Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Logan ripped off a chunk of naan bread. Dipped it in the thick orange sauce. ‘I hung up on her today. Told her to feel free to sod off.’

‘Ah, so you fancy her too. You should pull her pigtails — maybe she’ll show you her knickers behind the bike shed after PE.’

‘You can feel free to sod off too.’

‘Oh she’s obsessed with you, sunshine. According to Narveer, she’s been watching you for a long time. Ever since the Mastrick Monster. Got a file and everything.’ Steel shovelled in another mouthful of lamb dansak, grinning as she chewed. ‘Fiver says Harper gets her hands on your onion bhajis by the end of the week.’

‘Seriously: sod off any time you like.’

Steel poured the last of the shiraz into Logan’s glass. ‘No more wine.’

He took a swig. ‘We’re having the funeral on Monday. It’s in Aberdeen, if you want to come?’

She clunked the bottle on the table, next to the other empties. ‘Think I should go get more?’

‘Nah, I’ll go.’ He threw back the final mouthful then hauled himself out of the chair. Carry-out containers, crumpled beer cans, and carrier bags littered the work surfaces. Plates piled up in the sink. He wobbled a bit. Steadied himself with a hand on the table. ‘Why?’

‘So we can drink it.’

‘No: why’s Harper the Harpy keeping a file on me?’

‘Told you, cos she wants to shag your scarred little backside off. Ooh, Logan, do me harder, yeah, like that... mmmm. Pass the Nutella, etc.’

Woman had a one-track mind.

Logan grabbed a hoodie from the washing basket in the corner of the kitchen. Gave it a shake and pulled it on. ‘White or red?’

‘Yes.’ Steel dug into her pocket and came out with a wallet. Produced a small wad of twenties. ‘And get some whisky. Nice stuff, nothing you can clean paintbrushes with.’

He folded the notes and slipped them into his pocket. ‘Seriously, why’s Detective Superintendent Harpy keeping tabs on me?’

‘And some crisps.’

Logan lowered the carrier bags to the floor and thunked the door closed behind him. ‘I’m back.’ He ran a hand through his hair, flicking off the chunks of snow. Shrugged his way out of the high-viz jacket. ‘Hello? You still there?’

If she wasn’t, tough: he was drinking her wine anyway.

He slipped off his snow-crusted shoes and padded through to the kitchen in his socks.

Steel was at the table, a frown on her face, fingers of one hand drumming on the tabletop, phone in the other.

‘What’s bitten your bumhole?’ Logan unpacked the bags onto the table. ‘Bottle of Chardonnay, bottle of Merlot, and...’ He plonked a beige cardboard tube next to the bottles, popped off the metal lid, and pulled out the contents. ‘One bottle of Balvenie, fourteen-year-old, aged in old rum casks.’

She licked her teeth and stared at him.

‘What? What have I done now?’

‘Kinda wondering that myself.’ She pointed. ‘You already had a bottle of whisky.’

The Glenfiddich he’d got from Hamish Mowat sat on the table beside her.

‘And now we’ve got more.’ The Merlot’s top came off with a crackle as he unscrewed it. ‘Sure you don’t want to stick to wine for now? You know, pace ourselves.’ It glugged into the glasses, thick and dark and red.

‘I looked it up on the internet.’

He went back into the carrier bags. ‘Got bacon frazzles, Skips, and some sort of cheesy tortilla things. Or there’s Monster Munch.’

‘Glenfiddich 1937 Rare Collection. Where did you get this?’

Must be serious: she hadn’t even smiled at the mention of Monster Munch.

Logan sat in the chair opposite. Took a sip of wine. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You got any idea how much this bottle’s worth?’ She picked it up, holding it like a newborn baby half-full of syrupy amber liquid. ‘Last time one of these was on auction it went for forty-nine thousand pounds.’

Logan stared back. Swallowed. ‘ How much?’

‘Where’d you get it from, Sergeant?’

‘Forty-nine grand? For a bottle of whisky?’

Her mouth made a thin, cold line. ‘Is this why Detective Superintendent Harper is so keen on knowing all about you? How does a duty sergeant, way up here on the Aberdeenshire coast, afford something like that?’ She leaned forward and thumped her fist on the table, making the bottles rattle. ‘Damn it, Logan, I trusted you!’

‘Are you kidding me? Have you seen the piece of crap I drive? It’s a Fiat Punto with more rust than metal on it. My kitchen cupboards are full of supermarket own-brand lentil soup!’ He snatched the bottle from her. ‘If I had forty-nine grand knocking about, do you really think I’d spend it on one bottle of whisky?’

She folded her arms. ‘I’m waiting.’

‘It was a gift, OK?’ He looked away. ‘From Hamish Mowat.’

Silence.

Steel bit her lips for a moment. ‘So, a dead gangster gives you a forty-nine thousand pound bottle of whisky, and you wonder why a detective superintendent from the Serious Organised Crime Task Force has a file on you?’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘THEN HOW IS IT?’

He covered his face with his hands. ‘I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know the whisky cost that much. We had a drink out of it, then I was given the bottle to take home.’

‘You’re a bloody idiot.’

‘I — didn’t — know.’ Logan slumped. Forty-nine grand. And the money for the flat.

Ha. As if that was the worst of it. If Steel thought this was bad, she’d hit the roof when she found out about Hamish’s last will and testament.

Six hundred and sixty-six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six pounds, and sixty-six pence kind of put the rest of it into perspective.

‘Gah...’

Maybe she was right: maybe that was why Harper had a file on him. They knew .

Oh God.

Might as well go into work on Monday and resign before they get disciplinary proceedings underway. Take Wee Hamish’s money and sod off somewhere warm, where they don’t extradite police officers who’ve taken two-thirds of a million quid from gangsters.

Steel sighed again. ‘Well, don’t just sit there — get the glasses.’

Logan scraped his chair back from the table. ‘I got on with him, OK? He fed me info on rival gangs and I put them away.’

She frowned at her fingers, ticking them against one another. ‘Forty-nine thousand quid; twenty-eight drams in a bottle; that’s forty-nine less twenty-eight... twenty-one... hundred and ninety-six...’

‘I wasn’t working for him. I wasn’t doing favours for him. I was arresting drug dealers who needed arresting anyway.’ Logan dug two tumblers out of the cupboard — the crystal ones, seeing how expensive the Glenfiddich was. ‘And I arrested his people too, when I got the chance. That was the deal: no preferential treatment.’

The glasses went on the table.

Steel squeaked the cork from the bottle. ‘One thousand, seven hundred and fifty quid a dram.’ She poured. ‘Call it three and a half grand for a double.’

He sat at the table. ‘I mean it.’

She shook her head. ‘I know you do, Laz. But if Harper gets wind of this, you’re screwed.’ Steel raised her glass in toast. ‘Here’s to getting rid of the evidence.’

‘Any... left?’ With the curtains closed and the collection of tealights on the mantelpiece, the living room was warm and cosy. Like a hug. Or a stomach full of takeaway curry, beer, wine, and very expensive whisky.

Steel blinked, then picked up the bottle and upended it over her glass. A thin stream of amber splashed into the bottom, dripped twice, then stopped. She sooked on the end, working her tongue into the neck to get out every last drop. Then sat back on the couch and squinted at him. ‘You better... better no’ be... perving on me, Laz... Like... like something out... out of a porn flim.’