Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘ Hold on. ’ Harper made rustling noises down the phone. ‘ Right, got him. Adrian Brown; thirty-two; five nine; form for assault, assault, theft, more assault, and to keep things interesting — assault. ’

A light came on inside Beaton and Macbeth.

‘Sounds lovely, doesn’t he?’

‘ He’s meant to be with the Manchester Goon Squad, what’s he doing all the way up here? ’

‘Might not be. Milne said it “kind of looked like” Number Three, so not a hundred percent on the ID.’

‘ Hmmm... And how is our sacrificial goat? ’

‘Milne? Wallowing in a great big tub of self-pity.’

‘ Serves him right. ’

She had a point. Milne was all set to abandon his wife and run off with someone else to a land faraway. And there was no way Katie would have let him take Ethan. No, that was probably going to be a midnight flit to the airport and off to Dubai before she woke up.

Still, at least Ethan would’ve had a father, growing up.

Yeah. Well.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Anything else, sir?’

‘ Did you make it clear what would happen to him if he didn’t cooperate? If Malk the Knife, or Ma Campbell gets in touch and he doesn’t tell us, I’ll make damn sure he goes down for a long time. ’

‘He’s already cracking under the pressure. Push him too far and he’ll break.’

‘ Don’t try to teach your little sister how to suck eggs, Sergeant. This isn’t my first organized crime op. I need results, not excuses. ’

‘Sir.’

And she was gone.

Were sisters always this much of a pain in the backside?

He folded the printouts and stuffed them in his pocket, along with his mobile phone, then dug into the glove compartment for the Jiffy bag. Took a deep breath, scrambled out of the car, and made a run for the funeral home.

Andy was waiting for him with the front door open. ‘Mr McRae.’ His black suit was immaculate, the shirt so white you could have used it in a washing powder advert. He stuck his hand out and Logan shook it.

‘Thanks for opening up, Andy. I appreciate it.’

A small shake of the head. ‘Nonsense. It’s no trouble at all.’ As if he usually wore a suit on a Sunday, on the off chance. ‘If you’d like to follow me?’ He led the way through the reception area to a gloomy room with a single spotlight.

It glowed down on an open casket — polished black wood with a red silk lining.

Something lodged in Logan’s throat, as if he’d tried to swallow a stone.

Samantha was laid out, on her back, hands folded over her stomach. They’d dressed her in all her finery, the leather corset, the skirt, the gloves.

He stepped closer.

Her head looked strange. Unfamiliar. As if... He reached out and stroked her forehead, where the dent should have been. ‘You fixed it.’

‘We wanted to do you proud, Mr McRae.’

‘She’s beautiful.’ Just like she was in the photo from Rennie’s wedding. Make-up perfect: warpaint and piercings. They’d even managed to make her skin look like living flesh again. Samantha’s tattoos stood out bright and clear, as if they were brand new.

‘Would you like a moment?’

‘Please.’

‘I’ll be right outside if you need anything.’ Andy turned and glided from the room, as if he was mounted on silent castors.

Logan pulled on a smile. ‘Alone at last.’

No reply.

He held up the Jiffy bag. ‘Present for you.’ He dug out the hardback copy of Stephen King’s The Stand and tucked it into the coffin beside her. ‘Got it online. It’s signed.’

He stood there. Shuffled his feet. Put a hand on her bare shoulder, then flinched that hand away. Samantha’s skin was cold to the touch.

Well of course it was. She might look like she was asleep, but that didn’t mean Andy hadn’t taken her body from the mortuary fridge while Logan was on the phone in the car park outside.

Not sleeping, just dead.

‘Sarge?’

Logan looked up from his computer. Blinked a couple of times. ‘Rennie.’

Rennie crept into the Sergeants’ Office, carrying two mugs of tea and a manila folder. ‘Tea.’ He put the mugs down on the desk, then checked over his shoulder before handing Logan the folder. As if they were spies meeting up in a car park to swap state secrets.

OK.

‘You don’t have to call me “Sarge”, we’re the same rank.’

‘Force of habit.’ Rennie settled into the seat opposite. Grinned. ‘Go on then, open it.’

Logan did. Inside were a wodge of printouts and a gold-and-red packet about the size of an old-fashioned video cassette. He raised an eyebrow. ‘That what I think it is?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Close the door.’

While Rennie was hiding them from the prying eyes of the outside world, Logan ripped his way into the Tunnock’s tasty caramel wafers. Tossed one onto the other side of the desk and helped himself to another. ‘To what do we owe the honour?’

‘She Who Must Be Feared And Obeyed. Says when we’re done with tea and treats we’re to sod off and grab some snooze-time.’ Rennie unwrapped his chocolate wafer and took a big bite, getting little flecks of brown all down his chin. ‘Make sure we’re all rested and ready for tonight.’

The wafer turned to blotting paper in Logan’s mouth. ‘Tonight?’

‘The drugs raid?’

‘Oh God.’ Logan curled forward and thunked his forehead on the desk.

‘What?’

Perfect, because having Harper and her sidekick tag along wasn’t bad enough.

Thunk .

‘What’s, “Oh God”?’

He left his head against the cool wooden surface. ‘You and Steel want in on my drugs raid.’

‘Yeah, well, you know. If it proves important to the investigation into Peter Shepherd’s death, Steel wants—’

‘To muscle in on any credit going.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly put it that—’

‘She’s out of luck. You can inform Her Royal Scruffiness that I’ve already got Detective Superintendent Harper, Detective Inspector Singh, and a Chief Inspector from Elgin on board. There’s going to be more top brass on this dunt than actual police officers.’ He straightened up. ‘I should’ve let Beaky have it.’ Logan frowned. ‘Wonder if it’s too late?’

Rennie tore another chunk off his wafer. ‘It’ll be like old times. You, me, and the Holy Wrinkled Terror — on the path of truth and justice. Kicking in doors and taking names.’

Thunk .

‘What? Why are you banging your head off the desk?’

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk .

‘ ...after the news. But first it’s nine o’clock and things are hotting up on Britain’s Next Big Star as Jacinta and Benjamin face sudden death— ’

Logan killed the telly and swigged back the last dregs of his tea. ‘Right, you little monster — Daddy has to go dunt in someone’s door.’ He scooped Cthulhu off the sofa and turned her upside down. Gave her a kiss on her soft white tummy. ‘Whose daddy loves her? Is it you? Yes it is, your daddy loves— Not again.’

Cthulhu wriggled free as his phone blared out its anonymous ringtone. She jumped to the floor, all four feet making a loud thump as she touched down. About as graceful as a dropped microwave.

He pulled out his phone. ‘McRae.’

A sharp, loud voice stabbed into his ear. ‘ How dare you call and leave abusive messages on my phone, Logan Balmoral McRae! I am your mother and you will not— ’

He hung up. Then brought up his call history and blocked her number. Glowered at the screen for a bit.

Sod her.

Logan hauled his stabproof vest on over his police-issue fleece, got into his equipment belt, and topped the lot with his high-viz jacket. What every sharply dressed man about town was wearing this season. On with the hat, then out into the driving sleet.