Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Steel lay where she’d been left, slumped as if someone had cut all her strings.

Logan hauled himself upright, using the balusters. Staggered over to the door, one arm wrapped around his burning stomach.

White blanketed the parked cars, thick flakes shining in the streetlights’ glow. No sign of Reuben’s thugs. No sign of the Transit van.

Logan stepped out onto the pavement, but a groan behind him made him stop.

Steel.

Inside, he slammed the door shut and knelt beside her. ‘You’re OK. Are you OK? Hello?’

‘Urgh...’

He brushed a strand of damp grey hair away from her face. Her nose was squint, blood thick on her top lip and down the side of her cheek nearest the ground. One eye was swelling already, the skin around it angry and red.

‘Gnnnngh...’

Logan grabbed his phone and called the police.

‘It’s OK, Sergeant, you can see her now.’ The nurse pointed at the double doors in the corner.

‘Thanks.’ He creaked his way out of the plastic chair, standing up in stages like opening a Swiss Army Knife.

‘You sure we can’t get you something? Only you look—’

‘I’m fine.’ Logan reached up and ran his fingers along the line of gauze taped across his throat, where Captain ABBA’s knife had been. ‘Barely a scratch.’

‘Right, well I’m sure you know best. I’m only a healthcare professional after all, what would I know?’ Then she stuck her nose in the air, turned around, and marched off.

Logan hissed out a breath, then limped across and pushed through into a corridor that stank of disinfectant and despair. Steel’s room was halfway down — her name written on a little whiteboard outside it, like the prison cells in Fraserburgh. He opened the door and stepped inside.

The private room was dark, except for the reading light over the bed. It drained the colour from Steel’s skin, leaving it grey and creased. At least, where it wasn’t blue and purple. She was lying back, with about half a dozen pillows jammed in under her head. They’d smeared something over her swollen eye — making the bruised skin glimmer — and stuck a thick strip of white tape across the bridge of her nose, holding down a wodge of gauze.

He eased himself onto the edge of the bed. Tried not to wince. ‘You look... well.’

Steel’s one good eye narrowed. ‘My node hurds.’

‘They say it’ll take a couple of weeks, but you won’t even know your nose was broken.’

‘Ad my ribs.’

‘They’re going to keep you in overnight for the concussion, but other than that, you’re fine.’

‘Feel lige sombone’s burdig pee-stayned maddresses in my hebd.’

Logan patted her leg beneath the blanket. ‘Susan’s on her way up. Should be here soon.’

The one good eye widened. ‘Nooo. Don’d wand her to see me lige this.’

‘Tough. She’d kill me if I kept it secret.’ He gave the leg a squeeze. ‘Did you get a good look at them?’

‘Tell her I’mb fide !’

‘She’s coming whether you like it or not. Now, can you ID who attacked you?’

A one-sided frown. ‘Big basdard, with a sgee mask ond.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I saw. Three of them.’ He stared up at the ceiling tiles. ‘Been a hell of a day, hasn’t it?’

‘I hade Bandff.’

Another squeeze. ‘Get some sleep. And thanks. For staying with me and drinking too much.’ He pulled on the best smile he could muster. ‘I appreciate it.’

Steel sank back into the pillows. ‘You’re sudge a big girl’s blouse...’

Logan slipped back out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Closed his eyes and swore.

‘How is she?’

When he opened his eyes again, Rennie was right there in front of him, along with DS McKenzie. The pair of them looked as if they’d just heard the family dog had died.

‘She’s fine. A bit battered and bruised, but nothing permanent.’

McKenzie moved towards the door, but Logan put an arm out.

‘Best not. Let her rest.’

‘Right.’ McKenzie nodded, setting that curly brown bun of hers wobbling. ‘OK.’

Rennie pulled out his notebook. ‘Any idea who did it?’

Oh yes. But even if he told them, what good would it do? Even if they could find out Smiler, Mr Teeth, and Captain ABBA’s real names, what would happen? Would Reuben’s three stooges go down quietly, or would they drag Logan kicking and screaming with them?

He shrugged. ‘They wore ski masks and boilersuits. One big, muscly; one thin; one short-arse.’

McKenzie had a quick look up and down the corridor, then lowered her voice. ‘You know what this means, don’t you? Malk the Knife’s boys are spooked by the investigation.’

Rennie bared his teeth. ‘Ooh, that’s not good.’

‘They know we’re getting close and they’re trying to warn us off.’ She leaned closer to Logan. ‘Did they say anything?’

‘Thought you were supposed to be babysitting Martin Milne.’

A sneer. ‘Think this is a bit more important, don’t you, McRae? Now answer the question: did — they — say — anything?’

‘The one who attacked Steel, said it was a warning.’

‘I knew it. Maybe...’ She trailed off as an orderly squeaked by pushing an empty porter’s chair. Waited for him to fade from view. ‘We should let Detective Superintendent Harper know. If they came for Steel, they might be after her too.’

‘Good point.’ Rennie pulled out his phone and dialled. Listened in silence for a moment. Then, ‘Super?... Yeah, it’s DS Rennie.’ He wandered away. ‘Look, I know it’s late, but...’

DS McKenzie narrowed her eyes. ‘And how come you got off without a scratch on you, McRae?’

‘What about this?’ He pointed at the line of gauze. ‘Tried to slit my throat.’

‘Yeah, right.’ She pulled out her own phone. ‘I’ll get a guard on the Guv’s room.’ She walked off in the other direction, leaving Logan on his own outside Steel’s door.

He stood there as they got things organized. ‘I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.’

Pair of idiots.

As if Malcolm McLennan would get his people to attack a senior police officer investigating a crime he was involved in. Talk about a perfect way to draw attention to yourself. You didn’t build a huge criminal empire by being stupid.

But Reuben? Oh he definitely was that stupid.

Logan headed down the corridor, through the double doors back into the waiting area, and turned his mobile phone on again. Fully charged. According to the home screen there were half a dozen text messages and three voicemails waiting. Well they could wait. He brought up his call history — John Urquhart’s number was top of the list. He called it.

Through the waiting room windows, the snow seemed thicker. Taking its time to drift down from the dark marbled sky.

He sank into one of the chairs, in the lee of a drooping cheese plant.

The phone rang. Then, finally, someone picked up. ‘ Yup? ’

‘Urquhart, that you?’

‘ Mr McRae! Where have you been? I left messages and every— ’

‘You tell Reuben—’

‘ —got to watch out, OK? Reuben heard about you being executor for Mr Mowat’s will and went berserk. I mean total card-carrying, machete-wielding, berserk. He’s going to get people to come after you, says you need to learn your lesson. You’ve got to— ’

‘Too late. They’ve been.’

‘ Ah. ’

‘Three of them: the guys with the Transit van.’ Logan leaned forward, scrunching himself around the phone. Making his stomach ache. Stoking the fires. ‘You pin your ears back, and you take notes: they attacked a friend of mine and they put her in hospital. If I get my hands on them, I’m going to make Jeffrey Dahmer look like Santa Bloody Claus. Are we clear?’