Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

John Urquhart stepped closer. ‘Yeah, about that. Kinda not the best idea.’

Reuben tucked in his shirt. ‘You’re going down, McRae.’

‘I didn’t know it was Hamish Mowat’s money.’

‘Erm...’ Urquhart held up a finger. ‘See, the only way you can dob McRae in, is if you dob me in at the same time, isn’t it? I bought the flat. And if I bought it with Mr Mowat’s cash, then that makes me dodgy too.’

A black tie was subjected to a schoolboy knot. ‘And?’

‘Look at it: far as Police Scotland’s concerned, I’m a small-time property developer and I’d kinda like to keep it that way. How am I gonna be your right-hand guy if the cops are digging away and following me everywhere?’

Creases formed between Reuben’s eyebrows. Then he slipped his feet into a pair of shiny black shoes. Grunted.

‘Come on, Reubster, you know it makes sense.’

He pulled on a black jacket to go with the trousers. Scowled at Logan. ‘You got kids, don’t you, McRae? With that bull-dyke lesbian boss of yours. You just mortgaged them against your debt.’

Logan took a step forwards. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

‘And you .’ He turned and poked a finger at Urquhart. ‘From now on you’re responsible for him, understand? He does what he’s told, when he’s told, or the pair of you are up to your ears in the piggery.’

Urquhart’s eyes widened. ‘Let’s... not get all hasty and that. We... Reuben?’

But the big man had turned on his heel, walking along the edge of the plastic sheeting, and out through the open door. ‘Funeral time.’

‘Damn it.’ Urquhart ran a hand across his face. Looked down at what was left of Tony, lying there with his head bashed in. ‘You three, tidy this up. Sergeant McRae and me have to go bury an old friend.’

It was one of those old-fashioned Scottish churches: a rectangle of granite with a tiny bell-spire and a slate roof, surrounded by ancient tottering headstones and fields. A long line of cars stretched along the road, parked half on the grass, leaving barely enough space for the next vehicle to squeeze past.

John Urquhart eased the Audi’s passenger-side wheels up onto the verge and killed the engine. Then groaned and curled into himself. ‘Why me?’

Logan undid the seatbelt. ‘I thought the gun worked.’

‘He’s going to feed me to the pigs.’

‘If it worked he’d be dead by now.’ And Tony would still be alive... He closed his eyes, but there was the image of Reuben battering the claw hammer down again and again. If the gun had worked, it wouldn’t have been murder. It’d be justifiable homicide. Saving another person’s life.

Bloody hell.

Worse: now Jasmine and Naomi were at risk.

‘Oh God...’ Urquhart covered his head with his hands. ‘We’re doomed.’

‘Welcome to my world.’

‘I should have stayed outside, I should have—’ His phone burst into song. He dug it out. Flinched. Then dragged on a smile. ‘Hi, Reuben. How’s it going, big man?... Uh-huh... Uh-huh.... OK, we’ll be there soon as... Yeah... OK, bye.’ He hung up and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

Outside, the sunshine streamed through the bare branches of a tree, casting ragged shadows across the road. A swarm of midges glowed in a patch of light. Second week of February and there were midges. Welcome to Scotland.

Urquhart sagged back in his seat. ‘Guess who’s showed up to “pay their respects”. Malcolm McLennan, Angus MacDonald, Stevie Hussain, and Jessy Campbell.’

‘Jessica “Ma” Campbell?’

‘Told you we were doomed.’ He stared at the car’s ceiling. ‘Man, the French Revolution’s got nothing on the terror about to fall on Aberdeen. These scumbags respected Mr Mowat, but Reuben? No chance.’

Logan opened his door and climbed out into the sun. ‘You coming?’

He locked the car. ‘They’ll turn Aberdeen into a warzone. Mr Mowat would hate this.’

They walked past the line of parked cars and in through a rusting iron gate. Headstones stretched off into the distance, along with a couple of mort safes and a big granite mausoleum topped with weeping cherubs.

Urquhart stopped. ‘Mr McRae? You’re going to do what Reuben says, aren’t you? I mean, exactly what he says and when he says it?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘I stuck my neck out for you! And I mean way out...’ His head drooped until his chin rested against his chest. ‘This is what it’s going to be like from now on, isn’t it? Everyone running scared. No stability. War.’

Logan turned, scanning the ranks of the dead. Just because he couldn’t do it, didn’t mean everyone else had the same problem. There wasn’t a single living soul in sight, but he dropped his voice anyway. ‘Then kill him.’

‘Reuben?’ Urquhart backed off a couple of paces, eyebrows up. ‘Me? Kill Reuben?’

‘You said it yourself: Hamish didn’t think Reuben is up to running the business. He’s going to make everything worse and get a lot of people hurt.’ Logan stepped closer. ‘So maybe you could do a better job? Maybe you could take Hamish’s place instead of him? Prevent everything falling apart; stop the war before it starts.’

‘But...’ Urquhart licked his lips. ‘I mean Reuben...’ He cleared his throat. Looked back towards the car. ‘OK, so he’s totally not suited to being in charge. He’s a great enforcer, but strategy? Planning? Keeping everything low-key and efficient?’

‘All the things Hamish Mowat was good at. Keeping Aberdeen stable. You saw what he did in that garage; Reuben’s unhinged. You could step in.’

‘I know, but—’

‘Who was he?’

Urquhart pulled his chin in. ‘Who was who?’

‘You know who.’

‘Oh. Tony?’ A shrug. ‘Tony Evans. Low-level distributor and three-strike loser. You’d think he’d have learned the first two times. Suppose some people can’t take a hint, not even when it’s, like, getting both your arms broken.’

The church bell pealed out three mournful chimes.

‘I mean it: Reuben’s going to get everyone killed. He has to go.’ Logan had another quick look around. Still no witnesses. ‘For the good of the city.’

Urquhart blinked at him for a moment, then took a deep breath. ‘Anyway.’ He pulled his shoulders back and marched away along the path, head held high.

Logan gave it a beat, then followed.

It wasn’t even one o’clock yet, and already he’d killed his girlfriend, witnessed someone getting beaten to death, and embarked on conspiracy to commit murder. Friday the thirteenth just kept on getting better .

The path led down the side of the church and around to the back. Which turned out to be the front. A set of large wooden doors lay open, with a minister standing before them all dressed up in his long red dress with black scarf/shawl thing over the top. He shifted from foot to foot, clutching a handful of small booklets. Worked a finger into the neck of his white collar, pulling it away from his throat. Jerked upright when he saw them. ‘Hello.’ His voice wasn’t exactly steady as he held out one of the booklets to Logan. ‘Order of Service. We can start as soon as you’re ready.’ Beads of sweat glistened on his top lip.

Poor sod probably wasn’t used to having his church full, never mind full of gangsters.

Urquhart took an order of service and patted the minister on the arm. ‘Soon as you’re ready.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. Right away.’ He turned and bustled off, red skirts billowing out behind him.

Inside, Old Ardoe Kirk was packed. Every pew in the place was rammed with men and women — all dressed in black, all talking in low voices. No wonder the minister had been bricking it outside on the doorstep: there were a lot of big blokes with close-cropped hair, scars, and tattoos. Hard-faced women with bleached hair and fists as cruel as the men’s. The kind of people who would have no problem beating someone to death with a claw hammer.