In the Cold Dark Ground (37 page)

There was a pause, then the unit buzzed and the door popped open an inch.

Urquhart leaned on it, exposing a short corridor with a flight of stairs at the end. He held the door for Logan, dropping his voice to a whisper as soon as they were inside. ‘I told Reuben about Stevie Fowler. He is
not
happy.’

‘What a shock.’ Logan kept his hand on the gun. It was still in its bags, but the outline of the thing was clear enough. No idea if it would be fireable though – not without jabbing his finger through the freezer bags to pull the trigger.

‘He’s getting worse. And yeah, I know that sounds hard to believe, but it’s like breakdancing in a sodding minefield right now.’

Logan stopped at the foot of the stairs and stared at Urquhart. ‘So we kill him.’

A frown. Urquhart licked his lips. ‘Mr McRae, it’s—’

‘We get him out to one of the pig farms and we put a bullet in him. Let the pigs take care of the rest.’

Silence.

Urquhart stared down at the shiny black tips of his shoes. ‘Mr McRae, I’m not supposed to take sides, OK? I’m meant to be impartial, like, you know the Civil Service? You and Reuben, you’re the Tories and Labour, whichever side wins is the next government. My job’s to make sure the country still runs. Implement policy, and that.’

‘Impartial?’ Logan poked Urquhart in the chest. ‘
You
were the one who told me to kill him!’

‘Yeah, well.’ A shrug. ‘You know, that’s impartial advice, isn’t it? Just saying what Mr Mowat thought.’

‘So, what, you’re happy for me to shoot Reuben, as long as you don’t have to get your hands dirty? That it?’

‘I can’t take—’

‘You said it yourself: he’s getting worse. What’s it going to be like when he starts a war?’

‘But—’

‘This is what Hamish wanted. What other option do
we
have?’

Urquhart dragged in a deep breath. Stared at his shoes again. ‘We don’t.’

‘Tonight. Tell him we have to talk about Steven Fowler nicking his drugs and selling them to Jessica Campbell, and we have to do it at the pig farm so no one knows we’re meeting. Can you sort it?’

A nod. ‘Think so.’

‘And no witnesses. You, me, and him there: no one else.’

Urquhart nodded. Bit his bottom lip. ‘Does this mean you’re taking charge? Because—’

‘Hello?’ The door at the top of the stairs opened and a middle-aged woman with lacquered hair and 1950s Dame Edna glasses. Her pink cardigan was buttoned all the way up. ‘Is there something wrong?’

Urquhart waved at her. ‘Sorry, had to tie my shoelace. Be right up.’

‘Well, the reading is about to start and Mr Moir-Farquharson is a very busy man.’

‘Of course.’ He hurried up the stairs and Logan followed him, through into a reception area lined with historic views of Aberdeen in gilded frames, mounted on dark mahogany panelling.

She waved a hand toward the door on the far side of the room. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson is waiting for you.’

‘Of course.’ Urquhart gave a short bow. ‘Thank you, Mrs Jeffries. Always a pleasure.’

Logan opened the door.

It was a conference room, with a long oak table down the middle and views out through a pair of mullioned windows to the heart of Golden Square. Which was basically one big pay-and-display car park with a few trees around the central bank of parking and a statue in the middle. All drab and squashed under the pale-grey sky.

Reuben stood by a side table, helping himself to a cup of tea and a raisin whirl. The expensive suit managed to even out some of the bulges, but he still looked massive. Dangerous. His hands dwarfed the thin china cup. His scarred face turned, eyes drifting up Logan, then down again. A grunt. ‘About time.’

A tall, dapper man sat at the head of the long table in a dark suit that looked even more expensive than Reuben’s. The hair at his temples was solid white, beneath a lid of greying black. Distinguished. Patriarchal. The only thing slightly out of kilter was the squint nose. He checked his watch, then pulled on a thin smile. ‘And we can begin.’

The only other person in the room was a shrunken woman with pink-tinged hair and hands taloned with arthritis. Skin hung in loose wattles from her chin to the neck of her tweed jacket, her face like a scrunched-up chamois leather, her eyes polished onyx buried in the folds.

Sandy Moir-Farquharson dipped into a leather briefcase and came out with a leather folder. Opened it like a tomb. And began to read. ‘“I, Hamish Alexander Selkirk Mowat, being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament…’

‘Sign here, and here…’ Moir-Farquharson pointed, and Logan scrawled his signature in the appropriate places. ‘And here.’

Outside the conference room window, the skies had darkened to the colour of a burned body. Thick white flakes drifted down amongst the cars parked outside, falling on Porsches and manky Fiat Puntos alike.

‘And here. And lastly, here.’

Logan did.

The solicitor took the documents back and blew on the signatures, as if they’d been done with a quill rather than a Police Scotland biro. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall instruct my colleagues to set the wheels in motion.’ He stood. ‘Thank you for your patience, everyone.’

The little old lady nodded, setting her wattles swaying. ‘He was a good man and all.’

Reuben hadn’t moved for the last half hour. No sign of life, except for the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching.

She sighed. ‘And
very
generous. Three hundred thousand pounds, just for cleaning his house.’ She brought out a handkerchief and dabbed at a wrinkly eye. ‘A braw man.’ She waved one of her claws at Urquhart. ‘Can you help me up?’

‘Of course, Mrs P. You lean on me.’ Urquhart got her to her feet and guided her across the wooden floor with its fancy rug and out into the reception.

As soon as they were gone, Reuben bared his teeth. ‘Two-thirds of a
million
.’

Logan stared at the ceiling – moulded and pristine, with a modest chandelier. ‘Nothing to do with me: it’s what Hamish wanted.’

‘Pin your lugs back, McRae: you screw about with this will, you stand in the way or delay
anything
, I’m going to carve—’

‘For God’s sake, Reuben, give it a rest.’

‘Who the hell do you think you’re—’

‘Yes, you’re all big and scary. Well done.’ Logan’s hand wrapped around the evidence bag in his pocket, feeling the outline of the gun. Its weight. ‘You think this is easy for me? I’m a police officer. This is all profits from crime and I’m supposed to divvy it up between a bunch of thugs and gangsters. How’s that going to look?’ He shook his head. ‘Should hand the whole thing over to the National Crime Agency and let them deal with it.’

A growl rumbled across the table.

‘Don’t worry: I won’t. I promised Hamish.’ Logan gave up on the ceiling and looked at the glowering lump of hate and gristle sitting opposite instead. ‘We need to talk about Stevie Fowler.’

A big fat finger poked across the table. ‘I want that bastard out on bail. I want him where I can get at him.’

‘Not possible. Too many top brass were there when he was arrested. They know about his confession. Hell, they’re falling over each other to claim credit for it. He stays where he is.’

‘When I say I want him out, I want – him – out!’

‘And I say, he’s not going anywhere.’ Logan tightened his grip on the gun. ‘If you want him, you’ll have to go after him where he is.’

‘Wow.’ Urquhart sauntered back into the room, closing the door behind him. ‘Mrs P, eh? What a woman.’ He helped himself to a chocolate mini-roll, popping the thing in his mouth whole, chewing with his mouth open. ‘“Cleaning house”, eh? Never heard it called that before.’

Reuben’s finger swung down and ground itself into the desk, as if he was stubbing out a cigar. ‘Where are my damn drugs?’

‘Same thing. They’re evidence and everyone knows about them.’

He lunged like a Saint Bernard, back hunched, huge paws on the table. Barking, spittle flying: ‘I WANT MY BLOODY DRUGS BACK!’

Urquhart’s eyes bugged. ‘Shhhh! Jesus, Reuben, you want everyone in Aberdeen to hear? Come on, calm the beans, man, yeah?’

Reuben glowered at him.

‘You know it makes sense, right? Calm. We can’t talk about this here. Too many ears.’ He licked his lips and snuck a glance at Logan. ‘How about we meet up later, just the three of us? Sort out what we’re going to do about that two-faced git, Fowler, and his thieving mate. Stealing from us and flogging it to one of Ma Campbell’s dealers? Who does he think we are, Clangers?’

The big man stayed where he was.

‘Reuben – calm – dude. We can sort it. Mr McRae’s on the team, aren’t you, Mr McRae?’

Logan let go of the gun. ‘Of course I am.’ He nodded at the copy of Wee Hamish Mowat’s will he’d got in his executor’s pack. ‘I know you don’t like what’s in there, but it ties me to the organization. I’m up to my ears whether I like it or not.’

A grunt, then Reuben stood up straight, towering over the pair of them. ‘Where?’

‘Call it midnight, when no one’s about.’ Urquhart gave a small shrug, as if it wasn’t important. As if this was the most natural thing in the world. ‘How about … West Gairnhill Farm? That’s good, isn’t it? Secluded.’

‘Fine. Midnight.’ Reuben jabbed his finger at Logan again. ‘Be there.’ Then he turned and lumbered from the room like a well-dressed grizzly bear. And every bit as deadly.

As the door swung shut, Logan slumped in his seat and covered his face with his hands. ‘Gah.’

Urquhart blew out a long breath. ‘If it were done, when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’ So he couldn’t spell in a text message, but quoting Shakespeare was OK? ‘Anyway, better get off.’ Urquhart let out another elongated sigh. ‘Places to go, people to kill.’

‘No, I wanted to make sure everything was OK, that’s all.’ Logan leaned against the windowsill, looking down at the street below as Reuben’s rounded figure hunched its way towards a dark-blue Bentley.

On the other end of the phone, Andy had his professional voice on, the pronunciation crisp and calm. Soothing. ‘
Everything’s under control, Mr McRae. We brought Samantha down an hour ago, so don’t worry – she’ll arrive on time. And I’ve checked with the church, they have all the Order of Services ready to hand out and the organist has been practising his rendition of “Welcome to the Black Parade”. Apparently it sounds like quite something on a completely refurbished three-manual Willis organ.
’

‘Thanks, Andy.’

‘
Anything I can do to help, please give me a call.
’

The conference room door opened and Sandy Moir-Farquharson, AKA: Hissing Sid, slipped in. ‘Mr McRae, thank you for staying behind.’

‘Sorry, Andy, got to go.’ He hung up and put his phone away as Moir-Farquharson sat at the head of the table again.

‘Now, there are a few things we need you to do as executor of Mr Mowat’s will, then there’s the matter of the bequest he left you.’

The two-thirds of a million.

Logan sat. ‘What if I don’t want it?’

‘Then you’re free to give it away to charity. Mr Mowat has made provision for the money to be held in escrow, awaiting your retirement from the police. That way you would not be … embarrassed by the sudden arrival of such a large sum in your bank account.’

‘In escrow?’

‘Essentially, there will be nothing connecting you to the aforementioned bequest until you cease to be a serving police officer. Should you decide to retire to the Dordogne, for example. Or perhaps the Isle of Man? Then the bequest will be made at your disposal.’

Logan drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘Nothing connecting me to it at
all
?’

Moir-Farquharson pointed. ‘Please stop doing that.’ Then straightened his tie. ‘Your affairs will be treated with the utmost discretion. And you know how discreet we can be here.’

That much was true. Getting anything out of Hissing Sid was like trying to remove a granite boulder from a cliff face using a broken toothpick. Even
with
a warrant.

‘I only require from you guidance as to how you wish the money employed while it’s in escrow. Mr Mowat made allowance for investing a portion in a managed fund, for example. It could provide you with a very acceptable pension, should you wish.’

Which was more than working for the police did these days.

Logan picked a point over Moir-Farquharson’s shoulder and stared at it. It was another of the old photos of Aberdeen, mounted in a gilded frame. Holburn Street from the look of it. ‘Do you remember telling me that Hamish had… That he’d said you’d defend me, in court, if anything happened?’

‘I am aware of Mr Mowat’s wishes, yes. Why, is something likely to, as you put it, “happen”?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Ah.’ Moir-Farquharson hooked his thumbs into the lapels of his jacket, as if he were wearing his silks and about to stride forth across the courtroom. ‘Would I be right in surmising that the something in question relates to Mr Mowat’s former associate, Reuben?’

‘Might do.’

‘Indeed.’ He nodded. ‘Mr McRae, I normally restrict my counsel to advice of a strictly legal nature, but if I may make so bold: when engaged in any business, it is always preferable to be the one
conducting
a hostile takeover than to be on the
receiving
end. I would imagine, in the circumstances, your options are very much limited to staging one of your own, or putting your affairs in order.’

Brilliant.

The sausage butty was a stone in his stomach, dragging it down.

‘Thank you.’

Moir-Farquharson reached into his pocket and produced a small white rectangle with the company logo on it. ‘My card.’ A smile spread itself across his face. It was like watching a python preparing to devour a small child. ‘I would, of course, be only too happy to assist you in drawing up a new will, should you choose the latter option.’

Of course he would.

Rubislaw Parish Church wasn’t exactly packed. The pale wood pews hosted a scattering of men and women, no more than about forty of them. Some were in uniform – probably given an hour off work to attend – but most were in an assortment of black clothes. Some in suits, some in jeans. And Logan barely recognized any of them.

Steel turned and waved back at him from the front row, pointing to the empty seat beside her. Susan sat on her other side holding onto a wriggling Naomi. Jasmine was last in line, staring up at the vaulted ceiling with her mouth hanging open, as if she’d never seen anything like it in her life.

Andy appeared at Logan’s shoulder. ‘Mr McRae? We’re ready for the pallbearers, now.’

‘Thanks.’

The walls were painted a cheerful yellow, with big flower arrangements of red roses and white lilies, lots of black ribbons. They were a bit gothic for the cheery interior, but what the hell.

He turned and followed Andy back out of the front door, where a couple of stragglers were hurrying up the pavement and through the gates. The church’s façade was stained nearly black with dirt, and soot, and exhaust fumes. A clock-tower steeple rose on one side – running about fifteen minutes late – looming over the heavy stonework and narrow windows. It was sealed off from Queen’s Cross roundabout by a shoulder-high hedge on one side and a low gate on the other, as if that would keep out the Godless masses. Next door, the three-storey granite buildings had been given a clean, which only made the church look grimier.

Even the snow looked less pure. It drifted down, clinging to the bushes and walls, dulling the paintwork of the gleaming black hearse parked outside the church – back door open.

‘Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap…’ Three slightly wobbly figures ran up the pavement, cheeks pink, breath trailing behind them in cloudy wisps. Isla, Tufty, and Calamity. All dressed in their Sunday best.

Isla slithered to a halt on the icy path in her four-inch heels. ‘Sorry, Sarge. Took longer to get here than we thought. Traffic’s a nightmare.’

Calamity gave Logan’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘You OK, Sarge?’

Couldn’t help but smile. He pointed at Tufty. ‘I thought you were all off celebrating Pinocchio here becoming a real boy.’

‘Nah.’ Isla waved a hand at him. ‘We’re a team, Sarge. We got your back.’

Up close, the smell of beer, wine, and sloe gin surrounded the three of them. There was a distinct whiff of wet dog too.

Logan frowned. ‘You didn’t drive, did you?’

‘Got a lift off Syd Fraser. He’s parking the van.’

Well, at least that explained the smell of dog.

The first notes of Samantha’s favourite song rang out from inside the church, made huge and dark by the organ.

Andy appeared at his elbow. ‘Mr McRae? It’s time.’

A hand on Logan’s shoulder made him flinch. He took a step back and blinked.

Right.

‘Laz, you OK?’ Steel peered up at him, the wrinkles deep between her eyebrows.

He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah. Fine.’

Snow swept across the graveyard, wind rattling the empty trees – driving the icy flakes into his skin like tiny icy daggers.

The plot had a good view down the hill, across the road, past the roundabout, the caravan park where Samantha used to live, over the river to the sewage works, and off to the fields beyond. Half one in the afternoon and the big Danestone Tesco had all its lights on, blaring like a beacon through the gloom. The roads were clogged, a solid stream of headlights going one way and tail-lights going the other.

Steel tucked her hands into her armpits and sniffed. ‘Nice ceremony. Shame about the turnout.’

A handful of people hurried down the curving paths, towards the line of parked cars at the cemetery gate.

‘She was in a coma for five years. People move on.’

‘Suppose so.’ Steel stamped her feet and turned her back on the wind. ‘Thought your wee sister could’ve bothered her backside to turn up though.’

‘She’s got a murder inquiry to run.’ He brushed the cold damp earth from his hands. ‘Besides, I only met her on Thursday. Barely know the woman.’

‘Still should’ve turned up.’ Steel hunched her shoulder and rocked from side to side. ‘Gah, can’t feel my bum.’

‘Go. Get warm. It’s OK.’ He pointed down the hill at the cars. ‘I just want a minute.’

She patted him on the back. ‘Don’t be daft. Never wanted to feel my bum anyway. Christina Hendricks’s arse on the other hand, I’d grope the hell out of that. You’d need both hands, mind.’

‘Honestly, it’s OK. Go.’

‘Sure?’

‘Sod off.’

A shrug. Then she slouched off, leaving him alone at the graveside.

A dozen handfuls of part-frozen earth had done nothing to hide the lid of Samantha’s coffin.

‘This is turning into a habit. Two funerals in four days.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Hope you like it here. Thought it would be better than some anonymous council job. At least you know the area.’ He copied Steel, turning his back on the wind. The snow made pattering sounds against his suit jacket, like hundreds of tiny feet running all over him. ‘You can see your old house from here… Well, you could if someone hadn’t burned it down.’