In the Cold Dark Ground (24 page)

The bus inched closer to the roundabout.

Someone sitting further forward nodded along to the tssssss-tsss-tsssss-tsss-tssss leaking out of their headphones.

‘Hello?’

An old lady embarked on a massive coughing session.

Logan checked his phone. Steel had hung up.

Lovely.

The battery icon was down to its last bar. Probably enough charge to last all the way home. Maybe. He stuck his mobile back in his pocket and stared out of the steamed-up window. Snow. Snow. And more Snow.

Should have asked her about Jack Wallace. Asked her why the prosecution collapsed before it got anywhere near the court. According to the files, Claudia Boroditsky withdrew her statement and claimed she’d been confused at the time of the assault. That she couldn’t really remember who attacked and raped her. That she’d had consensual sex with Wallace earlier in the evening.

Why didn’t that sound convincing? Why did it sound more likely that Wallace had tracked Claudia down and ‘persuaded’ her to change her mind?

No wonder Steel hadn’t been happy about the result.

But was she unhappy enough about it to do him on a trumped-up charge of possessing indecent photographs of children?

Logan drew a skull and crossbones on the bus window, sending tears of condensation crying down the glass.

And who’s to say Jack Wallace didn’t deserve it?

Logan cleared a porthole in the fogged-up window. A thin sliver of sky was squashed between the heavy grey clouds and the cold white earth; the setting sun made blood-spatters across the fields, lengthening the shadow behind the drystane dykes. Wind rocked the bus, hurling snow in great sweeping curtains.

The woman sitting in front of him shifted her phone from one ear to the other. ‘Oh, I know. … I know. He’s all right, in general, but in bed? Honestly, he couldn’t find a clitoris with two Sherpas and a sat nav.’ All done at the top of her voice, as if there were nobody else on board.

The rest of the bus was a mixture of OAPs and youngsters, fiddling with their mobile phones and tablets. Each one off in their own private little fortress. A spotty man in a cagoule was actually reading a book. But he had a beard so no one wanted to sit next to him.

‘Oh, I know. … Awful. I know size isn’t meant to matter, but it was like being sexually molested by a Chihuahua.’

Fog reclaimed the porthole, fading the world back to monochrome as the sun disappeared.

‘I swear to God, Jane, I thought having an affair would be more exciting. Dancing, champagne, clubs, romantic dinners, kinky hotel-room sex. He just wants to stay in watching boxed sets of
Last of the Summer Wine
.’

Logan’s phone burst into song, and he pulled it out. Disappeared from the world like everyone else on the bus. ‘McRae.’ But at least he had the common sense to keep his voice down.

‘
Mr McRae, I have a call for you from Mr Moir-Farquharson, one moment please.
’

Moir-Farquharson? Oh that was great. An afternoon with the Ginger Ninja, and now a call from Hissing Sid. Today was a gift that just kept on giving. Like syphilis.

And what kind of dick got their receptionist to make phone calls for them, anyway? It wasn’t the seventies.

‘
Mr McRae?
’ The voice was like a razorblade sliding down an exposed throat. ‘
Sandy Moir-Farquharson, I need to talk to you about Mr Mowat’s estate.
’

OK, seriously: enough with the blessings today.

Logan closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. ‘Now’s really not a good time.’

‘
The will is going to be read on Monday morning, ten o’clock as per Mr Mowat’s instructions. As you’re the executor, I shall be requiring your attendance.
’

‘I can’t—’

‘
Mr McRae, need I remind you that Mr Mowat’s bequests include a sum of six hundred and sixty-six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six pounds, sixty-six pence to be paid to yourself? As such, it
might
be considered churlish of you to not perform your duties.
’

Oh God… The two-thirds of a million pounds.

How do you forget something like that?

By not wanting to think about it, that’s how. By running away from it, scared that anyone would find out.

Arrrrrrgh…

‘
Mr McRae? Are you still there?
’

Logan turned his face to the window and lowered his voice even further. ‘I told you I didn’t want his money.’

‘
And I told you it doesn’t matter what you do or do not want. Mr Mowat has left this portion of his estate to you, as is his right. It
will
be paid to you. There is provision for its management, but how you choose to dispose of it after that is entirely your own affair.
’ A sniff. ‘
Any normal person would be delighted and grateful to inherit such a large sum.
’

He cast a quick glance around him. No one was lugging in, they were all far too busy with their own phones. ‘I’m a police officer!’

‘
And now you can be a very rich police officer. Monday, Mr McRae, ten o’clock at my office.
’ He hung up.

Logan swore at the phone for a while, then switched it off and rammed it back in his pocket. Sagged in his seat, looking up at the ceiling of the bus. His bones rattled along with the engine’s diesel drone.

Two-thirds of a million. Because twenty grand over the asking price for his flat didn’t look bad enough.

And there was no way Reuben wouldn’t be there to hear Hamish’s will being read. To find out what they’d all got. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about landing Urquhart in it by clyping about the flat, he’d use the inheritance to destroy Logan.

The snow squeaked and crunched beneath his damp, shiny shoes. More fell from the dark orange sky in slow lazy arcs, like the drifting feathers of a shot bird. They flared in the streetlights’ glow, then faded, building up in ridges along the tops of the gravestones in the little cemetery. Sticking to the walls of the ancient buildings.

Logan paused for a moment outside the Market Arms. Warm light spilled from the windows, bringing with it the muffled sound of music and laughter.

Tempting.

A shiver rattled its way through him, making his teeth click.

Home. Central heating up full pelt. Hot bath. A big dram of Hamish Mowat’s whisky.

He hurried down the street, shoulders up around his ears, hands deep in his pockets.

Past the grim Scottish houses, past the grim Victorian police station, then across the grim car park. The sea was a smear of black through the falling snow, grumbling against the invisible beach.

Around the corner, and…

Logan stopped where he was, on the pavement, looking up at the Sergeant’s Hoose.

A light burned somewhere inside, oozing out of the bedroom window.

Great. Steel had let herself in again. So much for a bit of privacy.

He took out his keys, but the front door wasn’t locked. It swung open when he turned the handle, the snib disengaged.

You’d think a Detective Chief Inspector would have
some
idea about home security.

He clunked the door shut behind him and clicked the button for the snib. It clacked home. ‘Hello?’

The central heating pinged and gurgled.

Light spilled down the stairs from the landing.

Logan peeled off his funeral-suit jacket and draped it over the banister. Undid his tie. Dug out his phone. ‘You know you left the door off the latch, don’t you?’

He kicked off his wet shoes and stood there in his wet socks. ‘Hello?’

The jacket dripped on the laminate flooring.

‘Hello?’

OK…

He tried the kitchen.

No Steel.

Then the living room.

Still no Steel.

Typical, she’d sodded off and left the house lying wide open so any druggy could wander in and steal all his stuff. But the TV was still there, and the DVD player, and the answering machine with its winking red light.

Maybe the snow had kept all the thieving gits from stalking the streets trying door handles?

Logan stripped off his trousers and squelched over to the bookcase and plugged his mobile into the dangling charging cord. Then pressed the button on the answerphone.

‘
M
ESSAGE
O
NE
:
’ A woman’s voice replaced the electronic one. ‘
Mr McRae? Hi, it’s Sheila here from Deveronside Family Glazing Solutions again. I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a mix-up with your windows.
’

Of course there had.

He unbuttoned his clammy shirt.

‘
Your order’s been checked by Dennis and they’re all out by about fifteen mil. I’m really sorry. We’ve no idea how it happened, but we’re getting them remade now. Please accept our apologies; we’ll get them to you as soon as we can.
’

Bleeeeeep
.

God’s sake.

‘
M
ESSAGE
T
WO
:
’ There was a pause. ‘
Logan?
’ Louise from Sunny Glen cleared her throat. ‘
I just wanted to let you know that the funeral directors have collected Samantha. I gave them the photo you wanted. I’m sure they’ll do a sensitive job. And again, I’m so sorry for your loss.
’

Yeah, everyone was sorry. Everyone was
always
sorry.

‘
Don’t forget, if you need to talk to someone, Debora is very good. She’s helped a lot of families and—
’

Delete.

‘
M
ESSAGE
T
HREE:
’ Logan peeled off his soggy socks. ‘
Mr McRae? Mr McRae, it’s John. John Urquhart. Look, you need to give me a call, OK? Like ASAFP. Soon as you get this.
’

Delete.

No way he was leaving something like that knocking about on his answering machine for Napier to find.

What the hell did Urquhart want that was so urgent?

‘
M
ESSAGE
F
OUR:
’ Steel’s gravelly tones graced the living room. ‘
I know you’re in there, so answer the sodding door. My key’s no’ working and I’m freezing my nipples off.
’

Bleeeeeep
.

What? Why would her key not work? Of course her key worked – she kept letting herself in.

‘
M
ESSAGE
F
IVE:
’ Steel again. ‘
It’s no’ funny, Laz. I know you’re in: I can hear you moving about in there! Answer the door.
’

Bleeeeeep
.

Logan turned and stared towards the front door. Steel could hear someone moving about inside…

‘
M
ESSAGE
S
IX
:
’ She was back. ‘
Laz, I get it – you’re upset, you’re sulking, but…
’ A sigh. ‘
Look, you don’t have to sulk on your own. I’ll sulk with you, you know that. Give me a call.
’

Someone was in his house.

Bleeeeeep
.

‘
Y
OU
H
AVE
N
O
M
ORE
M
ESSAGES
.
’

Bloody hell – it had to be Reuben. That’s why Urquhart wanted him to call back. Reuben was in his house. And there was Logan, shivering in his sodden pants.

Not a very dignified way to die.

He padded out into the corridor. Shifted the wet suit jacket out of the way.

His equipment belt still hung over the post, complete with CS gas canister and extendable baton. He liberated both and checked the last door on the ground floor.

It opened on a room stuffed with dusty box files, the air thick with the stench of dirt and mould. He eased the door closed and crept up the stairs, freezing at every creak and groan beneath his bare feet.

Up onto the landing and its burning light.

The guest-bedroom door lay open. No Reuben.

Bathroom: no Reuben.

Logan licked his lips, then clacked out the extendable baton to its full length and barged into the master bedroom, CS gas up and ready…

No Reuben.

He clicked on the light.

The bed was made, the curtains drawn: exactly as he’d left it this morning.

Maybe he’d forgotten to turn the landing light off before he’d left for Wee Hamish’s funeral? It was all a bit rushed, what with the three guys bundling him into the back of a Transit van. But it wasn’t dark then, so why would he have the light on in the first place?

And Steel had
heard
someone…

He lowered the baton. A wooden box lay in the middle of the duvet. It was about the same length and width as a shoebox, but a lot thinner. Polished oak, from the look of it, with brass hinges and catch. A small leather handle, like a briefcase.

Logan dug into the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of itchy police trousers. Fished about in the pockets until he found a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Snapped them on.

Please don’t be Tony Evans’s severed fingers. Or any other part of his anatomy.

Click
. The catch snapped open and Logan opened the box.

A semiautomatic pistol sat in a lining of black foam, cut to match the outline of the gun. What looked like a silencer sat above it and a spare clip and about two dozen bullets were lined up alongside with a small cleaning kit. The smell of gun oil dark and pungent.

Someone had taped an envelope to the inside of the box’s lid, addressed ‘
T
O
M
R
M
C
R
AE
’.

He sank onto the edge of the bed.

A wee furry head appeared between his pale legs, meeping and purring as she rubbed against him.

‘Hiding, were we? So much for having a guard cat.’ Logan reached down and ruffled the fur between her ears. Then opened the envelope, reading out loud to her. ‘“Dear Mr McRae. Sorry, you were out so I kinda let myself in – brackets, think you should seriously consider a better door lock, some dodgy people about, close brackets.” You don’t say. And he’s spelled “seriously” wrong.’

Cthulhu settled down on the rug, bent almost double, legs stuck out in front of her, making shlurping noises as she washed her white furry tummy.

‘“Mr M wanted you to have this. Don’t worry, it is completely clean and has never been fired. He wanted you to have this because of You Know Who. All the best, JU.”’ Logan chucked the note onto the bed. ‘Well, at least that explains who left all the lights on.’

A clean gun: no prior convictions.

Typical.

So Urquhart didn’t want to get his hands dirty after all.

Logan puffed out a long, shivery breath, then picked the thing up. Solid. Cold. Heavy. He racked back the slide. Brass flashed and a bullet span from the ejector port. Of course that didn’t mean the thing actually worked. What happened in the garage this morning had proved that.

‘I don’t want to kill him.’

He stared at the ceiling. ‘For God’s sake, give it a rest! “I don’t want to kill him.”, “I don’t want to kill him.” Shut up.’ Deep breath. ‘We don’t have any choice.’

‘But—’

‘Do you want him to go after Jasmine and Naomi? Is that what you want?’

No reply.

‘Didn’t think so. And now we’ve got a gun.’

He turned it back and forth in his hand.

Have to take it out into the middle of nowhere and squeeze off a couple of rounds to make sure. Turning up to murder Reuben with an untested gun was just asking to be fed to the pigs.