Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

But then this wasn’t a good day.

Steel popped a wee pastry thing into her mouth, talking as she chewed. ‘Good spread.’ She helped herself to another vol-au-vent from the tray, nestled amongst all the tiny pies and sausage rolls and mini Kievs and filo prawns and the bowls of crisps and pickled onions and untouched salad. ‘You’re staying with us tonight. And before you say anything, Laz, that’s no’ a polite invitation it’s an order.’

Logan stared down the table at the dwindling mourners. ‘There’s enough food here for about sixty people.’

She held up her glass — filled nearly to the brim with whisky. ‘And don’t think we don’t appreciate it. And the free bar.’ She clinked it against his mineral water. ‘Slàinte mhath!’

The young man threw his head back and laughed. ‘Oh God, and the smell !’ He took another scoof of what looked like Coke, but reeked of rum. ‘Tell you, you think a septic tank would be bad enough, but try throwing in a decomposing corpse!’

The woman with him grimaced at Logan. ‘Sorry about this, he’s had—’

‘No, wait a minute, wait a minute.’ Mr Rum-And-Coke stifled a belch. ‘So there we are, in like chest waders, and we’re like up to our knees sloshing about, trying to find all the bits of this dead girl, and Samantha slips, right?’ Another laugh. ‘She slips and it’s like in slow-motion and you can see it in her face, she’s going down, but she’s damned if she’s going down alone—’

‘Come on, Billy, we should get going, it’s—’

‘—reaches out to steady herself and grabs Fusty Frankie, and he’s like, “Holy crap!”’

‘Billy, come on, you—’

‘And he grabs me, and I’m like, “Aaaargh!” and I grab Gordie’s leg, cos he’s not down in the tank, he’s up on the ground above us—’

‘Billy!’

‘—and there’s screaming and swearing and down we all go...’

‘Sarge?’ Someone tapped Logan on the shoulder, and when he turned, there was Calamity. ‘Sorry we can’t stay, but we’re back on shift at ten and if I don’t get Tufty and Isla back to Banff soon they’ll be sod-all use tonight.’ She grimaced. ‘Isla’s been on the Baileys, and you know what she’s like with a drink in her. Probably going to get The Smiths’ greatest hits all the way home.’

Logan nodded. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘What are friends for?’ She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Let us know if you need anything, OK?’

And then there were five.

Logan struggled his way through yet another testicle-sized Kiev and washed it down with a mouthful of mineral water.

‘Laz! Laz, Laz, Laz...’ Steel marched over to him, back fence-post straight, one arm swinging completely out of time with her legs — which seemed to have developed an opinion of their own about how knees actually worked. ‘How come you’re not drinks? Got to drinks. It’s a wake .’ She held up a tumbler half-full of amber liquid. ‘Is only Grouse, but I like it. Good for you.’

‘No. Thanks. Don’t really feel like it.’

‘You sure?’ She blinked at him, then threw back a mouthful. ‘Is there any crisps? Oooh, never mind, I spy sausage rolls!’ And she was off.

Susan wrapped an arm around Logan’s waist and gave him a lopsided hug. ‘I’m really sorry, but the little monster needs her bed.’ Naomi nestled in the crook of her other arm, looking for all the world like a cross between ET and some sort of pink grub. Blinking and making big wet toothless yawns.

Logan kissed the top of Susan’s head. Her hair smelled of oranges. ‘Don’t be. Thanks for coming.’

She let go and backed up a pace. ‘And you’re sure you’re OK taking the big monster home?’

They both turned.

Steel was over by the bar again, one leg wandering back and forth, while the other kept her upright. She was pouring from a litre bottle of Bells, and, to be fair, getting most of it in the glass.

‘She needs a day off, doesn’t she?’

Susan sighed. ‘You’re preaching to the clergy, Logan.’ Then she turned and waved at Jasmine. ‘Come on, Horror, put the Nintendo away, we’re going home.’

‘Don’t suppose you want to take some of this food home with you?’

She picked up a wee individual cheese-and-ham tart, grimaced, then put it down again. ‘I hate to let it go to waste, but we’re all on diets.’

Steel wobbled over and wrapped her arm around Logan’s shoulders, whisky slopped out of the glass in her other hand. ‘I love you. No, I do. You’re a... a good person . For a man.’

The last mourner at the wake raised an eyebrow at Logan. ‘And with that, it’s time for me to go.’ He shook Logan’s hand. ‘I’m really sorry about Sam. She was one of the best Scene Of Crime officers I ever worked with.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Nooo!’ Steel sloshed more whisky at him. ‘Stay! We’ll have... have a drinks.’

A pained smile, and he grabbed his coat and left.

Logan took the glass off her. ‘Come on, bedtime.’

‘But is whisky .’ Reaching for it.

‘No more whisky. Home.’

‘Nooo...’ She lurched out into the middle of the room and did a wobbly three-sixty with her arms out, squinting at the empty room. ‘Where everyone gone?’

‘Can we please just go home?’

‘Hungry.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Ooh, sausage rolls!’

God’s sake.

Logan let her scoop up a couple of pockets’ full of assorted funeral food, then steered her down to the car.

‘Yeah.’ Logan shifted his grip on the phone, fingers already going numb as snow whipped in through the bare trees’ branches. ‘Look, I’ve told them to leave the food out, and the function room’s paid for till five. So anyone who wants it, is welcome.’

On the other end of the phone, Napier’s weirdo IT guru made lip-smacking noises. ‘ That’s very generous of you, my dear Sergeant McRae. The Magnificent Karl, and all associated officers of Bucksburn station, salute you! We’ll make sure it gets a good home. Oh my, yes. ’

Which meant the locusts would descend and the hotel would be lucky if the function room still had its carpet by the time they finished.

‘Thanks, Karl.’ He hung up and slipped his phone back in his pocket, keeping his hand there. Shivered.

Ding-Dong hadn’t been kidding: there was almost nothing left of Samantha’s static caravan. The axles and some drooping bits of metal sat amidst piles of blackened stuff. Bits of wall, bits of floor. Something that used to be a washing machine, its plastic door melted to a vitrified amber. All dead. All slowly disappearing under a duvet of snow.

He nudged at a mound. A charred Dean Koontz novel emerged, followed by what was left of a thick paperback with a zombie on the cover.

Nothing but ashes and death.

But then, what else did a life leave behind?

He kicked the books into the wreckage.

The question now was: what to do till midnight?

No point going all the way back up to Banff, to come all the way back again. Might as well take Susan up on her offer. Hang out, drink some tea, maybe watch a film. Then slip out, kill Reuben, and feed him to the pigs. Do it right and no one would know he’d even left the house. No one except for John Urquhart.

Still have to figure out what to do with him.

Logan turned back to the car.

Steel sagged in the passenger seat, head lolling against the window, mouth wide open. Snoring hard enough to make the Punto’s roof vibrate.

Oh joy.

Logan pulled up outside Steel’s house, behind the patrol car. Climbed out into the snow.

The street was quiet, expensive, secluded — a cul-de-sac lined with old granite buildings and trees on both sides. Their canopy of naked branches blocked about half of the flakes that spiralled down from the darkening sky, but let plenty through to pile up on the roofs and bonnets of fancy four-by-fours and family saloons.