Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘Not too late to turn around and go home.’

He didn’t dignify that with an answer.

‘Is this doing-both-sides-of-a-conversation thing more or less healthy than talking to a hallucination of a woman who’s in a coma? Because I’m guessing less.’

Mirror Logan shrugged. ‘What about Urquhart? I mean, assuming he isn’t actually on Reuben’s side — he’s going to hold this over you for the rest of your life. He’d have you on murder.’

‘He already has — Eddy Knowles, remember?’

‘That wasn’t our fault.’

‘We killed him.’

A thick black line emerged through the snow ahead. That would be Gairnhill Wood.

‘OK, you have to stop talking to yourself in the plural. Bad enough as it is.’

‘All right: you killed him, doesn’t matter if you meant to or not. No one’s going to buy self-defence if you conspired to get shot of the body.’

‘Which I didn’t.’

‘Yeah, but who’s going to believe that?’

‘True.’

The woods swallowed the Punto. Its headlights made a tiny smear of life in the darkness.

Not far to go now.

‘So how does Urquhart turn me in without implicating himself? He’s the one who got rid of the body.’

‘Allegedly.’

‘Hmmm... There is that.’

‘Here we go.’

A sign hung on chains by the side of the road: the silhouette of a pig with ‘ç W EST G AIRNHILL F ARM ’ printed above it in faded letters.

Logan touched the brakes and the Punto slithered a bit, then slowed. He took the turning at a crawl.

‘Are you sure you’re sure?’

‘No. Now shut up.’

Trees lined both sides of the farm road like long-dead sentries. The Punto rocked and thumped through potholes hidden by the snow, following the tracks of at least two other cars.

‘They’re already here.’ He bashed the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. ‘Damn it. Should’ve got here an hour ago. Scoped the place out. Been waiting for them.’

‘Don’t be an idiot: it’s Reuben’s farm, his people live here. If you’d turned up early they’d have clyped on you. Or taken you in and given you a cup of tea. Either way, you were never getting the element of surprise. Now shut your porridge-hole and let me concentrate.’

The road bumped and lurched through the woods to a clearing where the land fell away downhill, overlooking rolling fields and jagged clumps of forest — all smothered beneath a layer of dirty white.

An old-fashioned farmhouse with gable ends and a slate roof loomed beside a cluster of agricultural buildings. Somewhere for keeping a tractor; another piled high with hay; and three long low buildings, ugly and naked, pinned to the ground by rows of blazing halogen lights. The pigsties.

Urquhart’s Audi sat next to a big red Land Rover that looked showroom clean under a thin dusting of snow.

Everyone was here.

Logan parked on the other side of the Audi.

Right.

He pulled on his stabproof vest. Might not help against a bullet, but at least it was something. A brand-new cagoule went over the top, hiding it, then he snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and opened the evidence bag. Slipped the second freezer bag off — leaving the gun one layer of protection. Then took a biro and poked it through the plastic, wriggling the pen about until the hole was big enough to get his finger around the trigger. The slide hauled back with a clack. Safety off. Logan eased the semiautomatic into the cagoule’s pocket.

With the silencer attached a quick draw was out of the question, but it was a pig farm, not the OK Corral.

‘Right.’

Deep breath. It wasn’t easy with the stabproof vest hugging his ribs.

‘Come on. You can do this.’

Out.

The air crawled with the brown sickly-bitter stench of pig shit, bolstered by the sharp tang of fermenting urine. Steam rose from the three long buildings, caught in the glare of the lights. Grunts and squeals rang out from inside.

It was a bit like walking into an episode of The X-Files .

Logan tightened his grip on the gun and followed the footprints in the snow to the sty furthest from the house.

Not too late to turn around.

Not too late to run.

And then it was.

The big metal door clattered back and John Urquhart smiled out at him. ‘Mr McRae, cool, glad you could make it.’ He’d dressed for the occasion: suit, shirt, tie, heavy black overcoat. Not exactly the best outfit for killing someone and disposing of the body. ‘Come in, come in.’

Logan was going to die here, wasn’t he? Die and be eaten.

Come on. Not dead yet.

Logan nodded, put his other hand in his pocket — hiding the blue glove — then followed Urquhart inside.

Out there, the cold had obviously dampened the smell, because in here the stench of pig was so thick it coated the inside of his mouth with a greasy sour film. It was warm too, condensation trickling down the corrugated iron. Rows and rows of naked pink backs filled the sties on either side, three or four to a bay. Metal gates bolted into breezeblock walls.

Reuben stood at the far end, arms crossed over his massive chest. He’d ditched the expensive suit for scabby green overalls, the shiny leather shoes for a pair of manky rig boots. A black holdall sat at his feet. He jerked his head up, setting those scarred chins wobbling. ‘You’re late.’

Wrong — bang on time. ‘Nice to see you too, Reuben.’ Kind of surprising — how calm his voice sounded. As if this was any other meeting, in a pig sty, with a killer and his right-hand-man.

Logan turned and leaned back against the nearest sty, where he could see Reuben and Urquhart at the same time. Kept his hands in his pockets.

‘Rightiehoo.’ Urquhart beamed. ‘So, Stevie Fowler, yeah? What to do?’

‘Kill him. You steal from me, you die. That’s how it works.’

‘Yeah, OK, one vote for death. Mr McRae?’

‘We—’

‘NO!’ Reuben kicked a sty gate with his steel toecaps, setting the metal ringing and the pigs squealing. ‘This isn’t a bloody democracy. I say Fowler dies, you make it happen. End of.’

Urquhart’s smile slipped a bit. ‘Right. OK. Got you. Fowler gets an accident in prison, and—’

‘Not an accident.’

‘Come on, Reuben, let’s be sensible about—’

‘NO BLOODY ACCIDENTS!’ His face flushed, teeth bared, flecks of spittle flashed in the harsh light. ‘He suffers and everyone gets to see what’s left, and they talk in frightened whispers about the moron who thought he could screw with me!’

Urquhart licked his lips. ‘OK, OK, you want him messy dead? We’ll get him messy dead. But the cops are going to know it was us, Reuben. They’re going to come after us.’

‘So what?’ He pointed a thick finger at Logan. ‘We got someone to make it all go away.’

Logan turned a bit to the left, so the semiautomatic in his pocket was more or less in line with Reuben’s stomach. ‘No, you don’t.’

He bared his teeth. ‘Don’t think you heard me properly, McRae.’

‘I’m not one of your minions, Reuben. I’m not going to make things go away. I can’t make things go away.’

‘You bloody well—’

‘It doesn’t work like that any more!’ Logan jabbed a finger back at him. ‘This isn’t The Godfather , police officers can’t just make investigations vanish. People notice, the media notice, the Procurator Fiscal notices.’

Reuben frowned at Logan’s hand. ‘What’s with the gloves?’

Why draw this out? Get it over and done with.

Kill him.

‘Scared of getting your hands dirty, McRae?’

Take the gun out and shoot him.

Do it.