Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘Yes. Not a problem.’ Logan locked the car, as if anyone would be desperate enough to steal a rusty pile of disappointment when it was surrounded by all these Audis, Jaguars, and BMWs.

The car park was tucked off Diamond Street — which didn’t exactly live up to its name. Instead of sparkling, the road was lined with the backs of buildings: half facing out onto Union Terrace, the other half Golden Square. Leaving a dark narrow canyon of grey and old brick.

Urquhart patted the roof of Logan’s car. ‘Suppose you’ll be upgrading after today.’

It took a moment for that to sink in: Wee Hamish’s bequest. Two-thirds of a million pounds. ‘Probably not.’

‘Right. Got you. Don’t want to arouse suspicions. Clever.’

Logan put a hand in his pocket, steadying the gun. ‘Better get this over with. Got a funeral to go to.’

‘Yeah, totally.’ A nod. Then he led the way to a black-painted door in the corner of the car park, with an intercom mounted beside it. Pressed the call button. ‘Mr Urquhart and Mr McRae for Mr Moir-Farquharson. We have an appointment?’

There was a pause, then the unit buzzed and the door popped open an inch.

Urquhart leaned on it, exposing a short corridor with a flight of stairs at the end. He held the door for Logan, dropping his voice to a whisper as soon as they were inside. ‘I told Reuben about Stevie Fowler. He is not happy.’

‘What a shock.’ Logan kept his hand on the gun. It was still in its bags, but the outline of the thing was clear enough. No idea if it would be fireable though — not without jabbing his finger through the freezer bags to pull the trigger.

‘He’s getting worse. And yeah, I know that sounds hard to believe, but it’s like breakdancing in a sodding minefield right now.’

Logan stopped at the foot of the stairs and stared at Urquhart. ‘So we kill him.’

A frown. Urquhart licked his lips. ‘Mr McRae, it’s—’

‘We get him out to one of the pig farms and we put a bullet in him. Let the pigs take care of the rest.’

Silence.

Urquhart stared down at the shiny black tips of his shoes. ‘Mr McRae, I’m not supposed to take sides, OK? I’m meant to be impartial, like, you know the Civil Service? You and Reuben, you’re the Tories and Labour, whichever side wins is the next government. My job’s to make sure the country still runs. Implement policy, and that.’

‘Impartial?’ Logan poked Urquhart in the chest. ‘ You were the one who told me to kill him!’

‘Yeah, well.’ A shrug. ‘You know, that’s impartial advice, isn’t it? Just saying what Mr Mowat thought.’

‘So, what, you’re happy for me to shoot Reuben, as long as you don’t have to get your hands dirty? That it?’

‘I can’t take—’

‘You said it yourself: he’s getting worse. What’s it going to be like when he starts a war?’

‘But—’

‘This is what Hamish wanted. What other option do we have?’

Urquhart dragged in a deep breath. Stared at his shoes again. ‘We don’t.’

‘Tonight. Tell him we have to talk about Steven Fowler nicking his drugs and selling them to Jessica Campbell, and we have to do it at the pig farm so no one knows we’re meeting. Can you sort it?’

A nod. ‘Think so.’

‘And no witnesses. You, me, and him there: no one else.’

Urquhart nodded. Bit his bottom lip. ‘Does this mean you’re taking charge? Because—’

‘Hello?’ The door at the top of the stairs opened and a middle-aged woman with lacquered hair and 1950s Dame Edna glasses. Her pink cardigan was buttoned all the way up. ‘Is there something wrong?’

Urquhart waved at her. ‘Sorry, had to tie my shoelace. Be right up.’

‘Well, the reading is about to start and Mr Moir-Farquharson is a very busy man.’

‘Of course.’ He hurried up the stairs and Logan followed him, through into a reception area lined with historic views of Aberdeen in gilded frames, mounted on dark mahogany panelling.

She waved a hand toward the door on the far side of the room. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson is waiting for you.’

‘Of course.’ Urquhart gave a short bow. ‘Thank you, Mrs Jeffries. Always a pleasure.’

Logan opened the door.

It was a conference room, with a long oak table down the middle and views out through a pair of mullioned windows to the heart of Golden Square. Which was basically one big pay-and-display car park with a few trees around the central bank of parking and a statue in the middle. All drab and squashed under the pale-grey sky.

Reuben stood by a side table, helping himself to a cup of tea and a raisin whirl. The expensive suit managed to even out some of the bulges, but he still looked massive. Dangerous. His hands dwarfed the thin china cup. His scarred face turned, eyes drifting up Logan, then down again. A grunt. ‘About time.’

A tall, dapper man sat at the head of the long table in a dark suit that looked even more expensive than Reuben’s. The hair at his temples was solid white, beneath a lid of greying black. Distinguished. Patriarchal. The only thing slightly out of kilter was the squint nose. He checked his watch, then pulled on a thin smile. ‘And we can begin.’

The only other person in the room was a shrunken woman with pink-tinged hair and hands taloned with arthritis. Skin hung in loose wattles from her chin to the neck of her tweed jacket, her face like a scrunched-up chamois leather, her eyes polished onyx buried in the folds.

Sandy Moir-Farquharson dipped into a leather briefcase and came out with a leather folder. Opened it like a tomb. And began to read. ‘“I, Hamish Alexander Selkirk Mowat, being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament...’

‘Sign here, and here...’ Moir-Farquharson pointed, and Logan scrawled his signature in the appropriate places. ‘And here.’

Outside the conference room window, the skies had darkened to the colour of a burned body. Thick white flakes drifted down amongst the cars parked outside, falling on Porsches and manky Fiat Puntos alike.

‘And here. And lastly, here.’

Logan did.

The solicitor took the documents back and blew on the signatures, as if they’d been done with a quill rather than a Police Scotland biro. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall instruct my colleagues to set the wheels in motion.’ He stood. ‘Thank you for your patience, everyone.’

The little old lady nodded, setting her wattles swaying. ‘He was a good man and all.’

Reuben hadn’t moved for the last half hour. No sign of life, except for the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching.

She sighed. ‘And very generous. Three hundred thousand pounds, just for cleaning his house.’ She brought out a handkerchief and dabbed at a wrinkly eye. ‘A braw man.’ She waved one of her claws at Urquhart. ‘Can you help me up?’

‘Of course, Mrs P. You lean on me.’ Urquhart got her to her feet and guided her across the wooden floor with its fancy rug and out into the reception.

As soon as they were gone, Reuben bared his teeth. ‘Two-thirds of a million .’

Logan stared at the ceiling — moulded and pristine, with a modest chandelier. ‘Nothing to do with me: it’s what Hamish wanted.’

‘Pin your lugs back, McRae: you screw about with this will, you stand in the way or delay anything , I’m going to carve—’

‘For God’s sake, Reuben, give it a rest.’

‘Who the hell do you think you’re—’

‘Yes, you’re all big and scary. Well done.’ Logan’s hand wrapped around the evidence bag in his pocket, feeling the outline of the gun. Its weight. ‘You think this is easy for me? I’m a police officer. This is all profits from crime and I’m supposed to divvy it up between a bunch of thugs and gangsters. How’s that going to look?’ He shook his head. ‘Should hand the whole thing over to the National Crime Agency and let them deal with it.’