Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘ Oh, Reuben’s going to love that. Is there— ’

‘And before you ask: no. He’s confessed in front of a detective superintendent from the Serious Organised Crime Task Force. There’s no way in hell he’s walking free.’

Urquhart made a noise like a deflating mattress. ‘ That’s... unfortunate. And did Mr Fowler happen to mention where he’d got the package from in the first place? ’

‘And where he was meant to deliver it. Good job he didn’t have my name, or I’d be in the cell next door by now.’

‘ And the package is...? ’

‘The kilo and a half of amphetamines? He’d already sold it. It’s evidence.’

A sigh. ‘ Mr McRae, you know how Reuben’s going to react, don’t you? He doesn’t like people who steal from the organization. ’

‘Really? Because I don’t like people who threaten my kids and SEND THUGS ROUND TO KILL ME!’ Logan slammed his palm into the wallpaper.

‘ I understand where you’re coming from, Mr McRae, but you really have to put that behind you and move on. ’

‘Move on?’

‘ Seriously, dude, chill. I had a word with the Reubenator and smoothed things out. Told him he can’t kill you ’ cause you’re the executor for Mr Mowat’s will. He bumps you off and everything’ll take forever to sort out. ’

‘And what happens after the will’s executed, he sends someone else?’

‘ That’s how the system works: the big dog eats the small dog. You don’t like getting bit? Be the bigger dog.’

Logan settled onto the edge of the bed. ‘I’m supposed to just forget about it?’

‘ No, you’re supposed to bite back. ’ A pause. ‘ So, we’ll see you tomorrow? ’

Tomorrow?

Oh, right, the reading of the will. ‘Don’t think I’ve got any choice.’

Not now.

Logan hung up and switched off his phone.

He stood there, frowning down at the bed. Then knelt beside it and fished out the polished wooden box. Should really give the gun a proper wipe down, make sure there were no fingerprints on it.

Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

‘And we finally have some good news.’ Standing with her back to the whiteboard, Harper pointed the remote. The screen on the wall opposite filled with a satellite image of the coast. Gardenstown was marked with a big arrow, as if no one in the room would know what the place was.

The two arms of the harbour made a broken triangle, poking out into the sea like a cartoon nose and jaw — with mooring jetties for teeth.

Harper pressed a button and a red laser dot appeared, then swept towards the harbour entrance. ‘We got a phone call from Martin Milne at half six this morning. Malk the Knife’s people have been in touch.’

A rumble of conversation went around the room.

Standing against the wall, by the door, Logan shifted from one foot to the other. Something hard and spikey was frolicking across his back, digging its claws into his spine. He took another swig of water from his mug. Didn’t seem to matter how much he drank today — his mouth was still like a desert, head throbbing like an overripe boil full of burning pus.

‘Narveer?’

Her sidekick stood and read from a sheet of paper, voice slightly rounded and mushy. Forced down a bruised and swollen nose. ‘At four o’clock this afternoon, the Jotun Sverd will leave Peterhead harbour and rendezvous with a private yacht sixty miles east of Bora in the Moray Firth. The crew will take on board a number of sealed crates and conceal them in containers already on board.’

The screen changed to a photo of a small supply boat — about a third as big as the usual neon-coloured monstrosities — with superstructure at the front and a railed loading bay at the back. Like a floating pickup truck. It probably would have taken two full-sized containers, but they’d managed to fit about eight of the smaller ones on it, each emblazoned with ‘G EIRRØD C ONTAINER M ANAGEMENT A ND L OGISTICS ’ and their angry Viking logo.

Logan took another swig.

It wasn’t as if he could blame a hangover. One whisky and that was it.

No, the churning sensation in his stomach and head was probably down to what he’d hidden beneath the passenger seat of his rusty old Fiat Punto. Sealed away in a freezer bag, sealed inside another freezer bag, with a brown-paper evidence bag over the top of that.

One semiautomatic pistol of Eastern European extraction, with a full magazine of bullets and a silencer.

All ready to bark in Reuben’s face.

‘The Jotun Sverd will then make its way north of Gardenstown and wait there until six o’clock tomorrow evening, when it’ll come into the harbour and be met by a Transit van. Malcolm McLennan’s men will then unload the merchandise and take it away.’

He ran a hand across his face, it came away damp.

‘Thank you, Narveer.’ Harper pointed the remote and the aerial view was back, but zoomed in so the harbour filled the screen. ‘We will be positioned here,’ the red dot swept to the left-hand side, ‘here,’ right, ‘and here. A secondary unit will cover the access roads in and out of Gardenstown.’

Everything had seemed so clear last night. He wasn’t doing it for himself any more, he was doing it to stop Reuben sending someone after Jasmine and Naomi. He was doing it to save Steel from another beating. He was doing it to stop a turf war between the Aberdeen mob and everyone else. He was doing it because no one else would and it needed to be done.

It really did.

It was all decided.

So why could he barely breathe?

‘You’ll get your team assignments tomorrow.’ Harper put the remote down. ‘Now, any questions?’

Steel sidled up next to him, kept her voice low. ‘You all right?’

Someone’s hand went up — Becky. ‘Did we get a result last night?’

‘Yes and no, DS McKenzie. Two individuals arrested at the Welshes’ house have confessed to selling class A drugs and are giving up their supply chain, thanks to Sergeant McRae.’

Everyone turned to look at him. Lots of nods and smiles.

His stomach lurched, saliva flooding his dry mouth.

Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick.

He swallowed it down.

‘As for Ricky and Laura Welsh, it’s “no comment” all the way. So far there’s nothing concrete to connect them with Ma Campbell or the murder of Peter Shepherd. That doesn’t mean we’re going to stop digging though.’

‘Seriously, Laz,’ Steel put a hand on his arm, ‘you look like you’re about to blow chunks.’

‘I’m fine.’ Liar.

Harper held up her hand. ‘Right, you all know what you’re doing, so go out there and do it.’

The assembled hordes shuffled from the room.

Harper and Narveer settled at the conference table, scrawling notes across piles of actions. Steel wandered over to the window, mobile phone clamped to her ear.

Logan blew out a shaky breath. ‘Well, if you don’t need me, I’m going to—’

‘No you don’t.’ A sniff, then Harper straightened up. ‘Sergeant, while I appreciate your assistance last night, I want you to get something perfectly straight: I expect members of my team to turn up for work sober and functioning. Not hungover and useless.’

‘I’m not hungover.’

‘How am I supposed to catch Peter Shepherd’s killers if my officers are the walking dead after last night’s binge drinking?’

‘I’m — not — hungover!’

‘And while we’re at it, what did I say about you coming to work in plainclothes? I was perfectly clear: you’re—’