Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

If they had any sense, store security would be keeping an eye on him. He might as well be carrying a placard with ‘I S HOPLIFT B ACON A ND C HEESE !!!’ on it.

He leaned on his trolley and added a pair of jeans to the black T-shirt, blue hoodie, black socks, and grey trainers already in there. Then limped around to the pharmacy aisle and lumped in two packs of the highest-strength painkillers he could find, a pack of waterproof plasters, and an elasticated bandage.

That should do it.

A big middle-aged bloke in a black V-necked jumper and a tie followed him all the way to the checkouts. Just in case.

The prison officer held the door open, grimacing as Logan limped into the interview room.

‘Sure you don’t want to see the doctor?’

Logan hissed out a breath as he lowered himself into one of the seats. ‘I’m fine, really.’

The room was bland and anonymous. Grey floor, grey walls, grey table, grey seats. A mirrored black hemisphere sat in one corner, like a supermarket security camera, and a panic strip ran around the wall.

‘Yes, but...’ She pointed at his face.

‘Broke up a fight outside a pub at lunchtime.’ He tried for a smile. ‘You should see the other guy.’

Currently working his way through the inside of a pig. If Logan was lucky.

‘Well, OK. If you’re sure .’

‘Positive.’

A nod. ‘I’ll go get Mr Wallace.’

As soon as she was gone, Logan popped another couple of Nurofen from their blister pack and dry swallowed them. To hell with the recommended daily dosage. He slipped the packet back in the pocket of his new hoodie. Wasn’t easy, changing in the Punto’s passenger seat, in a lay-by, but at least he looked a bit less drug-dealy now.

Shame his whole body still ached. And every time he moved, the elasticated plasters pulled at the hair on his stomach.

But other than that, everything was just sodding peachy .

It couldn’t have been more than five minutes before the guard was back with Jack Wallace.

Prison hadn’t put any weight on him, he was still small and thin, the red sweatshirt and grey jogging bottoms almost hanging off him. He’d kept his scraped-forward fringe, but the pencil beard had thickened to a marker pen. Probably not so easy to get precision grooming equipment when you were banged up in HMP Grampian.

The officer pointed. ‘Jack, this is Sergeant McRae, he’s here to talk to you about your allegations. For the record, again, this interview isn’t being recorded, and you’ve declined to have your solicitor present. Correct?’

Wallace nodded. He looked thin, but when he moved his head it made the skin wobble beneath his chin. As if he’d been much larger once and lost a lot of it in a hurry.

‘All right then. Sergeant McRae, I’ll be right outside if you need me.’

‘Thanks.’ Logan waited till the door clunked shut, then shifted back in his seat. Why was it impossible to find a position that didn’t hurt? He settled for something that only made the left side of his body ache and stayed there, not saying anything, letting the silence grow.

OK, so it was an old and cheap trick, but it worked. Sooner or later the person on the other side of the interview room table would—

‘I didn’t do it.’ Wallace leaned forward, hands clutched in front of him. ‘I don’t know why she says I did, but I didn’t. I mean, kids?’ He bared his teeth and shuddered. ‘That’s just sick.’

Logan stayed where he was. Mouth closed.

‘I don’t understand it. I never ever looked at a kid like that. Never.’ He sniffed, then wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. ‘I don’t belong in here. You wouldn’t believe the people I’m in with — paedos, rapists, people who shag sheep for Christ’s sake! Scum.’ His bottom lip wobbled, then got pulled in. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

Someone walked by in the corridor outside, whistling something tuneless.

‘It was that Chief Inspector Steel.’ He pronounced her name as if it were made of battery acid. ‘She set me up. She stole my laptop and she put that disgusting filth on it so she could arrest me.’ He coiled forward, elbow on the tabletop, head in his hands. ‘She’s had it in for me for years . This is her idea of a joke. But it’s my life !’

‘Why?’

Wallace looked up. ‘What?’

‘Why would she do that? Why you?’

‘I don’t know .’ He scrubbed at his eyes again. ‘If I knew, I’d tell you, but I don’t. I’ve never done anything. I haven’t.’

Logan tilted his head on one side, stretching the muscles in his neck, pulling the strip of gauze tight across his throat. ‘What about Claudia Boroditsky?’

Wallace reacted as if he’d been slapped. Sat bold upright, blinking back the tears. ‘I never touched her. Never. You ask her — it was all lies. She dropped the charges and they threw it out of court.’ He poked the table with a thin finger. ‘I should’ve sued her. Had her done for making false claims. Trying to pervert the course of justice. I’m the victim here.’

Yeah, right.

‘It’s not fair.’ He reached across the table, but Logan kept his hands out of reach. ‘I didn’t rape anyone, and I didn’t download child porn. I swear on my mother’s grave, that wrinkly old bitch set me up.’

And there it was, a flash of the real Jack Wallace: aggressive, woman-hating, outraged and martyred, sexist scumbag. Lying and weaselling. Trying to escape justice yet again.

Well not this time.

Logan stood. ‘We’re done.’

Logan spread out a copy of the Aberdeen Examiner on the kitchen table, then unwrapped the semiautomatic from its plastic bags. Took another hit of Balvenie, holding it in his mouth till the warm sweetness turned into numbed gums and tongue.

The cagoule was long gone, stuffed into a bin somewhere between Peterhead and Banff.

His blue nitrile gloves squeaked on the metal as he disassembled the gun, turning it into a jigsaw of metal components. Each one with its place and purpose.

He’d only fired three test shots, but the barrel was furred with soot, outside and in.

A prooping noise came from the doorway, then a small furry body wound its way between his ankles. Tail up.

He reached down to ruffle her ears then stopped.

Had anyone ever been done because the Scene of Crime lot found gunshot residue on a suspect’s cat? Probably not. But it wasn’t worth the risk either.

‘Sorry, Kittenfish, Daddy’s busy just now.’

The semiautomatic came apart easily enough. Logan laid out its moving parts across a story about two school kids who’d found a homeless man floating facedown in the boating pond at Duthie Park. The photo of the pair of them — grinning away after their ‘traumatic ordeal’ — darkened with blotches of oil from the recoil spring.

Cleaning the gun only took a couple of minutes, so all that time spent on firearms training hadn’t been wasted. The gun clicked and snapped together again. Logan hauled back the slide and checked the action. All ready.

Assuming he had the guts to pull the trigger.

Shooting someone had to be easier than battering them to death with a snowglobe.

His hands trembled as he placed the semiautomatic back in its polished wooden box.

Soon find out.

He snapped off his gloves and bundled them up with the used carrier bags. Stuck the lot in another bag. Have to head out later, take a route away from the CCTV cameras mounted on the front of the police station across the road, drench them with bleach and dump them somewhere. Maybe in a dog-waste bin, or a random wheelie bin. Somewhere no one would think to look.