Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

The six-year-old lowered his eyebrows, pursed his lips and nodded.

‘Good boy.’

Out in the corridor, the sound of fighting was much clearer.

‘ HOW COULD YOU? YOU FILTHY, DIRTY, PERVERTED— ’

‘ Now you just sound homophobic. ’

‘ HOMOPHOBIC? I’LL GIVE YOU HOMOPHOBIC, YOU CHEATING BASTARD! ’

‘ OW! Don’t— ’

Something smashed.

Logan nodded at the living room door. ‘Think we should break it up?’

‘Nah.’ Steel hoiked up her suit trousers. ‘Do them good to let off a bit of steam before she chucks him out of the house. Besides, I’m starving — time for second breakfast.’

‘ I HATE YOU! ’

They slipped out and shut the front door behind them.

‘Ooh, bleeding hell.’ Steel wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. Then narrowed her eyes.

A patrol car had pulled up at the back of the press pack. Two faces blinked out through the windscreen, one with curly brown hair, the other grey. DS McKenzie and DC Owen.

Steel produced her phone. Listened to it ring with a big smile plastered across her face.

In the patrol car, McKenzie flinched, then took out her own mobile.

‘Becky. Sweetheart. Can you guess what I’m thinking?... That’s right... No, I don’t think so. I think I’ll aim for right up to the knee... That’s right.’

McKenzie’s face drooped.

‘Aye, you better believe it. But as all these lovely members of the press are watching, I’m going to give your lazy wee bumhole a temporary reprieve. Milne’s getting chucked out of the family home and you’re sticking to him like sick on a ballgown... Because I don’t want Milne disappearing, suitcase in hand, that’s why. Probably going to crash at a friend’s house, but in case he fancies hopping a flight to Rio, you’re watching him.’

In the car, McKenzie folded forward and rested her head on the dashboard.

‘And while you’re at it, get onto DS Robertson — tell him to get his comedy-sideburn-wearing arse down here and babysit the wife and kid. Now did you get all that, or do I have to tattoo it on your lower intestine with my size nines?... Good girl.’ Steel hung up. ‘Right, where’s the Boy Blunder?’

Logan pointed.

The media encampment didn’t look too happy. A lot of them stood about with faces like a spanked backside, glowering as Rennie squatted down beside an ancient Volvo estate and poked at its tyres.

Steel made a loudhailer from her hands. ‘HOY! CAPTAIN KWIK-FIT, WE’RE LEAVING!’

‘What hacks me off is how she lied all those years.’ Logan leaned forward, poking his head between the front seats. ‘How could anyone be so self-centred, so awful a human being, that they thought it was OK to make two wee boys think their dad was dead?’

Snow drifted down, melting as it hit the pool car’s windscreen.

Steel tucked her hands into her armpits. ‘What’s keeping Rennie? Can he no’ see I’m wasting away here?’

An old man hobbled out of the Tesco humping two hessian bags in one hand, working a walking stick with the other.

‘Thirty-four years and not so much as a word.’

‘Bet he comes back with the wrong grub.’

‘There was a headstone and everything! Right there in the graveyard with his name, date of birth and death carved on it. How sick would you have to be to get a headstone made?’

‘Should’ve sent you instead. Rennie’ll be back with a pair of tights, a grapefruit, and a pack of ice lollies.’

‘Then drag your two kids to lay flowers in front of it every year? She faked his grave !’

Steel puffed out her cheeks. ‘Yes, your mother’s a heartless, vindictive, nasty, complete-and-total swivel-eyed loony, we get it. Now where’s my pies?’

‘Thanks. Your support means a lot to me. I’ve just found out the father I thought was dead since I was five wasn’t . Oh and he had another family that apparently was nice enough not to abandon. And while we’re at it, he died two months ago.’

‘You lost a dad you thought was dead anyway, and gained a sister. By my reckoning, you’re ahead on the deal.’

‘Ahead? What’s wrong with you?’

She shrugged. ‘Might be the pills. Or, it might be you being a whiny little bitch. How many years have you been on the job? All you had to do was look your dad up on the system. You didn’t bother.’

‘I thought he was dead. Why would I look him up?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Because he was your dad ?’

Logan sat back, folded his arms and stared out of the window. ‘You’re a lot of help.’

A sigh. ‘Laz, it’s no’ my fault you’ve got a pineapple wedged up your bum. This thing with Samantha, it was only two days ago. That takes some getting over. You need some time off. Go away for a bit.’

‘And who’s supposed to catch Peter Shepherd’s killer?’

Steel stared at the ceiling. ‘Such a martyr.’

‘I am not a martyr.’

‘Yeah, because the whole MIT, the entire might of B and A Divisions — they can’t solve a murder. Only the great Sergeant Logan McRae can do that.’

Outside, the snow fell.

A couple walked past, arm in arm. Couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old. Young and in love. They’d learn soon enough.

Steel took out her fake cigarette and popped it in her mouth. ‘Take some time off.’

‘I went to see Jack Wallace yesterday.’

She blew a puff of steam at the windscreen, turning it opaque. ‘Oh aye?’

‘Sends his love.’

‘Good. Hope he’s getting lots of love himself. Aye, from some big hairy bloke giving him fourteen-inches of non-consensual prison-issue-sausage after lights out.’ Another puff. ‘Couldn’t happen to a more deserving arsehole.’

Rennie bustled out of the Tesco clutching an armful of something.

‘About time.’ One more puff, then Steel put her e-cigarette away. She kept her voice light and neutral. ‘Any reason you felt the need to go see our friendly neighbourhood kiddy-fiddler, Laz?’

Rennie hurried across the street, high-stepping through the snow.

‘Believe it or not, I was looking out for you.’

Her voice didn’t change. ‘Were you now?’

The driver’s door opened and Rennie climbed in behind the wheel. ‘Holy Mother of the Sainted Aardvark, it’s cold out there.’ He handed his armful to Steel, then stuck the keys in the ignition. The engine roared into life, heaters howling lukewarm air into the space, spreading the crackling scent of hot pastry. ‘Brrrrrr...’

‘’Ello, ’ello, ’ello, what’s all this then?’ She pulled a package from the bag. ‘Hot Cornish pasties? Well, DS Rennie, looks like you just became my favourite sergeanty type. Sorry, Laz. No hard feelings.’

Yeah, right.

‘OK, thanks anyway.’ Logan hung up the desk phone and frowned at the computer screen. Then hit print.

The Sergeants’ Office seemed to have become the dumping ground for a collection of blue plastic crates that smelled vaguely of fish.

Logan picked up his empty mug and headed out into the main office.

No one there. The blinds were open: snow drifted down from a coal-coloured sky, the waters of the bay had receded, leaving a dark curve of wet sand behind.

A grinding whirring noise burst from the big photocopier/printer and two dozen sheets of A4 clicked and whined into the tray. He left them there and went to make a cup of tea.

The TV was on with the sound turned down to a murmur. A balding Italian chef smeared fillets of white fish with a snot-coloured paste then wrapped them in ham.

Logan chucked a teabag in his mug and stuck the kettle on.

Someone had obviously decided that the station’s resident gnome wasn’t classy enough and given him a bright-blue bowtie. They’d replaced his paper dagger with a magic wand and—