Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

A growl rumbled across the table.

‘Don’t worry: I won’t. I promised Hamish.’ Logan gave up on the ceiling and looked at the glowering lump of hate and gristle sitting opposite instead. ‘We need to talk about Stevie Fowler.’

A big fat finger poked across the table. ‘I want that bastard out on bail. I want him where I can get at him.’

‘Not possible. Too many top brass were there when he was arrested. They know about his confession. Hell, they’re falling over each other to claim credit for it. He stays where he is.’

‘When I say I want him out, I want — him — out!’

‘And I say, he’s not going anywhere.’ Logan tightened his grip on the gun. ‘If you want him, you’ll have to go after him where he is.’

‘Wow.’ Urquhart sauntered back into the room, closing the door behind him. ‘Mrs P, eh? What a woman.’ He helped himself to a chocolate mini-roll, popping the thing in his mouth whole, chewing with his mouth open. ‘“Cleaning house”, eh? Never heard it called that before.’

Reuben’s finger swung down and ground itself into the desk, as if he was stubbing out a cigar. ‘Where are my damn drugs?’

‘Same thing. They’re evidence and everyone knows about them.’

He lunged like a Saint Bernard, back hunched, huge paws on the table. Barking, spittle flying: ‘I WANT MY BLOODY DRUGS BACK!’

Urquhart’s eyes bugged. ‘Shhhh! Jesus, Reuben, you want everyone in Aberdeen to hear? Come on, calm the beans, man, yeah?’

Reuben glowered at him.

‘You know it makes sense, right? Calm. We can’t talk about this here. Too many ears.’ He licked his lips and snuck a glance at Logan. ‘How about we meet up later, just the three of us? Sort out what we’re going to do about that two-faced git, Fowler, and his thieving mate. Stealing from us and flogging it to one of Ma Campbell’s dealers? Who does he think we are, Clangers?’

The big man stayed where he was.

‘Reuben — calm — dude. We can sort it. Mr McRae’s on the team, aren’t you, Mr McRae?’

Logan let go of the gun. ‘Of course I am.’ He nodded at the copy of Wee Hamish Mowat’s will he’d got in his executor’s pack. ‘I know you don’t like what’s in there, but it ties me to the organization. I’m up to my ears whether I like it or not.’

A grunt, then Reuben stood up straight, towering over the pair of them. ‘Where?’

‘Call it midnight, when no one’s about.’ Urquhart gave a small shrug, as if it wasn’t important. As if this was the most natural thing in the world. ‘How about... West Gairnhill Farm? That’s good, isn’t it? Secluded.’

‘Fine. Midnight.’ Reuben jabbed his finger at Logan again. ‘Be there.’ Then he turned and lumbered from the room like a well-dressed grizzly bear. And every bit as deadly.

As the door swung shut, Logan slumped in his seat and covered his face with his hands. ‘Gah.’

Urquhart blew out a long breath. ‘If it were done, when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’ So he couldn’t spell in a text message, but quoting Shakespeare was OK? ‘Anyway, better get off.’ Urquhart let out another elongated sigh. ‘Places to go, people to kill.’

‘No, I wanted to make sure everything was OK, that’s all.’ Logan leaned against the windowsill, looking down at the street below as Reuben’s rounded figure hunched its way towards a dark-blue Bentley.

On the other end of the phone, Andy had his professional voice on, the pronunciation crisp and calm. Soothing. ‘ Everything’s under control, Mr McRae. We brought Samantha down an hour ago, so don’t worry — she’ll arrive on time. And I’ve checked with the church, they have all the Order of Services ready to hand out and the organist has been practising his rendition of “Welcome to the Black Parade”. Apparently it sounds like quite something on a completely refurbished three-manual Willis organ. ’

‘Thanks, Andy.’

‘ Anything I can do to help, please give me a call. ’

The conference room door opened and Sandy Moir-Farquharson, AKA: Hissing Sid, slipped in. ‘Mr McRae, thank you for staying behind.’

‘Sorry, Andy, got to go.’ He hung up and put his phone away as Moir-Farquharson sat at the head of the table again.

‘Now, there are a few things we need you to do as executor of Mr Mowat’s will, then there’s the matter of the bequest he left you.’

The two-thirds of a million.

Logan sat. ‘What if I don’t want it?’

‘Then you’re free to give it away to charity. Mr Mowat has made provision for the money to be held in escrow, awaiting your retirement from the police. That way you would not be... embarrassed by the sudden arrival of such a large sum in your bank account.’

‘In escrow?’

‘Essentially, there will be nothing connecting you to the aforementioned bequest until you cease to be a serving police officer. Should you decide to retire to the Dordogne, for example. Or perhaps the Isle of Man? Then the bequest will be made at your disposal.’

Logan drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘Nothing connecting me to it at all ?’

Moir-Farquharson pointed. ‘Please stop doing that.’ Then straightened his tie. ‘Your affairs will be treated with the utmost discretion. And you know how discreet we can be here.’

That much was true. Getting anything out of Hissing Sid was like trying to remove a granite boulder from a cliff face using a broken toothpick. Even with a warrant.

‘I only require from you guidance as to how you wish the money employed while it’s in escrow. Mr Mowat made allowance for investing a portion in a managed fund, for example. It could provide you with a very acceptable pension, should you wish.’

Which was more than working for the police did these days.

Logan picked a point over Moir-Farquharson’s shoulder and stared at it. It was another of the old photos of Aberdeen, mounted in a gilded frame. Holburn Street from the look of it. ‘Do you remember telling me that Hamish had... That he’d said you’d defend me, in court, if anything happened?’

‘I am aware of Mr Mowat’s wishes, yes. Why, is something likely to, as you put it, “happen”?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Ah.’ Moir-Farquharson hooked his thumbs into the lapels of his jacket, as if he were wearing his silks and about to stride forth across the courtroom. ‘Would I be right in surmising that the something in question relates to Mr Mowat’s former associate, Reuben?’

‘Might do.’

‘Indeed.’ He nodded. ‘Mr McRae, I normally restrict my counsel to advice of a strictly legal nature, but if I may make so bold: when engaged in any business, it is always preferable to be the one conducting a hostile takeover than to be on the receiving end. I would imagine, in the circumstances, your options are very much limited to staging one of your own, or putting your affairs in order.’

Brilliant.

The sausage butty was a stone in his stomach, dragging it down.

‘Thank you.’

Moir-Farquharson reached into his pocket and produced a small white rectangle with the company logo on it. ‘My card.’ A smile spread itself across his face. It was like watching a python preparing to devour a small child. ‘I would, of course, be only too happy to assist you in drawing up a new will, should you choose the latter option.’

Of course he would.

Rubislaw Parish Church wasn’t exactly packed. The pale wood pews hosted a scattering of men and women, no more than about forty of them. Some were in uniform — probably given an hour off work to attend — but most were in an assortment of black clothes. Some in suits, some in jeans. And Logan barely recognized any of them.