In the Cold Dark Ground (33 page)

He stepped closer.

Her head looked strange. Unfamiliar. As if… He reached out and stroked her forehead, where the dent should have been. ‘You fixed it.’

‘We wanted to do you proud, Mr McRae.’

‘She’s beautiful.’ Just like she was in the photo from Rennie’s wedding. Make-up perfect: warpaint and piercings. They’d even managed to make her skin look like living flesh again. Samantha’s tattoos stood out bright and clear, as if they were brand new.

‘Would you like a moment?’

‘Please.’

‘I’ll be right outside if you need anything.’ Andy turned and glided from the room, as if he was mounted on silent castors.

Logan pulled on a smile. ‘Alone at last.’

No reply.

He held up the Jiffy bag. ‘Present for you.’ He dug out the hardback copy of Stephen King’s
The Stand
and tucked it into the coffin beside her. ‘Got it online. It’s signed.’

He stood there. Shuffled his feet. Put a hand on her bare shoulder, then flinched that hand away. Samantha’s skin was cold to the touch.

Well of course it was. She might look like she was asleep, but that didn’t mean Andy hadn’t taken her body from the mortuary fridge while Logan was on the phone in the car park outside.

Not sleeping, just dead.

‘Sarge?’

Logan looked up from his computer. Blinked a couple of times. ‘Rennie.’

Rennie crept into the Sergeants’ Office, carrying two mugs of tea and a manila folder. ‘Tea.’ He put the mugs down on the desk, then checked over his shoulder before handing Logan the folder. As if they were spies meeting up in a car park to swap state secrets.

OK.

‘You don’t have to call me “Sarge”, we’re the same rank.’

‘Force of habit.’ Rennie settled into the seat opposite. Grinned. ‘Go on then, open it.’

Logan did. Inside were a wodge of printouts and a gold-and-red packet about the size of an old-fashioned video cassette. He raised an eyebrow. ‘That what I think it is?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Close the door.’

While Rennie was hiding them from the prying eyes of the outside world, Logan ripped his way into the Tunnock’s tasty caramel wafers. Tossed one onto the other side of the desk and helped himself to another. ‘To what do we owe the honour?’

‘She Who Must Be Feared And Obeyed. Says when we’re done with tea and treats we’re to sod off and grab some snooze-time.’ Rennie unwrapped his chocolate wafer and took a big bite, getting little flecks of brown all down his chin. ‘Make sure we’re all rested and ready for tonight.’

The wafer turned to blotting paper in Logan’s mouth. ‘Tonight?’

‘The drugs raid?’

‘Oh God.’ Logan curled forward and thunked his forehead on the desk.

‘What?’

Perfect, because having Harper and her sidekick tag along wasn’t bad enough.

Thunk
.

‘What’s, “Oh God”?’

He left his head against the cool wooden surface. ‘You and Steel want in on my drugs raid.’

‘Yeah, well, you know. If it proves important to the investigation into Peter Shepherd’s death, Steel wants—’

‘To muscle in on any credit going.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly put it that—’

‘She’s out of luck. You can inform Her Royal Scruffiness that I’ve already got Detective Superintendent Harper, Detective Inspector Singh, and a Chief Inspector from Elgin on board. There’s going to be more top brass on this dunt than
actual
police officers.’ He straightened up. ‘I should’ve let Beaky have it.’ Logan frowned. ‘Wonder if it’s too late?’

Rennie tore another chunk off his wafer. ‘It’ll be like old times. You, me, and the Holy Wrinkled Terror – on the path of truth and justice. Kicking in doors and taking names.’

Thunk
.

‘What? Why are you banging your head off the desk?’

Thunk
.
Thunk
.
Thunk
.

‘
…after the news. But first it’s nine o’clock and things are hotting up on
Britain’s Next Big Star
as Jacinta and Benjamin face sudden death—
’

Logan killed the telly and swigged back the last dregs of his tea. ‘Right, you little monster – Daddy has to go dunt in someone’s door.’ He scooped Cthulhu off the sofa and turned her upside down. Gave her a kiss on her soft white tummy. ‘Whose daddy loves her? Is it you? Yes it is,
your
daddy loves— Not again.’

Cthulhu wriggled free as his phone blared out its anonymous ringtone. She jumped to the floor, all four feet making a loud
thump
as she touched down. About as graceful as a dropped microwave.

He pulled out his phone. ‘McRae.’

A sharp, loud voice stabbed into his ear. ‘
How dare you call and leave abusive messages on my phone, Logan Balmoral McRae! I am your
mother
and you will not—
’

He hung up. Then brought up his call history and blocked her number. Glowered at the screen for a bit.

Sod her.

Logan hauled his stabproof vest on over his police-issue fleece, got into his equipment belt, and topped the lot with his high-viz jacket. What every sharply dressed man about town was wearing this season. On with the hat, then out into the driving sleet.

His phone went again as he hurried across the car park.

Tough.

Logan pushed his way through the tradesman’s entrance and into the warmth of the station. Stamped his feet free of gritty grey snow.

Laughter boomed out into the corridor from the canteen. ‘
Come on then, what did you do?
’

‘
Only thing I could – threw up on it.
’

More laughter.

He kept going, through into the main office. No one around. And with any luck it would stay that way till everything was sorted.

Logan slipped off his jacket and stepped into the Sergeants’ Office. Stopped. Tried
really
hard not to swear.

Harper was sitting in his seat, an open file on the desk in front of her. ‘Sergeant.’

‘Sir.’

She pointed. ‘You’re supposed to leave your equipment in the locker room. Officers are
not
authorized to take police property home with them. Especially not extendable batons and CS gas!’

Logan hung his jacket up, leaving it to drip on the carpet tiles. ‘And it’s lovely to see you too, Niamh.’

‘Don’t you dare
Niamh
me, Sergeant, you’re—’

‘One: my shift doesn’t start for another fifty minutes, so I’m not on duty. You asked me to call you Niamh when I’m not on duty. Two: the Sergeant’s Hoose belongs to Police Scotland, so my equipment belt has remained on police property since I left here at five. And three: I
do
have permission. Check with Inspector McGregor.’ He scritched off his stabproof vest. ‘Now, is there anything else I can help you with?’

‘Hmmm…’ Harper pursed her lips and swivelled left and right in his seat for a moment. ‘Is everything organized for the operation this evening?’

‘Why do you think I came in early?’

The Operational Support Unit van rocked on its springs as another gust of wind punched it in the ribs. Every seat in the van was taken – Tufty, Calamity, Isla at the back; the three officers from Elgin and their Chief Inspector in the middle, the four-man OSU team in the front, which barely left standing room for Harper, Narveer, Steel, Rennie, Logan, and the Police Dog Officer. Which was a shame, because she absolutely
reeked
of wet dog and it was impossible to get away from the smell.

Everyone in the van was dressed in full armoured ninja black – with kneepads, gauntlets, and elbow guards. Well, everyone except Harper and Steel, who looked as if they’d just crashed a very strange fancy-dress party.

Five minutes and it was already getting muggy in here, thick with the smell of stale clothes, damp dog, and warm bodies. The windows fogging up.

Logan pulled out his plastic folder of paperwork and held it up. ‘One last time.’

A groan from one of the Elgin contingent.

‘I don’t care if you’ve heard it before, you’re hearing it again. Ricky and Laura Welsh have form for violence, so watch yourself. They’re unlikely to have firearms, but their Saint Bernard makes Cujo look like Basil Brush – anyone who doesn’t have their Bite Back with them will
not
be allowed in that house until the dog’s been made safe. Am I clear?’

A smattering of, ‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Good. Sergeant Mitchell, you’re up.’

The huge figure sitting in the passenger seat pulled his helmet on. It grazed the van’s ceiling – he was that big. ‘
Mesdames et Messieurs
, grab your bonce protectors and gird your loins. In the immortal words of the Bard:
il est temps de mettre sur le maquillage, il est temps d’allumer les lumières
!’

The other three members of his team gave a synchronized bark of, ‘Hooah!’ and fastened their helmets.

Logan cracked open the van’s side door. ‘You heard the man.’ He backed out onto the sleety road as everyone did what they were told.

Well, everyone except Steel and Harper. And Narveer, but then there was no way he’d get a crash helmet on over his turban.

The smell of soggy canine got worse for a moment as the Police Dog Officer picked her way past, heading for the other van and its contingent of Alsatians and Labradors.

Steel and Harper joined Logan out on the road.

‘You’re no’ serious about that Saint Bernard, are you?’ Steel’s words billowed out on a cloud of fog, turned a pale yellow by the streetlights.

‘Thing’s massive. Looks like someone crossed a velociraptor with a highland cow.’ He fastened on his own helmet – pulling the chinstrap tight – unlocked the Big Car, and slipped behind the wheel.

Steel stuck her hand up. ‘Shotgun!’ Then scrambled into the passenger side, leaving Harper with the back seat.

Soon as she climbed in, Logan clicked the button on his Airwave. ‘Shire Uniform…’ Ah, no he wasn’t. Stubby was duty sergeant for as long as he was seconded to the MIT. ‘Sorry, force of habit. Sergeant McRae to Sergeant Mitchell. Operation Kermit is on.’

‘
Roger that, we’re rolling.’

The OSU van pulled away from the kerb and turned left at the end of the street. After a couple of beats, the dog van followed it.

Logan pulled on his thick leather gloves.

Harper leaned forward and poked him on the shoulder. ‘What are we waiting for, Sergeant?’

‘You to put your seatbelt on. Sir.’

Steel produced her e-cigarette and puffed on it. ‘Brother Sergeant and Sister Sir. Oh, the family fun you whacky kids have these days.’

‘I see.’ A click from the back seat. ‘Right, well, go ahead.’

Mitchell’s voice came over the speakers. ‘
Easy now… Baz: Big Red Door Key. Davy, you and me are first in. Carole, you’ve got the hoolie bar.’

Logan eased the Big Car out and took the same left as the vans.

Most of Macduff was in darkness, just the ribbons of streetlights holding everything together. A right. Then another left onto Manner Street.

Not a living soul to be seen. The only blot on the stillness was the two big white vans in yellow-and-blue police livery.

‘
Ready when you are, Sergeant McRae.’

He pressed the button again. ‘And we’re clear. Go, go, go!’ The Big Car roared forward as Logan rammed his foot hard down.

Granite cottages flashed by on either side, the North Sea a wall of solid black dead ahead. He slammed on the brakes and the Big Car slithered on the sleety tarmac, stopping with two wheels up on the kerb. He jumped out.

A swarm of ninjas burst from the OSU van – the huge figures of Sergeant Mitchell’s team taking the lead. One of them clutched a mini battering ram, another held an elongated crowbar with a dirty big spike sticking out of it. Everyone else piled up in a big lump behind them.

The Dog Officer’s van skidded to a halt, less than a foot from the other van’s bumper. She leapt out onto the kerb then hauled open the sliding side door as Logan joined the back of the queue.

One of Mitchell’s team swung the Big Red Door Key and
BANG
, the cottage door went crashing in.

The other one – Carole? – swung the hoolie bar, shattering the living room window with the spike, raking the pick around the frame to dislodge the loose glass. Ripping the Venetian blinds away from their mountings.

The Dog Officer charged past Logan, one hand wrapped around the lead of her massive Alsatian.

And they were in.

A dark house. Narrow corridor with doors leading off to either side and one at the end.

‘POLICE, NOBODY MOVE!’

Barks went off like gunshots in the confined space.

Then answering barks from deeper inside the house. Deep and huge.

Logan shouldered the door on the left and burst into a double bedroom. Unmade bed, wardrobe door lying open, socks and pants scattered on the floor. No sign of Ricky or Laura Welsh.

Back into the hall. Almost.

It was crowded with bodies in riot gear and the sound of elbow pads thumping off the walls. Then swearing as something kicked off at the front of the line.

‘GET THAT BLOODY DOG!’

‘AAAAAARGH!’

‘SHE’S GOT A KNIFE!’

Screw this.

Logan forced his way past Tufty, and out the front door. Grabbed Isla by the stabproof vest. ‘You, with me!’ He pounded down the pavement and skittered around the side of the terrace, nearly losing his footing on the sleet-crusted paving slabs.

There – an eight-foot wall with a wheelie bin in front of it.

He scrambled up and over, tumbled down the other side and crashed into a deformed snowman, knocking its head off. Got to his feet as Isla clattered down into the dark beside him, flat on her back.

‘Aaagh…’ Flailing arms and limbs.

Logan ran for the adjoining wall between this garden and the one next door.

‘It’s OK, I’m fine, I’m fine…’

Over the wall.

He landed and a security light blared on, illuminating a swing set and a shed.

One more to go.

He fought his way over a wooden fence and into Ricky Welsh’s back garden about two seconds before the kitchen door battered off its hinges. Someone in riot gear crashed out backwards, wrestling with a Saint Bernard the size of a hairy Godzilla. They rolled into the rectangle of yellow light cast through the kitchen window.

It was Claire, the huge woman from the Operational Support Unit, her mouth wide open in a snarling scream as the dog tried to take her head off.

Teeth flashed, saliva spattering her faceguard, huge paws pressing her into the lawn. Claire’s hands jabbed out, wrapping around the Saint Bernard’s throat, elbows locked, holding it back. ‘AAAAAAARGH! GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF!’

Ricky Welsh burst from the ruined doorframe, hurdled both dog and officer, and sprinted for the back wall – a six-foot-tall stretch of granite and crumbling harling topped with six inches of snow and ice.

Logan fumbled in his stabproof’s pocket for the tin of Bite Back. Pulled it out and sprayed half the can at the St Bernard’s muzzle. It blinked and made whimpery mewling noises. Backed away, shaking its head. Confused and disorientated.

Now, everything stank of cloves.

Isla thumped into the garden, landing on her feet this time.

Then the Dog Officer and her Alsatian exploded out of the kitchen, the big dog barking on the end of its lead.

Logan pointed at the back wall. No sign of Ricky Welsh. ‘That way!’

The Dog Officer battered past, going the long way around to keep her Alsatian away from the dissipating cloud of Bite Back. Over the wall. And away.

He sprinted after them, breath burning in his lungs. Sweat made tiny rivers down his back, between the shoulder blades, as he clambered up the wall. He paused at the top, one leg hooked over the other side.

Isla scrambled up beside him. ‘Where is he?’

Ricky Welsh had cleared the garden it backed on to, making for a break between two of the houses. One more fence and he’d be out.

Then the Dog Officer released the hounds. Well, hound.

Her Alsatian raced free of its leash and cleared the wall Ricky had just clambered over in a single leap. Crossed the lawn in a couple of bounds. Then lunged for Ricky’s flailing legs.

Its teeth snapped shut on an ankle.

Ricky screamed.

Isla cheered.

He tumbled backwards into the snow and curled into a ball, with his arms crossed over his face, flinching at every bark of the big dog.

The officer caught up with her Alsatian, shoved Ricky Welsh over onto his front and cuffed him. Then looked up, grinned, and gave them two thumbs.

Result.

It was about time something went right for a change.