In the Cold Dark Ground (3 page)

Rennie slipped and went flat on his backside in the middle of the track.

‘Actually, I’m going to leave it there.’

‘And they made
that
a detective sergeant.’ Calamity sighed. ‘Isla says we’ve got half a dozen mispers on the books with tattoos. That’s going back three years, including the unsolveds.’

‘Half a dozen?’ Tufty stopped flapping. ‘How many without tattoos?’

‘Hundred and twelve.’ She shrugged. ‘Half the time no one bothers to tell us Uncle Stinky’s come home. Other half…’ Another shrug.

One of the DCs – Owen, was it? – hauled Rennie to his feet. Then picked up the stick and handed it back to him.

Yeah, because
that
was a good idea.

Probably end up putting someone’s eye out with it.

‘Don’t suppose it matters now. Not our case. It’s theirs.’ Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to take an interest, would it? Just in case. He cleared his throat. ‘Don’t suppose any of our tattooed half-dozen have a narwhal on their upper left arm?’

‘Nope. Or if they do it’s not in the database.’ She folded her arms, staring down at the three-man advance unit from Steel’s MIT. ‘Look at them. Here we are, serial killer on the loose, and our only hope for catching him is Tweedle-Dee, Tweedle-Dum, and their boss: Tweedle-Dumber.’

Couldn’t really argue with that.

‘Come on, we’ve got a division to police.’

Logan turned his back and headed for the car.

‘COME BACK HERE, YOU WEE SOD!’

But Lumpy Patrick was off, bone-thin arms and legs pumping for all he was worth. Long greasy strands of hair flapping about like damp string as he sprinted. Pilfered packs of bacon and cheese cascading from the pocket of his stained brown hoodie.

Logan grabbed hold of his peaked cap and gave chase through the rain.

They hammered down High Street with its strange collection of old stone buildings and harled monstrosities.

A lunge to the left and Lumpy sprinted across the road by the wee hidden library. A rusty Vauxhall Nova slammed on its brakes, the horn screeching out like an angry badger. Logan nipped across the back of it, picking up a bit of speed on the downhill run.

More tiny Scottish houses, their dark stone walls and slate roofs slick with rain.

A soggy woman at the bus stop watched them wheech past. Cigarette in one hand, can of energy drink in the other, screaming toddler kicking off in a pushchair.

Lumpy got to the corner and skidded round onto Skene Street, heading downhill back towards the centre of Macduff. Two packs of streaky and a chunk of cheddar went flying out into the road, where they were flattened by a Transit van.

Logan followed, pulse thumping in his ears – past rows of old grey buildings, past the chip shop, across the road, past the Plough Inn where a couple of damp smokers, sheltering in the doorway, stopped mid-fag to cheer Lumpy on.

He almost collided with an auld mannie coming out of Buttons & Bobs, skittered around him instead with some fancy footwork in his stained trainers, dropped another pack of smoked streaky, and kept on going. Ignoring the OAP’s torrent of abuse and rude gestures hurled at his back.

The gap was narrowing. Logan lengthened his stride, kept his mouth open. Long slow breaths, free arm swinging, the other keeping his hat in place.

Sploshed through a puddle.

Where the hell was Calamity?

Then a gap opened up between the buildings on the right – at street level, the house on this side looked single storey, but the ground dropped away sharply on the other side of a wall, had to be at least twenty feet.

Lumpy didn’t even pause: he vaulted up onto the wall and jumped, arms windmilling.

Sod that.

Logan screeched to a halt, grabbed the wall.

A line of garages stretched away from him, about twelve feet down: parking for the four-storey block of flats on the other side of the gap. Lumpy was back on his feet, limping along the line of corrugated roofs.

Gah.

Deep breath. Then up. Logan scrambled onto the wall and over the other side. Dropping like a breezeblock. The garage roof rushed up to meet him, then
BANG
he was through it, clattering into the empty garage in a hail of broken grey slabs and dust.

The concrete floor was a lot less forgiving.

Ow…

He lay there, flat on his back, staring up at the drizzle.

Dragged in a ragged breath.

Everything hurt. Arms, legs, back, head. Even his teeth hurt.

Probably did himself a serious injury.

Probably broke something, other than the roof, in the fall.
Probably going to die of a punctured lung, right here on the garage floor, and no one would know till the owner of whatever flat it belonged to came home and discovered his body.

Ow…

And then his Airwave bleeped at him. Calamity’s voice came through, sounding out of breath. ‘
Shire Uniform … Seven, … safe to talk?
’

Come on. Up.

He raised his head off the floor an inch. The garage was a mess, littered with bits of broken roof. Lined with stacks of cardboard boxes all bound up with parcel tape.

Up!

Nope.

Let his head thunk back down again.

Here lie the mortal remains of Logan Balmoral McRae, between the old copies of
National Geographic
and that fondue set we got from Aunty Christine and never used. Decorated police officer. Absent son. Dutiful boyfriend. Sperm-donor father of two little monsters. He is survived by a girlfriend in a coma, a small fuzzy cat called Cthulhu, and a huge credit card bill.

His Airwave bleeped again. ‘
Shire Uniform Seven? Sarge? Are you OK?
’

No.

He struggled onto his side. Then to his knees.

Ow…

Pressed the talk button. ‘Where
were
you?’

‘
Got him, Sarge. Lumpy was pelting full tilt down Low Shore – pulled out right in front of him.
’ A laugh. ‘
You should’ve seen it, went sprawling across the bonnet, all arms and legs and packets of Edam.
’

Logan hauled himself upright, wobbled a little. Leaned on the wall. ‘Come get me.’

The coast slid by the window, grey and dreich, robbed of colour by the driving rain. The Big Car’s wipers squeaked and squonked across the glass, thumping at the end of each smeared arc. The noise fought against the roaring blowers – on full, and losing the battle against Lumpy Patrick’s truly
unique
odour.

Rancid onions and garlic and off cheese, underpinned by something warm, diseased, and peppery.

‘God’s sake…’ Calamity buzzed her window down an inch, letting in the roar of the road and the hiss of the rain. ‘Did you go swimming in a septic tank, Lumpy?’

He was hunched in the back seat, with his hands cuffed behind his back, unwashed hair covering his face, hiding him from the rear-view mirror. ‘Said I was sorry.’

Logan turned away and stared out of the passenger window. The North Sea pounded against the cliffs, slate grey against dirty brown. Or was it the Moray Firth here? Either way it wasn’t happy.

Calamity shuddered. ‘You sure we can’t put the blues and twos on, Sarge?’

‘Sharing an enclosed space with Lumpy Patrick isn’t an emergency. Police Scotland frowns on that kind of thing.’

A sniff from the back seat. ‘Not my fault. It’s my glands.’

‘It’s being allergic to soap and water.’

More rain. More cliffs.

Then the road twisted away inland.

Another sniff. ‘This shoplifting thing. Any chance, you know: slap on the wrists and that? Learned my lesson. Promise to be a good boy in the future?’

Calamity laughed. ‘You’re kidding, right? How many times is this now? Sheriff’s probably going to make an example of you, Lumpy. Can’t have druggies nicking all the bacon and cheese in Banff and Macduff.’

‘Didn’t nick it. I was… It… Hold on. I found it. Yeah. Found it.’

‘Course you did.’ Logan shifted his legs in the footwell. Grimaced as little shards of ice gouged through his left ankle. Bloody garage roof. What was the point of building a garage if the roof wasn’t sturdy enough for someone to land on it without going straight through?

‘You know what, Lumpy?’ She threw a scowl at the rear-view mirror. ‘I tried to get some smoked streaky for butties yesterday and there wasn’t a single pack in Tesco
or
the Copey. You and your druggy mates had the lot on five-finger discount.’

More shards of ice when he rotated the ankle left and right. Should’ve strapped it up and stuck some frozen peas on it. Probably be the size of a melon by the time they reached Fraserburgh station.

‘What do you think, Sarge? Four months? Out in two with good behaviour?’

Not to mention all the paperwork needed to compensate the garage’s owner.

‘You’re screwed, Lumpy.’ Calamity grinned. ‘But look on the bright side: at least you’ll get regular showers in the nick. It’ll do your social life a world of good, not smelling like a dead sheep.’

She slowed down for the limits at New Aberdour. Then put her foot down again a minute later when they’d passed through the matching set on the way out. Then buzzed her window down a little further. ‘Can’t believe we’ve got to suffer this all the way to Fraserburgh.’

The kettle rattled and pinged its way to a boil. A dirty-cauliflowery smell pervaded the canteen, giving it the unwelcome ambience of a hospital waiting room. The place was at least four times bigger than the one back at Banff station, with not one but
two
vending machines, an open-plan kitchen area, a picture window, a row of recycling bins, comfy sofas, big flatscreen TV, and enough space to hold a reasonably intimate ceilidh if you moved the four tables up against the walls.

A faint buzzing oozed out of vending machine number two – which was out of chocolate – competing with the mindless drone of some Cash-in-the-Bargain-Hunt-Cheap-and-Nasty-Antiques-Car-Boot-Sale rubbish coming from the TV.

Logan retrieved the remote and switched the TV off, killing a permatanned idiot mid-ramble, leaving nothing but buzzing and rattling in the large yellow room that smelled like hospitals.

He put the remote control down.

A voice, behind him. ‘What’s with the face?’

Logan didn’t look around. ‘Just thinking.’

‘Sounds dangerous.’

He turned back to the kettle as it clicked itself off. Dumped a teabag in a dayglow pink mug with ‘World’s Greatest Duty Sergeant’ printed around the outside. Poured boiled water in on top. ‘You want a tea?’

‘Can’t. Persistent vegetative state, remember?’

‘Yeah…’ He stirred the bag, turning the water brown. ‘Do you think you’ll feel anything? When they switch you off?’

Her hand was warm on his shoulder. ‘When
they
switch me off?’

Logan dug the bag out of the mug with the spoon. Squeezed it against the side to make it bleed. ‘Will it hurt?’

‘What’s this “they” business? After all we’ve been through, you’re wimping out on me?’

Milk.

‘Don’t make me…’

‘Logan.’ A pause. Then the hand on his shoulder squeezed. ‘Logan, look at me.’

He puffed out a breath. Put the semi-skimmed down on the countertop. Turned.

Her hair glowed scarlet in the canteen lights. Tribal tattoos poked out from the sleeves of her skull-and-crossbones T-shirt, their spikes mixing with skulls and hearts and swirls. But the ink wasn’t bright and vibrant any more, it was faded and grey, as if she’d been photocopied one time too many. A gold ring looped through the edge of one nostril, semiprecious stones glittering in lines up the outside edge of her ears. She smiled at him and the small stainless-steel ball bearing that stuck out below her bottom lip turned into a dimple. ‘I’m not going to feel anything, OK?’ Samantha draped her arms over his shoulders, stepping in close. ‘I died five years ago. This is just housekeeping.’

‘That why I don’t… I don’t really
feel
anything?’

‘Hmmm.’ She sighed. ‘Speaking of which: this morning, the body in the woods. You used to care, Logan. You used to feel for them. You used to empathize. What happened?’

Outside the picture window, rain lashed the streets of Fraserburgh, drummed on the roof of parked cars. Sent an old man with an umbrella hurrying across the road.

Logan frowned. Shrugged. ‘I was just doing my job. You heard what Calamity said: covering the face dehumanized the body. Made it less of a person. Doesn’t mean I don’t care.’

‘Maybe it’s not the victim who’s been dehumanized.’

The old man lost hold of his umbrella and it went dancing away in the wind, pirouetting and whirling into the distance as its owner stumped after it.

To add insult to injury, a small red hatchback wheeched past on the road, right through a puddle that sent a wall of water crashing over the stumpy man. He stood there, arms out, dripping, staring after the disappearing car.

‘Logan?’ Samantha pulled his face back to hers. ‘I’m worried about you.’

‘If that auld mannie’s any sort of proper Brocher, he’s going to hunt them down and shove that umbrella up their backsides. Then open it.’

‘Logan, I’m serious.’

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. ‘I’m doing my best.’

‘I know you are. But if you leave it to someone else to switch me off on Friday, I swear on God’s Holy Banjo I’ll rise from the grave and kick your pasty—’

‘Sarge?’

Logan blinked. Cleared his throat. ‘Calamity.’

‘That’s Lumpy Patrick been processed. Says he doesn’t want a lawyer, which is a first. With any luck we can burst him and get back to Banff before half three.’ She looked left, then right, checking no one was eavesdropping. ‘Or, if you’re still strapped for cash, we could spin it out a bit for the overtime?’

A deep breath hissed its way out. ‘Right. Yes. No. Let’s get home.’

‘You OK, Sarge?’

He forced a smile. ‘Vending machine’s out of chocolate.’

Little creases appeared between her eyebrows. ‘You
sure
you’re OK? Was one hell of a fall. We could get the duty doctor in?’

‘It’s fine. Never better. Now, did—’ His phone launched into ‘The Imperial March’ from
Star Wars
, dark and ominous. He closed his eyes. Scrunched his face up. ‘Great.’ Then sighed and pulled his mobile out. Nodded at Calamity. ‘Stick Lumpy in Interview Two – and make sure the window’s open. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ As soon as she left the room, he pressed the button. ‘What?’

A pause. Then Steel’s voice grated out of the earpiece, like smoked gravel. ‘
That any way to talk to a Detective Chief Inspector, you cheeky wee sod?
’ She snorted. ‘
And what the hell were you thinking, turning up a body in the middle of nowhere, in the mud and the rain? Shoes are like squelchy buckets of yuck now.
’

‘Is there a point to this call, or did you just ring up to moan? Only I’m off shift in ten, and I’ve got a suspect to interview. So…?’

‘
Oh aye? And what’s your suspect saying to it? You got a line on my victim you’re no’ sharing with me?
’

‘OK, I’m hanging up now.’

‘
Oh don’t be such a girl, Laz.
’ There was a sooking noise. Then a sigh. ‘
Called to do you a favour. Our beloved Chief Superintendent Napier – the Ginger Ninja, the Nosy Nosferatu, the Copper-Top Catastrophe, the Duracell Devil himself – is on the prowl. So watch your back… Hold on.
’ A muffled conversation happened in the background, the words too far away to hear properly.

Samantha raised her eyebrows. Pointed at the phone. Made the universal hand gesture for onanism. ‘Oh, and I want a
proper
send off. Black coffin, red silk lining, all my bits and bobs, OK? Full battle-paint. And that leather corset. Not going to meet the worms dressed like someone’s mum.’