’ Then walked up his torso and sat on his chest.

‘ It’s this oil price downturn. We all know these oil companies make billions of profits, so why are they squeezing the supply companies? How’s the industry supposed to survive if shareholders are wringing every penny out of the North Sea? ’

He peered out at the clock radio. Half eight.

‘ And let’s not forget, eighty percent of a gallon of petrol goes straight into the government’s pocket! That’s Scotland’s money. ’

‘Go away.’ He reached out and thumped the snooze button. Slumped back on the pillow.

A little fuzzy head appeared above the edge of the duvet and biffed its cheek against his nose. Purring like a tumble dryer full of gravel.

A yawn.

The phone went, ringing downstairs in the living room. Then fell silent. Followed by the distorted sound of his own recorded voice telling whoever it was to leave a message.

Cthulhu biffed into his face again.

‘Yes, I know you want sweeties, you wee monster.’ He picked up the pack of cat treats from the bedside cabinet as the machine downstairs bleeped and a dark voice replaced his own.

Who the hell was that?

Another biff.

‘OK, OK.’ He dug a treat out and held it in front of her pink nose.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Samantha settled on the end of the bed, running a brush through her bright-red hair — making it shine. ‘You’re actually awake? Thought you were going to sleep till noon.’

Another treat.

‘It’s half eight, give me a break.’

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

She took hold of his foot through the duvet. ‘Big day, today.’

‘I know.’

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

‘Come on then: up and showered. You’re not switching me off looking like someone dragged you backwards through a combine harvester. Sunday best, Mr McRae.’ She smiled. ‘After all, it’s not every day you get to kill your girlfriend.’

Logan wandered back through to the bedroom, scrubbing at his head with a towel. The cool air made the hair on his arms stand up and pimpled the flesh beneath. He paused in the doorway, sniffing.

Was that bacon?

How could he smell frying bacon?

Maybe he was having a stroke?

Wait, were those voices ?

He wrapped the towel around his middle, tying it off.

There were definitely voices coming from downstairs.

Maybe it was Reuben, come up to finish the job himself. Well he was out of luck, because... Oh for God’s sake. The equipment belt wasn’t where it should have been — on the chair in the corner of the bedroom. It was still hanging over the end of the banister.

Argh.

Improvise.

He hauled on a pair of jeans and tiptoed out onto the landing. Opened the cupboard and lifted the toolbox out. Selected an adjustable spanner from the pile of tools. Big and heavy.

Logan smacked the business end into the palm of his other hand.

Not quite an extendable baton, but if it got him to the bottom of the stairs where the equipment belt was, it’d do.

He crept down the stairs. No sign of anyone.

The voices coming from the living room sounded more like the TV than real life.

‘ ...news and weather where you are, but first we’ve got the singing sensation taking Britain’s Next Big Star by storm on the Breakfast sofa... ’

Logan unclipped the CS gas canister from its holster, fiddling with it until the bungee cord holding it to the belt let go. Then slipped the extendable baton from its...

Someone was singing in the kitchen. A sweet, but smoky, growl of a voice, belting it out.