Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Cn you get Yrslf back to Banffg or d U neeed a hurl?

Call that spelling? Maybe Urquhart had chucked a load of Scrabble tiles in the air and typed out whatever random order they fell in?

Ding .

Gv me a txt whn U wont to go back. Gt smthig 4 U!!!

What the hell was that supposed to mean: ‘Gt smthig 4 U’?

‘Still it could be worse, I suppose. Remember Big Gary McCormack the desk sergeant, Laz?’

‘Mmm?’

Ah right: got something for you.

‘He left when they screwed with the pension and pay-and-conditions; went and got himself a cushy number doing Health and Safety for one of the oil companies.’

What is it?

Send.

‘Got made redundant two weeks ago. Now he’s back trying to interview for a constable’s position. How humiliating is that?’

Ding .

Smthig from mr M. VG preznt!!!

A present from Wee Hamish Mowat? God knew what that was. Probably another chess set.

Logan lowered his mobile and stared out of the window. The trees died away as the car slowed for the limits into Aberdeen. The granite houses had lost their sparkle beneath the clouds, darkening as the snow hit the stone and melted, leaching away the last of the sun’s heat.

Might not be such a great idea to have all these messages from one of Wee Hamish’s men on his phone. He deleted all Urquhart’s texts. Not that it would make any difference — the forensic tech guys would be able to get them back without too much trouble. And even if they couldn’t, a quick squint at the phone company’s metadata would show who he talked to and for how long.

Should really ditch the sim card and get a burner. Keep it untraceable.

But then... He scrolled down through the saved messages to the ones listed under, ‘S AMANTHA ’.

Logan, where the hell are you? Film’s about to start. I’ve got popcorn, but no boyfriend.

Don’t make me chat up this guy with hairy ears.

Next.

Just so you know, I’ve had a few drinks after work and been to Ann Summers. So brace yourself!

Next.

I hate Edinburgh. Want to be home! Screw hotels and screw hotel breakfasts and screw forensic conferences. Not doing this again. HOME HOME HOME HOME HOME!

Next.

The thing blared out its ringtone and Logan flinched. It tumbled from his fingers into the footwell. ‘Gah...’ He snatched it up and pressed the button. ‘What?’

‘ Sergeant McRae. ’ Oh joy, the dulcet tones of Detective Superintendent Harper the Harpy. ‘ You and I need to talk. ’

‘It’s my day off. If you want to shout, snipe, or belittle me you can wait till I’m on duty again. Till then, feel free to sod off.’

The pool car slowed as it approached the roundabout.

Silence from the phone.

Probably shouldn’t have said that last bit. But you know what? Screw her. Today was bad enough without having to kowtow to some jumped-up, holier-than-everyone, Central-Belt tosser on an ego trip.

An articulated lorry roared across in front of the car, the driver with one hand firmly engaged in trying to remove his own brain via his nose.

Still nothing from Harper. Maybe she’d felt free and sodded off?

‘You still there?’

‘ Do you normally talk to superior officers like that, Sergeant? ’

‘OK, I’m hanging up now.’

‘ Sergeant McRae, how dare— ’

‘Tell you what, if you’re so offended and upset, you go right ahead and put in that complaint with Professional Standards. Have me thrown off the MIT. You won’t have to put up with my “incompetence” and I won’t have to put up with you .’ Blood thumped in his ears, the back of his arms itching in time with it. ‘Do us both a favour.’ He jabbed the call end button with his thumb. Bared his teeth at it. Then thumped his phone down on the seat beside him.

It burst into song again. Same number.

Decline.

And again.

He switched his phone off.

The car crawled up South Anderson Drive. A wee bit of snow and everyone drove like an old wifie, peering out over their steering wheels, doing five miles an hour. Could get out and walk quicker than this.

Doreen swore, then pulled out her buzzing mobile. ‘DS Taylor... What?... Yes, no, Boss... Yes, we’re heading over to the wake... Sergeant McRae?’ She looked back over her shoulder at him. ‘Yes, we’re giving him a lift. How did you—... No, he’s right here. You want to talk to him?... Oh. OK.’ Wrinkles lined up between her eyebrows. ‘Are you sure, Boss? Don’t mean to be funny, but we’re supposed to—... Right. I understand. Soon as we can... Yes, bye.’

She put her phone away. ‘Change of plan, Iain. We’re dropping Sergeant McRae off in Bucksburn.’

Her sidekick groaned. ‘But we’re going to the wake . Little sandwiches, those wee chicken Kiev things, slices of quiche.’

‘Bucksburn station, Constable, and step on it.’

Logan sat forward and tapped Doreen on the shoulder. ‘I don’t want to go to Bucksburn, I want to go to the bus station. I’m going home.’

‘Sorry, Laz, orders from on high.’

Sod that.

The traffic groaned to a halt at the junction with Great Western Road, a line of cars and articulated lorries halted at the traffic lights in front of them.

‘Fine, I’ll get out and walk.’ He unclipped his seatbelt and grabbed the door handle.

Nothing happened.

The child locks were on. Of course they were — this was a CID pool car. Couldn’t have suspects letting themselves out whenever they felt like it.

‘Doreen, I’m not even on duty, I’ve had a crappy day, and I want to go home.’

Colour flushed her cheeks. ‘We don’t have any choice, OK? Orders are orders.’ She tried for a smile. It didn’t look very convincing. ‘It’ll only take a moment. I’m sure it’s nothing really, just a quick chat with Professional Standards...’

Friday the thirteenth strikes again.

The floral stench of carpet cleaner filled the anonymous waiting room. Probably there to cover the smell of fear, sweated out by previous victims. Posters on the wall extolled the virtues of Police Scotland, each with a posed photo of an officer at some scenic spot. Truth. Reliability. Honesty. Impartiality.

Traffic droned by outside.

Logan paced back to the window.

Snow drifted down in large puffy flakes, thick enough to hide everything beyond a few hundred feet. Cars and buses and lorries, nose-to-tailed each other on either side of the dual carriageway below. Streams of headlights and blood-red tail-lights, moving in a slow-motion shuffle away from here.

Jammy sods.

But then they hadn’t been ratted out to Professional Standards by Superintendent Bloody Harper. No, that was a special treat for Logan alone.

He scowled at the crawling traffic.

OK, so maybe it had been a mistake to tell her to sod off and hang up on her. And maybe he could’ve diffused the situation instead of making it worse. But...

Yeah, probably best to leave that thought there.

Idiot.

He pulled out his phone and turned it back on again. No more texts from Urquhart, thank God. But there was a voicemail from Calamity. Logan set it playing.

‘ Sarge? Hi. It’s Janet... Listen, we heard about Samantha, and we wanted... well, we’re really, really sorry. If there’s anything we can do, you give us a call, OK? All of us. ’ There was a long pause. ‘ If you want to talk to someone, or, you know, go out and get weaselled, let us know. We’re thinking of you. ’

‘ End of Messages. To Replay The Message, Press One. To— ’

Logan hung up.

Put his phone away.

Stared out at the traffic.