In the Cold Dark Ground (25 page)

The semiautomatic snapped up, pointing at the open wardrobe.

‘You can do this.’

One bullet, right between Reuben’s ugly little eyes and—

The doorbell rang.

Logan flinched.

Squeezed out a breath.

Thank God the safety was on.

He crossed to the window and peered out at the road below. No sign of a Transit van, but a rumpled figure in a high-viz jacket stared back up at him, mouth working on what was probably a family-sized bag of swearing. Snow stuck to Steel’s hair. She raised both hands and the carrier bags that dangled from them.

Right.

He stuffed the gun back in its box, snatched up the ejected bullet and stuck it in there too. Then slid the lot under the bed, with the dust and balls of cat hair.

The doorbell went again, long and loud as Steel mashed the button and held it down.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ Logan got as far as the bedroom door before stopping.

Yeah, probably better put on a dressing gown. Confronting Reuben in his pants was one thing, Steel was quite another.

‘Pass the oniony stuff.’

Logan picked up the polystyrene container of bright-scarlet relish and held it out. Heat pounded out of the radiator, filling the kitchen with warmth, enhancing the earthy spicy smell of takeaway curry. ‘Still think the candles are a bit weird.’

Tealights flickered away on the working surface, a couple on the windowsill, still more in various wee holders on the table – tucked in between the cartons.

‘It’s no’ meant to be romantic, you halfwit. Candlelight’s appropriate for sitting shiva. And don’t think I’ve forgiven you for locking me out in the snow.’

‘Told you: I was in the shower.’ He helped himself to a glopping spoonful of bright-orange curry laced with shining green chillies. ‘In case you didn’t notice, Samantha wasn’t Jewish, and neither is chicken jalfrezi.’

Steel shovelled in a shard of papadum, crunching through the words. ‘I think Detective Superintendent Harper fancies you.’

‘Away and boil your head.’

‘All she does is mutter about you under her breath. Logan McRae, this, Logan McRae, that. Aye, when she’s no’ giving
me
a hard time. How come it’s my fault we’re no’ making progress catching Peter Shepherd’s— Gah!’ A blob of onion fell from the end of her papadum and tumbled into her lap. ‘Bugger.’

‘She can go boil her head too. Woman’s a menace. All she does is moan and whinge.’

‘Nah, she
loves
you. She wants to have your
babies
.’ Steel plucked the rogue bit of onion from her trousers and ate it. ‘Tell you, we were sat in that damn pool car for two hours today, watching Martin Milne’s place, and she wouldn’t shut up asking questions about you.’

Logan ripped off a chunk of naan bread. Dipped it in the thick orange sauce. ‘I hung up on her today. Told her to feel free to sod off.’

‘Ah, so you fancy
her
too. You should pull her pigtails – maybe she’ll show you her knickers behind the bike shed after PE.’

‘You can feel free to sod off too.’

‘Oh she’s obsessed with you, sunshine. According to Narveer, she’s been watching you for a
long
time. Ever since the Mastrick Monster. Got a file and everything.’ Steel shovelled in another mouthful of lamb dansak, grinning as she chewed. ‘Fiver says Harper gets her hands on your onion bhajis by the end of the week.’

‘Seriously: sod off any time you like.’

Steel poured the last of the shiraz into Logan’s glass. ‘No more wine.’

He took a swig. ‘We’re having the funeral on Monday. It’s in Aberdeen, if you want to come?’

She clunked the bottle on the table, next to the other empties. ‘Think I should go get more?’

‘Nah, I’ll go.’ He threw back the final mouthful then hauled himself out of the chair. Carry-out containers, crumpled beer cans, and carrier bags littered the work surfaces. Plates piled up in the sink. He wobbled a bit. Steadied himself with a hand on the table. ‘Why?’

‘So we can drink it.’

‘No: why’s Harper the Harpy keeping a file on me?’

‘Told you, cos she wants to shag your scarred little backside off. Ooh, Logan, do me harder, yeah, like that … mmmm. Pass the Nutella, etc.’

Woman had a one-track mind.

Logan grabbed a hoodie from the washing basket in the corner of the kitchen. Gave it a shake and pulled it on. ‘White or red?’

‘Yes.’ Steel dug into her pocket and came out with a wallet. Produced a small wad of twenties. ‘And get some whisky. Nice stuff, nothing you can clean paintbrushes with.’

He folded the notes and slipped them into his pocket. ‘Seriously, why’s Detective Superintendent Harpy keeping tabs on me?’

‘And some crisps.’

Logan lowered the carrier bags to the floor and thunked the door closed behind him. ‘I’m back.’ He ran a hand through his hair, flicking off the chunks of snow. Shrugged his way out of the high-viz jacket. ‘Hello? You still there?’

If she wasn’t, tough: he was drinking her wine anyway.

He slipped off his snow-crusted shoes and padded through to the kitchen in his socks.

Steel was at the table, a frown on her face, fingers of one hand drumming on the tabletop, phone in the other.

‘What’s bitten your bumhole?’ Logan unpacked the bags onto the table. ‘Bottle of Chardonnay, bottle of Merlot, and…’ He plonked a beige cardboard tube next to the bottles, popped off the metal lid, and pulled out the contents. ‘One bottle of Balvenie, fourteen-year-old, aged in old rum casks.’

She licked her teeth and stared at him.

‘What? What have I done now?’

‘Kinda wondering that myself.’ She pointed. ‘You already had a bottle of whisky.’

The Glenfiddich he’d got from Hamish Mowat sat on the table beside her.

‘And now we’ve got more.’ The Merlot’s top came off with a crackle as he unscrewed it. ‘Sure you don’t want to stick to wine for now? You know, pace ourselves.’ It glugged into the glasses, thick and dark and red.

‘I looked it up on the internet.’

He went back into the carrier bags. ‘Got bacon frazzles, Skips, and some sort of cheesy tortilla things. Or there’s Monster Munch.’

‘Glenfiddich 1937 Rare Collection. Where did you get this?’

Must be serious: she hadn’t even smiled at the mention of Monster Munch.

Logan sat in the chair opposite. Took a sip of wine. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You got any idea how much this bottle’s worth?’ She picked it up, holding it like a newborn baby half-full of syrupy amber liquid. ‘Last time one of these was on auction it went for forty-nine
thousand
pounds.’

Logan stared back. Swallowed. ‘
How
much?’

‘Where’d you get it from, Sergeant?’

‘Forty-nine grand? For a bottle of whisky?’

Her mouth made a thin, cold line. ‘Is this why Detective Superintendent Harper is so keen on knowing all about you? How does a duty sergeant, way up here on the Aberdeenshire coast, afford something like that?’ She leaned forward and thumped her fist on the table, making the bottles rattle. ‘Damn it, Logan, I
trusted
you!’

‘Are you kidding me? Have you seen the piece of crap I drive? It’s a Fiat Punto with more rust than metal on it. My kitchen cupboards are full of supermarket own-brand lentil soup!’ He snatched the bottle from her. ‘If I had forty-nine grand knocking about, do you really think I’d spend it on
one
bottle of whisky?’

She folded her arms. ‘I’m waiting.’

‘It was a gift, OK?’ He looked away. ‘From Hamish Mowat.’

Silence.

Steel bit her lips for a moment. ‘So, a dead gangster gives you a forty-nine thousand pound bottle of whisky, and you wonder why a detective superintendent from the Serious Organised Crime Task Force has a file on you?’

‘It’s not
like
that.’

‘THEN HOW IS IT?’

He covered his face with his hands. ‘I didn’t
do
anything. I didn’t know the whisky cost that much. We had a drink out of it, then I was given the bottle to take home.’

‘You’re a bloody idiot.’

‘I – didn’t – know.’ Logan slumped. Forty-nine grand.
And
the money for the flat.

Ha. As if that was the worst of it. If Steel thought this was bad, she’d hit the roof when she found out about Hamish’s last will and testament.

Six hundred and sixty-six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six pounds, and sixty-six pence kind of put the rest of it into perspective.

‘Gah…’

Maybe she was right: maybe that was why Harper had a file on him. They
knew
.

Oh God.

Might as well go into work on Monday and resign before they get disciplinary proceedings underway. Take Wee Hamish’s money and sod off somewhere warm, where they don’t extradite police officers who’ve taken two-thirds of a million quid from gangsters.

Steel sighed again. ‘Well, don’t just sit there – get the glasses.’

Logan scraped his chair back from the table. ‘I got on with him, OK? He fed me info on rival gangs and I put them away.’

She frowned at her fingers, ticking them against one another. ‘Forty-nine thousand quid; twenty-eight drams in a bottle; that’s forty-nine less twenty-eight … twenty-one … hundred and ninety-six…’

‘I wasn’t working for him. I wasn’t doing favours for him. I was arresting drug dealers who needed arresting anyway.’ Logan dug two tumblers out of the cupboard – the crystal ones, seeing how expensive the Glenfiddich was. ‘And I arrested
his
people too, when I got the chance. That was the deal: no preferential treatment.’

The glasses went on the table.

Steel squeaked the cork from the bottle. ‘One thousand, seven hundred and fifty quid a dram.’ She poured. ‘Call it three and a half grand for a double.’

He sat at the table. ‘I mean it.’

She shook her head. ‘I know you do, Laz. But if Harper gets wind of this, you’re screwed.’ Steel raised her glass in toast. ‘Here’s to getting rid of the evidence.’

‘Any … left?’ With the curtains closed and the collection of tealights on the mantelpiece, the living room was warm and cosy. Like a hug. Or a stomach full of takeaway curry, beer, wine, and
very
expensive whisky.

Steel blinked, then picked up the bottle and upended it over her glass. A thin stream of amber splashed into the bottom, dripped twice, then stopped. She sooked on the end, working her tongue into the neck to get out every last drop. Then sat back on the couch and squinted at him. ‘You better … better no’ be … perving on me, Laz. … Like … like something out … out of a porn flim.’

‘Porn film.
Film
. You said “flim”.’

‘No didn’t.’

‘Yes did.’ He covered his mouth as a smoky belch rattled free. ‘What do we do … with the bottle?’

‘Forty-nine …
thousand
pounds.’ She gave it a shoogle. ‘Never drunk whisky that … spensive before.’

Logan lurched to his feet. ‘I’ll get the … Balvenie.’

The floor was a bit wobbly beneath his feet, but he planted them wide apart and rode it out, lurching through the kitchen. Cthulhu hunched over her mat in the corner, crunching on cat biscuits.

‘Hello, sweetie. Hello. Who’s Daddy’s … special kittenfish? Hmm? Who’s Daddy’s love?’

She kept eating.

‘Be like that then.’ Through in the lounge the phone rang. Ringity ring, ring, ring. Logan picked the new bottle off the table, taking care in case it was as wobbly as the floor.

He made it as far as the lounge door, before the ringing stopped and the sound of his own recorded voice burst out of the machine. ‘
Hi, this is Logan. I’m not answering the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll try to get back to you soon as I can.
’

Steel was licking the inside of the Glenfiddich bottle again.

‘
Sergeant McRae?
’ Oh great, that central-belt accent could mean only one thing. ‘
It’s Detective Superintendent Harper. … It’s Niamh.
’

‘Oho!’ Steel stopped suckling and winked at him. ‘Niamh. Told you: she
loves
you. Smoochie smooch-smooch.’

‘Shut up.’ He lurched across to the answering machine, still clutching the Balvenie. ‘What do you want, Harpy woman?’

Silence from the machine.

‘
Logan, I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot. Clearly you’re a capable officer.
’

Maybe Steel was right?

The wrinkly wreck pulled herself upright. ‘Going for a pee. If she … if she propositions you, let me know.’

‘
I think we need to talk. Tomorrow, when you get into work, let me know. We have things to discuss.
’

A grin from Steel. ‘Like rubbing each … each other
all
over with
marmalade
and licking … licking it off.’ The doorbell rang and she blinked at the wall. ‘I’ll get it.’

‘
I may not have been entirely fair with you. So. Yes. Well.
’

She lurched from the room, singing away to herself. ‘Lazarus and Niamh, up a tree, H – U – M – P – I – N – G.’

‘
Anyway. We’ll talk tomorrow.
’

Bleeeeeep
.

OK, that was … odd. She should’ve been shouting the odds, berating him for telling her to sod off. So this afternoon she complained about him to Professional Standards, and now she was calling him up to try and mend bridges and build fences? Or was that the other way around?

Out in the hall, Steel was still going strong. ‘
First comes sex, then comes sneezes, then there’s itching cos you’ve caught diseases.
’

Maybe opening the Balvenie wasn’t the best of ideas?

Probably.

The front door clunked, and her voice took on its usual smoky growl. ‘Aye? Are you—’

A clatter.

A thump.

A muffled grunt.

Logan dumped the bottle on the couch and sprinted out into the hall.

Steel lay on her side, curled up in the foetal position, arms covering her head as a big bastard in a grey boilersuit and blue ski mask stamped on her ribs. Groaning every time a boot landed.

‘GET OFF HER!’ Logan grabbed at the equipment belt – still hanging over the end of the newel post – fumbled at the catch holding the extendable baton in place, and dragged the length of metal out.

Ski Mask stopped laying into Steel and lunged at him instead.

A flick of the wrist and the baton clacked out to its full length but not fast enough. Ski Mask barrelled into Logan, sending them both smashing back onto the stairs, the treads stabbing into Logan’s spine.

Hands grabbed at his head, shoving his face into the treads.

Another pair of hands. Ski Mask had a friend.

Logan swung the baton, but the friend grabbed his wrist, twisting the arm up behind his back. Red hot nails hammered into the shoulder joint, prising the bone and muscles apart. ‘AAAARRRGH!’

The pair of them dragged him over onto his front. Forcing his other arm round to join the right. Piling on the pressure until lines of burning wire tore their way from Logan’s wrists to his shoulders. The baton tumbled from his numb fingers and clattered against the laminate floor.

They hauled him upright, the pair of them pulling him around so he was facing the front door and Steel – struggling to her knees by the coat rack.