Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘Hoy!’ Steel held the phone against her chest. ‘Much though I hate to break up this family bondage session, your big brother’s telling the truth. Mr Grey-and-Sweaty here looks like a puddle of sick because he’s off to bury his girlfriend today. Hence the ugly suit.’

‘Ah.’ Harper closed her mouth.

‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to have phone sex with my wife here. I’ll tell you all about it later, if you like, Super? Blow-by-blow?’

‘No. Thank you.’ The muscles worked in Harper’s cheeks, clenching and unclenching, as she gathered up her actions and stuffed them into an awkward pile. ‘That won’t be necessary. Narveer, we’d better go... out.’

The DI kept his face expressionless. ‘Yes, Super.’ He followed her from the room, pausing only to throw a wink back at Steel from the doorway, before sealing the pair of them in.

Logan sagged against the wall. ‘Thanks.’

‘What time’s the funeral?’

He pointed at her phone. ‘Aren’t you keeping Susan waiting?’

‘Nah, it’s only Rennie — he’s away to the baker’s for breakfast butties. You want booby-trap or sausage?’

‘Sausage.’ Maybe it’d help settle his stomach? ‘Funeral’s at twelve.’

‘Brown or red?’

‘Red.’

A nod, then she was back on the phone. ‘Aye, and another sausage butty with tomato sauce... Of course he wants both sides buttered, have you never seen MasterChef?... Good... Get on with it then.’ She stuck her phone back in her pocket. ‘Susan’s coming, and she’s bringing Jasmine and Naomi. Apparently Jasmine insisted. Says you need her there to hold your hand.’

‘That’s... very kind.’

‘Tell you, Laz, she’s turning into a right little control freak.’ Steel settled on the edge of the conference table. ‘You OK?’

‘No.’

‘Know what you’re going to say?’

‘The eulogy? Yeah.’ He rubbed at his face, then sighed. ‘Got to head into town early. Make sure everything’s sorted with the church and the lawyers and the cemetery. And I’ve still got to sort out the insurance for the caravan.’

‘You know Susan and me are here for you, right? If you need someone to lean on, you’ve got people on your side, Laz. All of us. Even Rennie. I know he’s a useless wee spud most of the time, but he means well.’

Logan nodded. ‘Thanks.’

‘Now: have your butty, then sod off and go do what you’ve got to. I’ll clear everything with your wee sister.’ A grin burst its way across Steel’s face. ‘And if she gives me any trouble, I’ll tell her about the time I went caravanning in the Lake District with a dental hygienist, and the Bumper Book of Lesbian Fun . Ah, the glory days of youth...’

‘Sarge?’

Logan looked up from his sausage butty, and there was Tufty, hanging his head around the Sergeants’ Office door. ‘Officer Quirrel, I presume?’

He limped into the room. ‘And on the last and final night, verily didst the brave Probationer do battle with a ravening wolf and recover the fair maiden, Tracy Brown.’

‘You found Tracy Brown?’

Tufty leaned on the desk and raised his gimpy leg off the carpet an inch. ‘She was holed up with a married man in Strichen. His wife was off to Disneyland Paris with the kids for a week, so Tracy and him were having a nonstop humpathon till they got back.’

‘Typical. Too busy shagging to notice the whole northeast of Scotland is plastered in missing posters with her face on them. Why do we bother?’ He bit another mouthful of sausage and bun, tomato sauce making a dribbly bloodstain across the back of his hand. Chewing around the words, ‘What about the wolf?’

‘Bloke had a poodle. But it was massive. At least two foot tall with teeth like carving knives.’

Logan pointed a finger at the limpy leg. ‘Get that seen to.’

‘Course, soon as Big Donald Brown finds out someone’s been riding his wee girl like she’s the Indiana Jones et le Temple du Péril roller-coaster, he’s going to go balistique .’

‘Might be an idea to put a grade-one flag on the house. Just in case.’

‘Will do.’ Tufty puffed out a breath. ‘You hear we got a fatal RTC last night? Wee boy in his pimped-out Peugeot lost it in the snow on the Fraserburgh road. Bang , right into a telegraph pole. Little sod walked away, but his girlfriend?’ Tufty grimaced. Shook his head.

‘Every winter. They prosecuting?’

‘Bloody hope so.’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Anyway, you coming to Whitehills with us? Drookit Haddie, fish, chips, beer. They might even break out the karaoke machine.’

‘I’d love to, but I can’t. It’s Samantha’s funeral.’

Tufty’s eyes went wide. ‘Oh crap. I’m sorry, Sarge. It... Yeah. OK. I’m sorry.’

Him and everyone else.

‘Don’t worry about it. You go have fun. It’s not every day you get to become a proper police officer. We’re proud of you, Tufty.’

‘Sarge.’ He limp-shuffled his feet for a moment, then leaned forward and patted Logan on the shoulder. ‘If you need anything. You know.’ A shrug. A nod. Then Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Right, better go get my gaping wound seen to before they have to amputate my whole leg.’

‘You do that.’ Logan polished off the last bite of butty, wiped his hands on the napkin it came wrapped in, then sooked his fingers clean. Stood.

No point putting it off any longer.

By the end of the day there would be something much darker red than tomato sauce on his hands.

The song on the radio faded away, replaced by someone who sounded as if they’d not taken their medication that morning. ‘ Hurrah! Wasn’t that terrific? We’ve got the news and weather coming up at the top — of — the — hour with Sexy Suzie. Don’t miss it. But first, here’s a blast from the past: anyone remember H from Steps? Well— ’

Logan killed the engine and the rusty Fiat Punto pinged and rattled.

He checked his watch: nine fifty. Ten minutes.

Blew out a long rattling breath.

Come on. This wasn’t difficult. People did this all over the world every day. Gun. Forehead. Trigger. Bullet.

‘Yes, but I can’t do it in a solicitor’s office, can I?’

He glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror. ‘Well of course you can’t, Logan. That would be stupid.’

‘Not to mention all the witnesses.’

‘Exactly.’

He chewed on the ragged edge of a fingernail, working it smooth. ‘Have to get him somewhere private. Somewhere you can get rid of the body.’

‘Where though? Where’s he going to go with a police officer? A police officer he tried to have killed two days ago. He’s going to know something’s up.’

‘And what about the body? How do we get rid of it?’

Logan blinked at his reflection.

‘Are we really doing this?’

‘You know we’ve got no choice. Be the bigger dog.’

‘What about the pig farm? Kill two birds and one fat violent bastard with one stone. People die out there all the time. What’s one more meal for the pigs?’

‘True. Very true.’

‘But how do we get him out there? He has—’ A knock on the car window sent him flinching back in his seat. ‘Jesus!’

He turned, and there was John Urquhart, smiling in at him.

Logan undid his seatbelt and climbed out into the bitter morning air. ‘Mr Urquhart.’

‘Mr McRae. Glad you could make it.’ He stuck out his hand for shaking and nodded at the manky Fiat Punto. ‘Hope I didn’t interrupt your phone call.’

‘Phone call?’

‘Don’t know about you, but I always feel a right nutter talking on a Bluetooth headset. Everyone thinks you’re talking to yourself.’