Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Bleeeeeep .

What? Why would her key not work? Of course her key worked — she kept letting herself in.

‘ MESSAGE FIVE: ’ Steel again. ‘ It’s no’ funny, Laz. I know you’re in: I can hear you moving about in there! Answer the door. ’

Bleeeeeep .

Logan turned and stared towards the front door. Steel could hear someone moving about inside...

‘ MESSAGE SIX: ’ She was back. ‘ Laz, I get it — you’re upset, you’re sulking, but... ’ A sigh. ‘ Look, you don’t have to sulk on your own. I’ll sulk with you, you know that. Give me a call. ’

Someone was in his house.

Bleeeeeep .

‘ YOU HAVE NO MORE MESSAGES. ’

Bloody hell — it had to be Reuben. That’s why Urquhart wanted him to call back. Reuben was in his house. And there was Logan, shivering in his sodden pants.

Not a very dignified way to die.

He padded out into the corridor. Shifted the wet suit jacket out of the way.

His equipment belt still hung over the post, complete with CS gas canister and extendable baton. He liberated both and checked the last door on the ground floor.

It opened on a room stuffed with dusty box files, the air thick with the stench of dirt and mould. He eased the door closed and crept up the stairs, freezing at every creak and groan beneath his bare feet.

Up onto the landing and its burning light.

The guest-bedroom door lay open. No Reuben.

Bathroom: no Reuben.

Logan licked his lips, then clacked out the extendable baton to its full length and barged into the master bedroom, CS gas up and ready...

No Reuben.

He clicked on the light.

The bed was made, the curtains drawn: exactly as he’d left it this morning.

Maybe he’d forgotten to turn the landing light off before he’d left for Wee Hamish’s funeral? It was all a bit rushed, what with the three guys bundling him into the back of a Transit van. But it wasn’t dark then, so why would he have the light on in the first place?

And Steel had heard someone...

He lowered the baton. A wooden box lay in the middle of the duvet. It was about the same length and width as a shoebox, but a lot thinner. Polished oak, from the look of it, with brass hinges and catch. A small leather handle, like a briefcase.

Logan dug into the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of itchy police trousers. Fished about in the pockets until he found a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Snapped them on.

Please don’t be Tony Evans’s severed fingers. Or any other part of his anatomy.

Click . The catch snapped open and Logan opened the box.

A semiautomatic pistol sat in a lining of black foam, cut to match the outline of the gun. What looked like a silencer sat above it and a spare clip and about two dozen bullets were lined up alongside with a small cleaning kit. The smell of gun oil dark and pungent.

Someone had taped an envelope to the inside of the box’s lid, addressed ‘TO MR MCRAE’.

He sank onto the edge of the bed.

A wee furry head appeared between his pale legs, meeping and purring as she rubbed against him.

‘Hiding, were we? So much for having a guard cat.’ Logan reached down and ruffled the fur between her ears. Then opened the envelope, reading out loud to her. ‘“Dear Mr McRae. Sorry, you were out so I kinda let myself in — brackets, think you should seriously consider a better door lock, some dodgy people about, close brackets.” You don’t say. And he’s spelled “seriously” wrong.’

Cthulhu settled down on the rug, bent almost double, legs stuck out in front of her, making shlurping noises as she washed her white furry tummy.

‘“Mr M wanted you to have this. Don’t worry, it is completely clean and has never been fired. He wanted you to have this because of You Know Who. All the best, JU.”’ Logan chucked the note onto the bed. ‘Well, at least that explains who left all the lights on.’

A clean gun: no prior convictions.

Typical.

So Urquhart didn’t want to get his hands dirty after all.

Logan puffed out a long, shivery breath, then picked the thing up. Solid. Cold. Heavy. He racked back the slide. Brass flashed and a bullet span from the ejector port. Of course that didn’t mean the thing actually worked. What happened in the garage this morning had proved that.

‘I don’t want to kill him.’

He stared at the ceiling. ‘For God’s sake, give it a rest! “I don’t want to kill him.”, “I don’t want to kill him.” Shut up.’ Deep breath. ‘We don’t have any choice.’

‘But—’

‘Do you want him to go after Jasmine and Naomi? Is that what you want?’

No reply.

‘Didn’t think so. And now we’ve got a gun.’

He turned it back and forth in his hand.

Have to take it out into the middle of nowhere and squeeze off a couple of rounds to make sure. Turning up to murder Reuben with an untested gun was just asking to be fed to the pigs.

The semiautomatic snapped up, pointing at the open wardrobe.

‘You can do this.’

One bullet, right between Reuben’s ugly little eyes and—

The doorbell rang.

Logan flinched.

Squeezed out a breath.

Thank God the safety was on.

He crossed to the window and peered out at the road below. No sign of a Transit van, but a rumpled figure in a high-viz jacket stared back up at him, mouth working on what was probably a family-sized bag of swearing. Snow stuck to Steel’s hair. She raised both hands and the carrier bags that dangled from them.

Right.

He stuffed the gun back in its box, snatched up the ejected bullet and stuck it in there too. Then slid the lot under the bed, with the dust and balls of cat hair.

The doorbell went again, long and loud as Steel mashed the button and held it down.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ Logan got as far as the bedroom door before stopping.

Yeah, probably better put on a dressing gown. Confronting Reuben in his pants was one thing, Steel was quite another.

‘Pass the oniony stuff.’

Logan picked up the polystyrene container of bright-scarlet relish and held it out. Heat pounded out of the radiator, filling the kitchen with warmth, enhancing the earthy spicy smell of takeaway curry. ‘Still think the candles are a bit weird.’

Tealights flickered away on the working surface, a couple on the windowsill, still more in various wee holders on the table — tucked in between the cartons.

‘It’s no’ meant to be romantic, you halfwit. Candlelight’s appropriate for sitting shiva. And don’t think I’ve forgiven you for locking me out in the snow.’

‘Told you: I was in the shower.’ He helped himself to a glopping spoonful of bright-orange curry laced with shining green chillies. ‘In case you didn’t notice, Samantha wasn’t Jewish, and neither is chicken jalfrezi.’

Steel shovelled in a shard of papadum, crunching through the words. ‘I think Detective Superintendent Harper fancies you.’

‘Away and boil your head.’

‘All she does is mutter about you under her breath. Logan McRae, this, Logan McRae, that. Aye, when she’s no’ giving me a hard time. How come it’s my fault we’re no’ making progress catching Peter Shepherd’s— Gah!’ A blob of onion fell from the end of her papadum and tumbled into her lap. ‘Bugger.’

‘She can go boil her head too. Woman’s a menace. All she does is moan and whinge.’

‘Nah, she loves you. She wants to have your babies .’ Steel plucked the rogue bit of onion from her trousers and ate it. ‘Tell you, we were sat in that damn pool car for two hours today, watching Martin Milne’s place, and she wouldn’t shut up asking questions about you.’