Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

The rest of the bus was a mixture of OAPs and youngsters, fiddling with their mobile phones and tablets. Each one off in their own private little fortress. A spotty man in a cagoule was actually reading a book. But he had a beard so no one wanted to sit next to him.

‘Oh, I know... Awful. I know size isn’t meant to matter, but it was like being sexually molested by a Chihuahua.’

Fog reclaimed the porthole, fading the world back to monochrome as the sun disappeared.

‘I swear to God, Jane, I thought having an affair would be more exciting. Dancing, champagne, clubs, romantic dinners, kinky hotel-room sex. He just wants to stay in watching boxed sets of Last of the Summer Wine .’

Logan’s phone burst into song, and he pulled it out. Disappeared from the world like everyone else on the bus. ‘McRae.’ But at least he had the common sense to keep his voice down.

‘ Mr McRae, I have a call for you from Mr Moir-Farquharson, one moment please. ’

Moir-Farquharson? Oh that was great. An afternoon with the Ginger Ninja, and now a call from Hissing Sid. Today was a gift that just kept on giving. Like syphilis.

And what kind of dick got their receptionist to make phone calls for them, anyway? It wasn’t the seventies.

‘ Mr McRae? ’ The voice was like a razorblade sliding down an exposed throat. ‘ Sandy Moir-Farquharson, I need to talk to you about Mr Mowat’s estate. ’

OK, seriously: enough with the blessings today.

Logan closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. ‘Now’s really not a good time.’

‘ The will is going to be read on Monday morning, ten o’clock as per Mr Mowat’s instructions. As you’re the executor, I shall be requiring your attendance. ’

‘I can’t—’

‘ Mr McRae, need I remind you that Mr Mowat’s bequests include a sum of six hundred and sixty-six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six pounds, sixty-six pence to be paid to yourself? As such, it might be considered churlish of you to not perform your duties. ’

Oh God... The two-thirds of a million pounds.

How do you forget something like that?

By not wanting to think about it, that’s how. By running away from it, scared that anyone would find out.

Arrrrrrgh...

‘ Mr McRae? Are you still there? ’

Logan turned his face to the window and lowered his voice even further. ‘I told you I didn’t want his money.’

‘ And I told you it doesn’t matter what you do or do not want. Mr Mowat has left this portion of his estate to you, as is his right. It will be paid to you. There is provision for its management, but how you choose to dispose of it after that is entirely your own affair. ’ A sniff. ‘ Any normal person would be delighted and grateful to inherit such a large sum. ’

He cast a quick glance around him. No one was lugging in, they were all far too busy with their own phones. ‘I’m a police officer!’

‘ And now you can be a very rich police officer. Monday, Mr McRae, ten o’clock at my office. ’ He hung up.

Logan swore at the phone for a while, then switched it off and rammed it back in his pocket. Sagged in his seat, looking up at the ceiling of the bus. His bones rattled along with the engine’s diesel drone.

Two-thirds of a million. Because twenty grand over the asking price for his flat didn’t look bad enough.

And there was no way Reuben wouldn’t be there to hear Hamish’s will being read. To find out what they’d all got. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about landing Urquhart in it by clyping about the flat, he’d use the inheritance to destroy Logan.

The snow squeaked and crunched beneath his damp, shiny shoes. More fell from the dark orange sky in slow lazy arcs, like the drifting feathers of a shot bird. They flared in the streetlights’ glow, then faded, building up in ridges along the tops of the gravestones in the little cemetery. Sticking to the walls of the ancient buildings.

Logan paused for a moment outside the Market Arms. Warm light spilled from the windows, bringing with it the muffled sound of music and laughter.

Tempting.

A shiver rattled its way through him, making his teeth click.

Home. Central heating up full pelt. Hot bath. A big dram of Hamish Mowat’s whisky.

He hurried down the street, shoulders up around his ears, hands deep in his pockets.

Past the grim Scottish houses, past the grim Victorian police station, then across the grim car park. The sea was a smear of black through the falling snow, grumbling against the invisible beach.

Around the corner, and...

Logan stopped where he was, on the pavement, looking up at the Sergeant’s Hoose.

A light burned somewhere inside, oozing out of the bedroom window.

Great. Steel had let herself in again. So much for a bit of privacy.

He took out his keys, but the front door wasn’t locked. It swung open when he turned the handle, the snib disengaged.

You’d think a Detective Chief Inspector would have some idea about home security.

He clunked the door shut behind him and clicked the button for the snib. It clacked home. ‘Hello?’

The central heating pinged and gurgled.

Light spilled down the stairs from the landing.

Logan peeled off his funeral-suit jacket and draped it over the banister. Undid his tie. Dug out his phone. ‘You know you left the door off the latch, don’t you?’

He kicked off his wet shoes and stood there in his wet socks. ‘Hello?’

The jacket dripped on the laminate flooring.

‘Hello?’

OK...

He tried the kitchen.

No Steel.

Then the living room.

Still no Steel.

Typical, she’d sodded off and left the house lying wide open so any druggy could wander in and steal all his stuff. But the TV was still there, and the DVD player, and the answering machine with its winking red light.

Maybe the snow had kept all the thieving gits from stalking the streets trying door handles?

Logan stripped off his trousers and squelched over to the bookcase and plugged his mobile into the dangling charging cord. Then pressed the button on the answerphone.

‘ MESSAGE ONE: ’ A woman’s voice replaced the electronic one. ‘ Mr McRae? Hi, it’s Sheila here from Deveronside Family Glazing Solutions again. I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a mix-up with your windows. ’

Of course there had.

He unbuttoned his clammy shirt.

‘ Your order’s been checked by Dennis and they’re all out by about fifteen mil. I’m really sorry. We’ve no idea how it happened, but we’re getting them remade now. Please accept our apologies; we’ll get them to you as soon as we can. ’

Bleeeeeep .

God’s sake.

‘ MESSAGE TWO: ’ There was a pause. ‘ Logan? ’ Louise from Sunny Glen cleared her throat. ‘ I just wanted to let you know that the funeral directors have collected Samantha. I gave them the photo you wanted. I’m sure they’ll do a sensitive job. And again, I’m so sorry for your loss. ’

Yeah, everyone was sorry. Everyone was always sorry.

‘ Don’t forget, if you need to talk to someone, Debora is very good. She’s helped a lot of families and— ’

Delete.

‘ MESSAGE THREE: ’ Logan peeled off his soggy socks. ‘ Mr McRae? Mr McRae, it’s John. John Urquhart. Look, you need to give me a call, OK? Like ASAFP. Soon as you get this. ’

Delete.

No way he was leaving something like that knocking about on his answering machine for Napier to find.

What the hell did Urquhart want that was so urgent?

‘ MESSAGE FOUR: ’ Steel’s gravelly tones graced the living room. ‘ I know you’re in there, so answer the sodding door. My key’s no’ working and I’m freezing my nipples off. ’