Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘You got any more pies?’

‘A fifteen-year-old schoolgirl got raped. First by him, then by three of his coke-head friends.’

‘Laz, it’s—’

‘I didn’t dangle the bastard on purpose. I arrested him, there was a scuffle, and he nearly went over the edge. I just...’ Logan cleared his throat. ‘I made him give me the names of his accomplices before I pulled him back.’

Steel pulled the paper bag towards her, and went pie diving. ‘Ooh, is that a bridie? No’ had one of them for ages.’

‘You were covering for me.’

‘It’s what family do.’ She took a bite, giving herself a pastry-flake smile. ‘Mmmm.’

She’d started a four-year grudge with Napier for him. To protect him. And here he was investigating her.

Way to go, Logan.

Steel picked a bit of mince from between her teeth. ‘So come on, then: what about “this thing with Napier”?’

He forced a smile. ‘Did you know his first name’s Nigel?’

The Fiat Punto’s wheels bumped up onto the snow at the side of the road. Logan left the motor running for a bit as the snow drifted down onto the rutted surface.

Trees surrounded the car, stretching off into the gloom on either side, lining the forestry road, their branches drooping with thick layers of white. Further in, there was nothing but grey.

He killed the engine and climbed out of the car. Walked around to the passenger side and fished about under the seat for the polished wooden box. Snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, pulled out the semiautomatic pistol and checked it. Magazine was full. Safety catch was on.

Logan screwed the silencer into place, and slipped the gun into a carrier bag. Then he went back into the footwell for the cheap green cagoule he’d picked up in Banff. Pulled it on, and headed off into the woods.

The oak and beech at the roadside gave way to ordered rows of pine, all standing to attention like soldiers on parade. Fifteen to twenty feet in, there was no sign of snow. It hadn’t managed to penetrate the canopy overhead, leaving his boots to scuff through drifts of discarded needles. Everything smelled of mushrooms and earth, and the bitter-tar tang of pine.

He picked his way over fallen branches, around the towering shields of roots at the base of fallen trees, past drainage ditches and clumps of jagged gorse.

Should be far enough from anywhere now.

That was the great thing about Forestry Commission land: everyone stuck to the official paths, and there were none for miles around here.

He stopped in the lee of a great fallen spruce — its flat pan of roots still full of dirt and stones — and pulled up the cagoule’s hood. Tightened the drawstrings. Then opened the carrier bag, reached in and took hold of the handgrip. Clicked off the safety catch with his thumb. Wrapped the bag’s handles around his wrist.

Before, when it was him versus Reuben, one-on-one, shooting the fat bastard would’ve been murder. But now? After what happened to Steel? After the threats to Jasmine and Naomi?

There wasn’t a choice any more.

‘OK.’ Logan raised the gun and aimed at the trunk of a wooden soldier, left hand cupping the right, pulling with one arm, pushing with the other. Then squeezed the trigger.

Phut .

It kicked, jerking up through thirty degrees, the plastic bag billowing out with the escaping gas from the explosion. A shower of bark burst from the tree, and the bag sagged around his hand — dragged down by the weight of the ejected cartridge.

Another squeeze.

Phut .

The kick didn’t seem so bad this time. Another shower of bark. Another empty cartridge rolled about in the bottom of the saggy carrier bag.

One last time for luck.

Phut .

The cartridges clinked against each other as he picked his way through the trees to the victim. Three bullets, all within a circle of about four inches. Good enough.

Reuben was easily twice as wide as the trunk.

Logan placed the carrier bag on the needle-strewn forest floor, there was a ragged hole where the bullet had torn its way through the thin plastic, but other than that, it was untouched. Blackened a bit by the gunshot residue, perhaps, but it was better in there and on the sleeves of the cagoule than all over him. He peeled off the cagoule, turned it inside out and wrapped it around the bag.

The plasticky package went in another carrier, along with the discarded blue nitrile gloves.

All set.

Even with all the windows open, the place smelled of neglect. How long had it been — six months since he was last here? Eight? Something like that.

Snow blanketed the thin strip of woods behind the caravan park, broken by the thick grey mass of the River Don where it wound its way between here and the sewage works, before twisting away under the bridge, off past Tesco’s and out of sight.

The sound of traffic growled in through the windows — everyone crawling around the Mugiemoss Roundabout, getting ready to do battle with the Haudagain. Poor sods.

Logan placed another armful of horror novels in the cardboard box. Stephen Kings mostly, with a smattering of H. P. Lovecraft and some James Herbert thrown in for good measure. The living room was full of the things: lined up on shelves, piled up in corners. Another trip turned up some Dean Koontz and Clive Barkers.

He folded the box lid in on itself and printed ‘BOOKS’ across it in thick marker-pen letters. Carried the thing through into the hall and stacked it with the other two.

Stuck the next empty box in the middle of the living room carpet.

Right, videos.

His phone rang between I Spit on Your Grave and Texas Chainsaw Massacre .

‘McRae?’ He tucked it under his chin and grabbed Cannibal Holocaust and Night of the Living Dead .

‘ Sergeant McRae, it’s Detective Superintendent Harper. ’

Wonderful.

‘Sir.’ Friday the Thirteenth Part III and The Thing .

‘ You didn’t turn up for your shift today. ’

‘That’s because I’m not meant to be on shift today.’ An American Werewolf in London and Student Bodies . They went in the box.

No reply.

Wolfen, The Howling, Videodrome, Children of the Corn, A Nightmare on Elm Street . Never let it be said that Samantha didn’t find a theme and stick with it.

‘ Logan, I heard what happened last night. ’

Oh, so he was ‘Logan’ now, was he?

‘I know. Rennie called you.’ Razorback, Day of the Dead, Fright Night . The cases clattered on top of the ones already in the box. Not that anyone would want them down the charity shop. Who watched videos any more? Who even had a video player?

‘ Anyway, I wanted you to know that we’ve got a guard on DCI Steel’s room. She’s going to be fine. And when they release her, there’ll be a car outside her house too. ’

Yes, Harper the Harpy was a pain in the backside — and an idiot for thinking this was anything to do with Malcolm McLennan — but at least she was looking after Steel. Had to give her credit for that. ‘Might be an idea to get that car outside her house soon as possible. They might go after her family. Maybe get someone to keep an eye on Jasmine at school?’

In case Reuben decided to send another ‘message’.

‘ Right. Good idea. ’

This time the pause went on for a while.

Eaten Alive!, The Watcher in the Woods, The New York Ripper, Poltergeist .

‘ Logan, I meant what I said. You and I: we got off on the wrong foot. ’

He dumped the videos in the box and settled onto the mildewed couch. ‘You’ve got a file on me.’

‘ Yes. ’