In the Cold Dark Ground (19 page)

‘No. Thanks.’

‘OK then.’ He picked up the phone and had a muttered conversation while Steel stalked around the room, squinting at the paintings, hands behind her back, like a badly creased crow.

Samantha wound her hand into Logan’s. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

He just breathed.

Steel took his other hand. ‘How you holding up?’

‘I appreciate the gesture, but I’m fine.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘You don’t have to be here. You’ve got a murder to solve.’

‘Well Harper can rant and rave all she wants, some things are more important.’ She gave his hand a squeeze. ‘Couldn’t leave you to go through this alone.’

He squeezed back. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re still not allowed to think about me naked, though.’

‘Urgh.’ He took his hand back and wiped it on the front of his jacket. ‘OK, now I’m going to be—’

‘Logan, hello.’ A woman marched into the room. Her bleached pixie cut curled across her forehead, cowboy boots clicking on the wooden floor. She held her arms out and the sunlight caught the linen sleeves of her shirt, making her glow like an angel. She wrapped him up in a hug. Then stepped back. ‘How are you?’

Why did
everyone
have to ask that? How the hell did they think he was?

‘Fine. I’m fine, Louise.’ It sounded better than: dead inside.

Samantha leaned in, her voice a warm soft whisper in his ear. ‘Liar.’

‘Now you’re sure you want to go through with this? Remember, there’s no rush.’

‘I know.’

‘OK.’ Louise stroked his arm. ‘If there’s anything that’s unclear, or you want to stop at any time, let me know. It’s not a problem.’ Then she turned to Steel. ‘You must be Logan’s mother. He’s told me so much about you.’

The wrinkles deepened across Steel’s forehead. ‘No! I’m no’ his
mum
, I’m his moral support. Nowhere near old enough, for a
start
!’

Louise’s smile slipped for a moment. ‘Right. Sorry. My mistake.’ Then she turned and gestured towards the door leading deeper into the building. ‘Shall we?’

The corridors were alive with the wub-wub-wub of a floor polisher and the noise of music coming from the rooms – each one playing something different. It blended into an atonal mush of sound, like a radio picking up multiple stations at once.

Men and women lay on their beds, some connected to machines, some breathing on their own. A couple propped up and strapped into armchairs, heads on one side, dribble soaking into their bibs.

‘Here we go.’ Louise held the door to number eighteen open and ushered them inside.

Samantha lay beneath the covers, an oxygen mask over her pale face. Her hair was almost all brown roots now, slipping into a faded scarlet only at the tips. A little dot marked her nose and another her bottom lip, more up both sides of her ears where the piercings had healed over. The tattoos stood out against her almost translucent skin, coiling up and down both bare arms – skulls and hearts, wound round with brambles and tribal spines. They looked so much blacker than they used to. As if they’d been leeching the life out of her all these years and were now ready to break free from the flesh.

Her cheekbones were sharp and pronounced, riding high on her sunken face. But the thing that really didn’t look like her was the big dip in her head, above the left ear, as if someone had taken a big ice-cream scoop out of her.

Louise placed a hand on Logan’s arm, turning him away from the bed towards the room’s other occupant. ‘Logan, this is Dr Wilson, he’ll be in charge of withdrawing Samantha’s medical treatment.’

A dapper man with no hair stuck a hand out. His chinos had creases down the leg you could shave with, denim shirt rolled up to the elbows with a pink tie tucked in between the buttons. ‘We’ll take good care of her, Logan. She won’t feel a thing.’

‘How does this work?’

‘We give Samantha a dose of morphine, wait for it to take hold, then switch off the respirator.’

‘So she suffocates.’

‘I know it sounds distressing, but she won’t be in any pain.’

At least that was something.

Dr Wilson folded his hands together, as if he were about to say a prayer. ‘Are there any questions you’d like to ask?’

Samantha’s chest rose and fell beneath the blankets, marking time with the hissing respirator.

‘Logan?’

Someone nudged him in the ribs. And when he looked around, Steel was frowning at him.

Her voice was soft. ‘You OK? Cos we can sod off home and do this some other day, if you want.’

Deep breath. ‘No.’ He reached out and took Samantha’s hand in his. The skin was dry and papery, cool to the touch. ‘It’s time.’

‘I understand.’ Dr Wilson nodded. ‘The procedure should—’

‘You’re not doing it.’

He pulled his chin in. ‘I know this is difficult, but I can assure you I’ve done this many times—’

‘You didn’t know her.’ Logan brushed a lock of hair forward on Samantha’s head, covering the dent. ‘It should be me.’

‘Ah…’ The doctor looked at Louise. ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good—’

‘She deserves that much. Not to be switched off by a stranger.’

Steel’s frown deepened. ‘Laz, you sure you want to do this?’

‘Doesn’t matter what I want: I owe her.’

‘Mr McRae, please. I think you should reconsider, it’s—’

‘You heard the man, Doctor.’ Steel stepped between them and held her arms out, as if she were breaking up a fight in a pub. ‘Show him how to do it, then off you trot for a nice cuppa tea and a chocolate Hobnob.’

The machines pinged and hissed.

Logan pulled the visitor’s chair from the corner of the room and positioned it alongside the bed. Sat in it. Hissed out a long breath.

It was a lot less crowded in here without Steel, Louise, and Dr Wilson. Just Logan and the two Samanthas – the one in the bed and the one in his head.

‘You sure you know what you’re doing?’ She settled onto the bed next to him, one hand on the dying Samantha’s leg. ‘Don’t want you screwing this up. I could end up with brain damage, and then where would you be?’

Another breath.

‘Don’t I look pale?’ She leaned forward and ran a finger around the dent in the body’s forehead. ‘And that was never flattering, was it? Oh yes, let’s hack a big chunk out of her skull to relieve the swelling on her brain. That’s a good look.’

‘Don’t.’

‘What? I’m keeping your spirits up. Don’t be ungrateful.’ Samantha swung her legs back and forth. ‘And look on the bright side: think of all the cash you’re going to save, me not being here. This place costs a fortune. You should sell the caravan too.’

‘I never grudged it.’

‘Take the money and go on holiday for a change. How about Spain? You could go see Helen. I always thought—’

‘No.’ He looked away. ‘We’re not talking about this again.’

‘I’m lying there on my deathbed, I’ll talk about anything I like.’

‘It
didn’t
work, it’s not
going
to work. So can we please—’ Logan’s phone blared out its ringtone. Cocking hell. He denied the call, then switched the thing off. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have fallen. They set fire to the place because of me. You’re here because of me.’

She placed her hand over his where it held the dying Samantha’s. ‘You’re right. You’re a horrible human being and you never deserve another day’s happiness in your life.’

A little smile tugged at his mouth. ‘I liked it better before you started answering back.’

‘You ready?’

‘Yeah.’ Something large sat on his chest, squeezing out the air. Logan pressed the button and the morphine pump whirred.

Samantha blinked. Wobbled a bit. ‘Whoa, that’s a head rush.’

The her in the bed didn’t even twitch.

‘Logan? What’s going to happen to me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If I’m dead, will you forget about me?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Maybe you should.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’s time.’

He reached out and clicked the switch on the respirator. The hissing died away. Samantha’s chest sank beneath the blankets and didn’t rise again.

‘Logan, I’m scared.’

A knife slipped into his throat, blocking it, then twisted.

The words would barely come. ‘It’ll be OK.’

He swallowed, but the blade stayed where it was.

He squeezed her hand.

Hauled in a harsh jagged breath.

‘I’m sorry.’

The room blurred.

Everything tasted of broken glass.

Oh God.

‘I’m so sorry.’

Steel lowered the mug of tea onto the coffee table. ‘Milk and two sugars. And before you say anything, I know you don’t take sugar. Hot sweet tea’s traditional.’

‘Thanks.’

She sat on the arm of the settee, placed a hand on his back. ‘Feeling any better?’

‘I keep telling you: I’m
fine
.’

‘Cos you don’t look fine, you look sodding awful.’

‘Yeah, well.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘I’m having a bit of a day.’

Sunlight streamed into the living room, catching motes of dust and making them glow. Cthulhu lay on her back, on the rug, arms stretched out, feet curled into fuzzy quote marks, white belly absorbing as much solar radiation as possible.

Logan stood and picked her up. Buried his face in her fur, breathing in the scent of biscuits and sunshine. Shuddered it out again. ‘Just you and me now, kiddo.’

‘Maybe you should put in for compassionate leave? Could come down to Aberdeen and stay with me and Susan for a bit. Hang out with the kids.’

He flipped Cthulhu over, rubbing her tummy as she stretched and purred. ‘And who’d look after Little Miss Monster with her stretchy arms and curly feets?’

More purring.

Steel frowned at him. ‘You been drinking already?’

‘Basic cat anatomy: arms at the front, legs at the back. Paws at the front, feets at the back.’

‘Yeah…’ She pulled her chin in, multiplying the wrinkles. ‘You’ve been living on your own for far too long, Laz. We need to— In the name of the scrabbling bumhole.’ She yanked out her ringing phone. ‘
What
?’ Then stood. ‘Uh-huh. … Yeah. … OK, OK. Well it’s no’ like I can trust
you
to do it, is it?’ Steel mouthed the word ‘Rennie’ at him, then wandered across to the window, blocking Cthulhu’s light. ‘Yeah. … I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t let him out of your sight till then.’ She hung up. ‘Sorry.’

‘I know. Everyone’s sorry.’

‘We’re taking your suggestion and getting Milne to make a statement. With any luck the baying hordes will sod off and leave him alone long enough for Malk the Knife’s goons to get in touch.’

‘Good for you.’

She hauled up her trousers. ‘You want me to get Susan up here? She could keep you company. Shoulder to cry on. Make loads of hot sweet tea and the occasional sandwich?’

‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’

Steel folded her arms. ‘You’re going to get blootered, aren’t you?’

He toasted her with the mug.

‘Aye, well, probably for the best. Soon as I get off shift I’ll join you. Till then, I’d better shoot.’

She cleared her throat. Fiddled with the sleeves of her jacket. Then bent down and kissed him on the cheek. Before harrumphing a couple of times, and letting herself out.

The front door slammed shut, leaving him alone in the quiet.

Reunited with her sunbeam, Cthulhu purred.

Logan topped up the whisky in his tumbler. Took a sip of Glenfiddich. Let his head fall back and stared up at the living room ceiling as the whisky spread its warm tentacles through his body. ‘You there?’

No reply.

Of course she wasn’t there. She was dead. And all he had left was a big aching hollow, right in the middle of his chest, wrapped around with whisky.

Of course, it was obvious what she’d say if she was here. He cleared his throat. ‘Get off your backside, Logan. Stop wallowing in it. Find yourself a gun and figure out how to get Reuben somewhere killable.’

As if that was ever going to happen.

But then, she was always the practical one.

So, if it was quite all right with everyone else, he was going to sit here and wallow.

The doorbell gave its long mournful
drrrrrrrrr‌rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring
.

‘Go away.’

Cthulhu stopped washing her pantaloons and stared at the living room door.

Drrrrrrrrr‌rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring
.

‘God’s sake.’ He levered himself out of the couch and slouched out of the room, taking his whisky with him. Why couldn’t everyone sod off and let him wallow in peace. Was it really too much to ask for?

Drrrrrrrrr‌rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring
.

‘All right, all right.’ Logan unlocked the door and yanked it open. ‘
What
?’

A wall of muscle filled the threshold. It was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. Which didn’t really go with the words ‘KILL’ and ‘MUM’ tattooed on the knuckles of two big fists. The face wasn’t much better, topped off with a haircut even shorter than Logan’s.

The creature that evolution forgot smiled. It didn’t help. ‘Can Sergeant McRae come out to play?’

A Transit van was loomed at the kerb behind him. It might have been white once, but the paintwork had aged to a dirty yellow, covered in a timpani of dents. Two other thugs stood on either side – one of whom seemed to be carrying a body bag.

Screw that.

Logan slammed the door, but it was too late: Smiler had his foot in the way.

He put one tattooed hand against the wood and pushed his way into the house. The other hand reached into his jacket and came out with a short-barrelled revolver. ‘Easy way, or hard way?’

The two outside didn’t move.

A taxi droned past.

Somewhere in the distance, a seagull screamed.

So this was it. Reuben hadn’t even waited till after the funeral. Pig time.

Should be fighting back. Should be kicking off and struggling and biting and… But what was the point? After this morning, what did it matter?

Logan took a sip of whisky. ‘I’ve got a choice?’

Smiler snapped his fingers and one of his mates stepped forwards – a wee bloke with big blond sideburns and a ratty ponytail – holding out the body bag. Only up close it looked a lot more like a suit carrier.

The gun twitched towards the stairs. ‘Better get changed, Sergeant. You’ve got an appointment.’

Bench seats ran down both sides of the Transit’s load bay. Logan sat on the driver’s side, with Smiler at the other end, blocking the door. One of his mates, a thin man with bad teeth and a lazy eye, sat opposite, playing on a hand-held games console. Tongue poking out the side of his mouth as the thing bleeped and binged.

The van lurched around a corner, then accelerated.

That would be them leaving Banff.

Difficult to tell. There were no windows back here – the walls lined with big rectangles of chipboard covered in metal hooks and the vacant outlines of tools.

Goon Number Three had the radio on in the cab section, singing along to ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’ at the top of his voice. The noise rattled through the bulkhead wall, clashing with the plinkity music from Mr Teeth’s game machine.

Logan loosened his tie: black, like his suit and shoes. It wasn’t a bad fit, but it wasn’t exactly classy. The kind of outfit you could pick up for a few quid at one of the larger supermarkets. All three of them dressed up like something out of
Reservoir Dogs
.

He jerked a thumb at the bulkhead. ‘So, what, we’re on our way to a Blues Brothers revival?’

Smiler didn’t smile. ‘Shut up.’

Thick plastic sheeting covered the load-bay floor. Just right for preventing all those nasty, hard-to-clean bloodstains.

Not too hard to see how today was going to end.

Should have listened to Samantha. Should have listened to Wee Hamish Mowat. Should have killed Reuben instead of sitting on his backside waiting for the murderous bastard to make the first move. Well, it was too late now.

But then again, it was always going to end this way, wasn’t it? In a kill-or-be-killed world, the normal people always ended up dead.

Logan let his head thunk back against the chipboard.

Yup, this was turning into a really top-notch Friday the thirteenth.

The engine noise dropped to a low growl, then the Transit swung to the left. Crunching came from the wheel arches. They’d turned onto gravel. Either a track or someone’s driveway. Which meant the magical mystery tour was about to come to its unpleasant conclusion.

More crunching.

The van rocked and lurched a bit, then slowed to a halt.

Through in the cab, the seventies musicfest died.

Then came the clunk of the driver’s door and the
scrunch
,
scrunch
,
scrunch
of his footsteps.

Here we go.

The back door opened, letting in a flood of sunlight.

Smiler turned and hoiked a thumb at the view. ‘Out.’

Logan clambered down from the tailgate onto a gravel driveway at the side of a rough stone building surrounded by trees. A door hung open, its red paint flaking like leprous skin.

A large finger pointed at the dark hole of the doorway. ‘In.’

Something twisted deep inside Logan’s chest.

Maybe there was a way out of this? Slam his elbow back and up into Smiler’s face. Ram the arm forward and break Mr Teeth’s nose. Kick Captain ABBA in the balls. Then run for it before any of them got themselves together.

Deep breath.

It wasn’t going to work.

But it wasn’t as if he had anything to lose, was it? Probably wind up dead either way.

OK. In three, two—

A cold hard lump pressed against the back of his neck. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

Logan turned, just far enough to see Smiler out of the corner of his eye. That cold hard lump was the snub-nosed revolver’s barrel.

Yeah… Maybe not.

Logan straightened his tie instead. Took a breath. Then marched in through the door.

Inside, it was one big gloomy room, the only light coming from the doorway behind him and a couple of dirty skylights. There was barely enough to make out the bare rafters and the closed garage doors.

And the big sheet of heavy-duty plastic spread out in the middle of the concrete floor. Like the one in the van, only much bigger and with stitches of duct tape holding it down.

A big hand in the small of his back propelled him forward, until he was standing right in the middle of the crinkly sheet.

‘Stay.’

The thing in Logan’s chest twisted again, turning his heartbeat up to a deafening thump. Thump. Thump. Sweat prickled across the back of his neck.

He was going to die here. Slowly. Then be dragged away for pig food.

Smiler retreated to the shadows while Mr Teeth took up position by the door. He was bent over his Gameboy/DS thing again, pinging and dinging away to repetitive doodly music.

No sign of Captain ABBA.

Slow calm breaths.

And then Reuben appeared in the doorway. He’d stripped off to the waist. The patchwork of scar tissue and fur that marked his face continued down his barrel chest and across his gut in a foot-wide strip of twisted skin. His bottom half was covered in a pair of overalls, the arms tied in a knot beneath his stomach. Big rig boots on his feet – nice and heavy with steel toecaps. Perfect for kicking someone to death. ‘’Bout time.’

Reuben rolled his head to one side, then the other. Flexed his shoulders. Puffing himself up. ‘Some of the guys think you can’t be trusted, McRae.’ The hands were next, coiling into huge fists. ‘Think you’re going to stitch me up.’

Logan swallowed. Forced his chin up.