Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Steel turned and waved back at him from the front row, pointing to the empty seat beside her. Susan sat on her other side holding onto a wriggling Naomi. Jasmine was last in line, staring up at the vaulted ceiling with her mouth hanging open, as if she’d never seen anything like it in her life.

Andy appeared at Logan’s shoulder. ‘Mr McRae? We’re ready for the pallbearers, now.’

‘Thanks.’

The walls were painted a cheerful yellow, with big flower arrangements of red roses and white lilies, lots of black ribbons. They were a bit gothic for the cheery interior, but what the hell.

He turned and followed Andy back out of the front door, where a couple of stragglers were hurrying up the pavement and through the gates. The church’s façade was stained nearly black with dirt, and soot, and exhaust fumes. A clock-tower steeple rose on one side — running about fifteen minutes late — looming over the heavy stonework and narrow windows. It was sealed off from Queen’s Cross roundabout by a shoulder-high hedge on one side and a low gate on the other, as if that would keep out the Godless masses. Next door, the three-storey granite buildings had been given a clean, which only made the church look grimier.

Even the snow looked less pure. It drifted down, clinging to the bushes and walls, dulling the paintwork of the gleaming black hearse parked outside the church — back door open.

‘Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap...’ Three slightly wobbly figures ran up the pavement, cheeks pink, breath trailing behind them in cloudy wisps. Isla, Tufty, and Calamity. All dressed in their Sunday best.

Isla slithered to a halt on the icy path in her four-inch heels. ‘Sorry, Sarge. Took longer to get here than we thought. Traffic’s a nightmare.’

Calamity gave Logan’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘You OK, Sarge?’

Couldn’t help but smile. He pointed at Tufty. ‘I thought you were all off celebrating Pinocchio here becoming a real boy.’

‘Nah.’ Isla waved a hand at him. ‘We’re a team, Sarge. We got your back.’

Up close, the smell of beer, wine, and sloe gin surrounded the three of them. There was a distinct whiff of wet dog too.

Logan frowned. ‘You didn’t drive, did you?’

‘Got a lift off Syd Fraser. He’s parking the van.’

Well, at least that explained the smell of dog.

The first notes of Samantha’s favourite song rang out from inside the church, made huge and dark by the organ.

Andy appeared at his elbow. ‘Mr McRae? It’s time.’

A hand on Logan’s shoulder made him flinch. He took a step back and blinked.

Right.

‘Laz, you OK?’ Steel peered up at him, the wrinkles deep between her eyebrows.

He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah. Fine.’

Snow swept across the graveyard, wind rattling the empty trees — driving the icy flakes into his skin like tiny icy daggers.

The plot had a good view down the hill, across the road, past the roundabout, the caravan park where Samantha used to live, over the river to the sewage works, and off to the fields beyond. Half one in the afternoon and the big Danestone Tesco had all its lights on, blaring like a beacon through the gloom. The roads were clogged, a solid stream of headlights going one way and tail-lights going the other.

Steel tucked her hands into her armpits and sniffed. ‘Nice ceremony. Shame about the turnout.’

A handful of people hurried down the curving paths, towards the line of parked cars at the cemetery gate.

‘She was in a coma for five years. People move on.’

‘Suppose so.’ Steel stamped her feet and turned her back on the wind. ‘Thought your wee sister could’ve bothered her backside to turn up though.’

‘She’s got a murder inquiry to run.’ He brushed the cold damp earth from his hands. ‘Besides, I only met her on Thursday. Barely know the woman.’

‘Still should’ve turned up.’ Steel hunched her shoulder and rocked from side to side. ‘Gah, can’t feel my bum.’

‘Go. Get warm. It’s OK.’ He pointed down the hill at the cars. ‘I just want a minute.’

She patted him on the back. ‘Don’t be daft. Never wanted to feel my bum anyway. Christina Hendricks’s arse on the other hand, I’d grope the hell out of that. You’d need both hands, mind.’

‘Honestly, it’s OK. Go.’

‘Sure?’

‘Sod off.’

A shrug. Then she slouched off, leaving him alone at the graveside.

A dozen handfuls of part-frozen earth had done nothing to hide the lid of Samantha’s coffin.

‘This is turning into a habit. Two funerals in four days.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Hope you like it here. Thought it would be better than some anonymous council job. At least you know the area.’ He copied Steel, turning his back on the wind. The snow made pattering sounds against his suit jacket, like hundreds of tiny feet running all over him. ‘You can see your old house from here... Well, you could if someone hadn’t burned it down.’

The wind moaned through the trees and between the headstones.

‘Anyway, yeah...’ Logan frowned. Bit his bottom lip. ‘Don’t suppose they’ll let me visit much, you know: after they catch me, prosecute, and send me down for sixteen years. Assuming Reuben doesn’t pull a fast one and kill us both.’

A thick eddy of snow whipped past, dancing among the dead flowers and ceramic teddy bears. Down by the roundabout, someone leaned on their car horn, as if that was going to get the traffic moving at more than a snail’s crawl.

‘You know, you could say something.’

The high-pitched pinging rattle of an approaching train sang through the frozen air, getting louder and louder until it was swamped by the diesel roar of the train itself. It clattered by on the line up the hill, between the cemetery’s top edge and the dual carriageway beyond. A ribbon of flickering lights and bored faces, staring out of the carriage windows at the falling snow.

‘Mr McRae?’

Logan didn’t turn around. Didn’t have to. ‘Mr Urquhart.’

‘Sorry I couldn’t make the service.’ Urquhart stepped up beside him, a bouquet of black roses in his hand. ‘Thought she might like these.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Yeah.’

The flickering strobe of passing carriages faded, leaving them alone in the snow.

Urquhart squatted down, then dropped the black roses onto the black coffin lid nestled in its black grave. He stood and wiped his hands together. ‘We’re all set for tonight. The guys who run the pig farm will stay well away till I say otherwise, and they’ve got half a dozen porkers who haven’t been fed for a couple of days. So Reuben turns up, we go for a little walk.’ Urquhart made a gun from his thumb and fingers. ‘ Pop . Munchity crunchity.’

‘What, no Shakespeare this time?’

‘Nah, a time and a place, right, Mr McRae?’

Mr McRae .

Logan puffed out a cloudy breath — it was torn away by the funeral air. ‘I think, John, as we’re conspiring to commit murder, you can call me Logan, don’t you?’

Might as well not have bothered having a wake. It wasn’t as if the funeral was oversubscribed, and only half of the attendees made the trip across town to the burial. And only a dozen of those made it to the Munro House Hotel in Bucksburn, even though it wasn’t even five minutes from the cemetery.

The function room carpet was a muted red tartan, faded by the passage of feet and years. Its wood-panelled walls were thick with landscapes of Glencoe and paintings of grouse and deer. Two stags heads, mounted on opposite walls, glared out with gimlet eyes as if they were about to charge each other.

The remaining twelve people milled around the buffet table, looking swamped in a room that probably held five hundred on a good day.