Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

She pulled out her phone and poked at the screen. Then held it out.

A photo of a grey-haired man with a beard and performance eyebrows grinned back at him, holding up a birthday cake. ‘This him?’ Logan swiped right and another photo appeared, this one of the same guy sitting in a deck chair in a T-shirt and shorts.

‘How can you not recognize your own father?’

Logan dumped the phone on the couch between them. ‘Could be anybody.’

‘Charles Montrose McRae, born sixteenth October 1954. Check.’

‘I don’t need to check.’

‘My middle name’s Findon, because that’s where I was conceived. It’s a McRae family tradition.’

Logan frowned at the man in the deckchair, as the screen went black. ‘Mine’s Balmoral. They were on a week’s caravanning holiday...’

‘So check.’

‘We visited his grave . Every twentieth of May, my mother would bundle me and my brother into the car and we’d go lay flowers on it. He got shot trying to arrest someone for aggravated burglary.’

A short bitter laugh. ‘Oh, he got shot all right. That’s where he met my mum, recovering in hospital. She was a nurse. Three weeks later they packed up and moved down to Dumfries.’

Logan stared.

‘Then she got pregnant with me. Your mother wouldn’t give him a divorce, so they couldn’t get married. I got to be “Harper the Bastard” all through school.’ She bared her teeth. ‘I hated you so much.’

‘What the hell did I do?’

‘He never stopped banging on about what a great wee boy you were. Logan this, Logan that. Then you joined the force and that was it: “Look at all these cases your brother solved”, “Look at this serial killer your brother caught”, “Look at this bit in the papers about your brother rescuing those people off Britain’s Next Big Star , isn’t he great?”’ She stopped fidgeting with the couch and held her hand up, thumb and forefinger about three inches apart. ‘Kept all the clippings in a scrapbook this thick.’

‘This isn’t funny.’

‘Oh he thought you were perfect . Well, if you’re so all-fired wonderful, how come you’re a lowly sergeant in some Aberdeenshire sheep-shagging backwater? I’m a Superintendent . Where’s my scrapbook?’

OK, sod this. Logan pulled out his phone and called Sergeant Ashton.

It rang for a bit, then she picked up. ‘ Fit like, min? ’

‘Beaky? It’s Logan. I need you to look up an officer for me: Charles Montrose McRae. Date of birth: sixteenth October fifty-four.’

‘ What, right down to business? No foreplay? No half-arsed stab at spickin’ the Doric? ’

He put the call on speakerphone so Harper could hear herself being proved wrong. ‘Please, Beaky, it’s important.’

Sergeant Ashton sighed. ‘ No one’s any fun. ’ There was some clicking of keys. ‘ You’ll be chuffed to hear we’ve got a full house for tomorrow night. I’m anticipating a most successful dunt with a big haul of drugs, and medals for everyone... Here we go: PC Charles McRae. Joined Grampian Police in 1977... clean record... shot in the line of duty four years later. Was he a relative? ’

‘My father.’ And Detective Superintendent Harper was full of crap.

‘ Aw, min. I’m sorry. ’

‘It’s OK, Beaky. Thanks for—’

‘ Hold the horses a minute... That’s weird: got another PC Charles Montrose McRae coming up, same D.O.B. Joined Dumfries and Galloway Constabulary, 1982. Retired in 2007, but came back as a PCSO for four and a bit years. Some people are gluttons for punishment, aren’t they? ’

Sitting on the other end of the couch, Harper stuck her nose in the air.

Logan stared at his phone. ‘They’re the same person?’

‘ Bit of a coincidence if they’re not. ’Specially with a name like that. Now, anything else your lordship requires, or can I get back to my eightses? ’

‘Thanks, Beaky.’ He ended the call. Cleared his throat. ‘But...?’

‘See?’ Harper picked up her mug, swilling the dregs of tea round. ‘Now, we’ll still have to work together on the Shepherd investigation, so I expect you to be professional. There will be no favours or special treatment, just because we’re related. I’m still your commanding officer and I expect you to follow orders like everyone else. Are we clear?’

‘She told us he was dead!’ His bloody mother. ‘All these years. The lying, manipulative, cow !’

‘ ...after the tone. ’

Bleeeeeep .

‘You lied!’ Logan paced back and forth, in front of the mantelpiece, phone rammed against his ear. ‘You said he was dead, and he was living in Dumfries the whole time! I grew up without a father, because you were too bloody selfish and petty and... and bloody...’ The phone case creaked in his hand. ‘We’re done. Understand? You’re not my mother. You’re nothing to me. Never call me again.’ He slammed the phone back into the cradle so hard it bounced and fell on the floor.

Logan snatched it up and slammed it down again. Stood there, glowering at it.

Sitting on the couch, Harper raised an eyebrow. ‘Feel better?’

‘No.’ He paced back to the other end of the mantelpiece. ‘How could he abandon us with that horrible woman? How? What the hell did we do to deserve that?’

A shrug. ‘He loved my mother more than yours.’

Not surprising. A rabid Alsatian would be more loveable than Rebecca McRae.

‘Thirty-four years. He could’ve got in touch!’

‘I’ve never really had a big brother before, do they normally moan this much?’

‘ Moan ? How would you like it? “Oh, your dad’s not dead, he just couldn’t be arsed being there your whole life?” Useless, lazy—’

‘Don’t you dare talk about my dad like that!’ She stood, fists clenched. ‘For your information, he sent letters and cards, presents every birthday and Christmas for years .’

‘We never got them.’

‘Then blame your mother.’

She glowered at him and he glowered back.

The doorbell rang.

Maybe this time it’d be Reuben, come to do them all a favour. And with any luck he’d kill Harper first and let Logan watch.

Another ring.

She folded her arms and stuck her chin out. ‘You going to get that, Sergeant ?’

‘Blow it out your arse, sir .’ Logan turned and marched out into the hall. Peered through the spyhole.

Not Reuben. Calamity’s face was all distorted by the wide-angle lens. Tufty and Isla stood in the street behind her.

Oh joy.

Logan opened the door. ‘I know it’s snowing, but it’s the wrong time of year for carol singing.’

Calamity’s grin slipped as she stared at him. ‘What happened to your face?’

‘Cut myself shaving.’

‘OK... Anyway,’ she held up a bulging bag-for-life, ‘we come bearing beer and food.’

‘Right. Yes.’ He didn’t move. ‘Look, now’s really not a good—’

‘Trust me, Sarge.’ She lowered the bag. ‘I know you probably think you want to be alone after what happened with Samantha, but this is what teammates are for. It’s Valentine’s Day, you’re all alone, and we’re going to support you whether you like it or not.’

Tufty held up another bag. ‘I brought sausages!’

Because nothing said, ‘I’m sorry you had to kill your girlfriend’ like processed meat products.

He stepped back. ‘You’d better come in then.’

They bustled past him into the hall, then peeled off various scarves and jackets. Stamped their feet and blew on their hands.

Isla handed him a big lumpy bag full of what felt like tins of beer. ‘Least you won’t have to put them in the fridge. Bleeding perishing out there.’ The other two looked like normal people, out on a cold February night, but not Isla. No, she’d got all dolled up in a short tweed dress with a weird vintage collar and thick black tights. Like something off a Marks & Spencer advert. ‘Got some Southern Comfort and Bacon Frazzles too. I mean, who doesn’t love...’ She stood up straight, eyes widening. Then nodded over Logan’s shoulder. ‘Ma’am.’