In the Cold Dark Ground (5 page)

From here, Banff Bay gleamed like a slab of pewter, hissing and spitting against the beach. Nothing between him and the North Sea but a small car park, a stretch of tarmac, and a chest-high wall of speckled concrete.

He hunched his shoulders, turned, and limped along the road, heading past the ancient buildings, their pastel-coloured walls slick with rain. Every step sent needles jabbing into his ankle. Stupid garage roofs…

There weren’t many people on the streets, just an old woman fighting with the umbrella in her left hand and the Doberman attached to her right. Both of which seemed determined to go in opposite directions.

Left at the discount store with its racks of high-viz jackets sitting out the front, dripping. Up the road and out into what passed for a town square at the end of Low Street, where the squat sandstone lump of the Biggar Fountain looked like an evil gothic cupcake, complete with buttresses and crowned cap.

Someone had wedged three traffic cones into the structure, adding to the general pointiness.

Logan’s phone launched into ‘The Imperial March’ again. Brilliant. Should never have turned the damn thing back on.

He ducked into the doorway of the takeaway and pulled his mobile out. Hit the button. ‘For God’s sake, what now?’

‘
Been calling you for ages. Where the hell have you been?
’

‘Doing my job. Try it sometime.’

‘
You think your job’s tough? Try leading a Major Investigation Team in a sodding murder case, when the sodding pathologist
and
sodding SEB won’t let you take the sodding bag off your sodding victim’s sodding head.
’ Her voice went up in volume, as if she was playing to an audience. ‘
How am I supposed to ID someone when I can’t see their face? What use is that?
’

‘Are you finished?’

‘
Don’t suppose you’ve had anyone reported missing with a bag over their head, have you? Because that’s the only way I’m going to get an ID.
’ A sniff. ‘
I’m cold, I’m wet, and I need a drink. Or six. Better call it a bottle.
’

‘Tough.’

The old lady made it around the corner, still struggling with dog and brolly.

‘
Lazy sod’s no’ doing the post mortem till ten tomorrow.
’

‘At least you can get fingerprints.’ He shifted the phone to his other ear. ‘Look, I’m kind of busy here, so if you don’t mind…?’

‘
Fat lot of good fingerprints did us. Put them through our fancy new handheld scanner and do you know what came up? Sod all.
’ There was a sigh, then Steel’s voice took on a bit of a whine. ‘
Don’t suppose you fancy joining the team, do you? If I have to put up with Rennie much longer he’ll be singing soprano for the rest of his life. And Becky’s no’ much better: woman looks like someone’s jammed a traffic cone up her backside.
’

‘No chance.’ Logan hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket. Took a breath, then lumbered out into the rain, round the corner and up the steep narrow brae – wincing with every needle-filled step – past the grey row of little shops on one side, and the bland slab of buildings on the other. Popping out onto Castle Street.

His phone went again. He yanked it out as he limped across the road. ‘No, I am not joining your bloody MIT. Leave me alone!’

There was a pause. Just long enough for Logan to pass the solicitor’s and the butcher’s.

Then:
‘
Mr McRae. Long time, no speak.
’ A man’s voice, with more than a hint of Aberdonian burr to it.

Logan slowed to a trot as he reached the building next to the Co-op. Stopped with one hand on the door. ‘Can I help you?’

‘
It’s me: John.
’

Nope, no idea.

‘
John Urquhart? I bought your flat?
’

Logan flinched. Snatched his hand back as if the door had burnt it. Licked his lips. ‘How did you get this number, Mr Urquhart?’

‘
Call me John, yeah? Known each other for what, six, seven years, right? John.
’

‘Is there something wrong with the flat?’ Because if there was he could take a flying leap. No way Logan was paying to fix anything. Things were bad enough as it was.

‘
I’m calling on behalf of Mr Mowat. He wants to see you.
’

And now, they were
worse
.

Logan closed his eyes and leaned against the door. ‘I can’t—’

‘
He
really
wants to see you, Mr McRae.
’ Urquhart puffed out a breath. ‘
He’s an old man. And he’s dying.
’

‘He’s not dying. No way a little cancer is getting the better of Wee Hamish Mowat: it wouldn’t dare. He’s—’

‘
Oncologist says maybe a week, week and a half if he’s lucky.
’

Oh. ‘I see.’

‘
Please?
’

Logan pushed through the door into a warm, small-ish room with a couple of leather settees arranged on two sides of a glass coffee table. Tasteful flower arrangements. Framed testimonials on the walls. An understated desk with a brass carriage clock on it – no computer, no brochures, no paperwork. And no sign of anyone. ‘I’m a police officer, I can’t… If they find out I’m sitting vigil with Wee Hamish—’

‘
He’s dying and he wants to see you. It matters to him.
’

‘I…’ Logan’s shoulders slumped, dragged down by the weight of all the knives stabbed between them. ‘I can’t promise anything. But I’ll try, OK? If I can.’

‘
Thanks. He’s looking forward to it.
’ And Urquhart was gone.

Logan stood there, frowning down at his phone till the screen went dark.

Wee Hamish Mowat.

Oh, Chief Superintendent Napier would
love
that. Gah… Why did the Ginger Whinger have to be sniffing about now? Why couldn’t he have waited a month or two till it was all over?

By then, with Hamish dead, Reuben would’ve taken over. And after he’d finished killing everyone, Logan would probably be facedown dead in a ditch somewhere and wouldn’t have to worry about getting hauled up in front of Professional Standards and done for corruption.

Yeah, that was it: look on the bright side.

Logan put his phone away. Scrubbed a hand across his face.

Oh God…

And when he lowered them, a thin man in a black suit was standing in front of him, head lowered, hands clasped together. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ Then an eyebrow went up. ‘Sergeant McRae? Well, this is a pleasant surprise.’ He stuck his hand out for shaking. ‘I’m not used to
you
coming to
us
.’

Logan shook. ‘Andy.’

‘Come, come.’ He turned, beckoning Logan to follow him as he stalked towards a curtain behind the desk. Pulled it back to expose a plain wooden door. ‘Tea? Or we have a rather nice coffee machine. It’s new. I think there may even be biscuits.’

Logan followed him through into a bare breezeblock room, with a small metal table in the corner, a kettle, fridge, microwave, sink, and a huge shiny chrome coffee maker. Posters lined the walls – displaying different brands of coffin with all the associated added extras.

‘Sit, sit.’ Andy pointed at the plastic chairs tucked under the table. ‘Now, tea or coffee?’

Logan sat. A heady whiff of pine air freshener pervaded the room, along with something much darker seeping under a door through to the rear of the building. ‘I need to arrange a funeral.’

‘I see. In that case, I think a cappuccino.’ He poked and fiddled with the chrome monster. ‘May I ask the name of the deceased and when they passed?’

‘Samantha Mackie. And it’ll be the day after tomorrow. She’s not dead yet.’

The eyebrow climbed higher up Andy’s forehead. ‘Sergeant McRae, we here at Beaton and Macbeth consider ourselves to be a
very
progressive firm, but we do draw the line at interring the living.’

‘It’s my girlfriend. Well, partner. Sort of. She’s been in a coma for years, they’re …
we’re
withdrawing life support on Friday. She can’t breathe on her own. So… Yeah. Friday.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Andy’s fingers twitched and clicked off one another. ‘And I took you back
here
. I’m so sorry, Sergeant McRae, please, let’s repair to the chapel of rest and I can—’

‘No. It’s OK. Here’s fine.’ Logan took a deep breath. ‘I need a black coffin with a red silk lining. And do you have anything with skulls-and-crossbones on it?’

The Sergeant’s Hoose sulked on the corner, diagonally opposite Banff station and a lot less impressive. Large patches of rough stonework poked through the crumbling render on the gable wall, one of the windows there still boarded up. Have to do something about that. The front was a bit better. Kind of. If you ignored the entire right-hand side with its sealed off doors and windows.

Logan switched the carrier bags to his other hand and dug his keys out. Let himself in. Dumped the carrier bags.

‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s home.’ He clicked the hall light on, took his soggy fleece off, and went to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Where’s Daddy’s little kittenfish?’

No reply. No thump of fuzzy paws battering down the stairs. No prooping or meeping.

‘Cthulhu?’

Nope.

Lazy wee sod was probably still asleep.

Logan picked up the mail from the mat, flicking through it on his way to the kitchen. Bill. Bill. Bill. You May Already Have Won!!! Donate To Charity Now! Buy A Hearing Aid. Do You Need New Windows And Doors?

He dumped the lot on the table and stuck the kettle on, then limped through to the living room while it groaned and pinged towards a boil.

The answering machine glowered at him with its angry red eye. He jabbed the button and a flat electronic voice growled from the speaker. ‘
M
ESSAGE
O
NE
:
’ Then Helen’s replaced it, every word carving out a jagged chunk from his chest. ‘
Hello?… Logan, are you there?… Please pick up if you’re there. … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to end like that. I…
’ A sigh. ‘
Look, this was a mistake. I just… I wanted to hear your voice again.
’

Bleeeeeep
.

His finger hovered over the delete button a moment too long.

‘
M
ESSAGE
T
WO:’
A harsh, smoky voice gravelled out into the room. Steel. ‘
Laz? Where the hell are you? Why’ve you no’ called me—
’

Delete.

‘
M
ESSAGE
T
HREE
: Mr McRae? It’s Sheila here from Deveronside Family Glazing Solutions…
’

A soft
meyowp
came from the doorway behind him, then a small fuzzy body leaned into his leg with a thump – brown and grey and black stripes leaving hairy trace fibres on his damp Police-Scotland-Issue trousers. She wrapped her big fluffy tail around his leg, adding yet another layer of hair.

‘Where have you been then?’

‘
…let you know that your new windows have come in.
’

‘About time, been waiting six weeks.’

He bent down and picked Cthulhu up, turned her over so she was lying on her back, white fuzzy tummy on display as she stretched out her arms and curled her big white feet. He rubbed her belly, getting a thick rumbling purr in return.

‘
So if you want to come in any time in the next week or so, we can get the invoice sorted out.
’

Bleeeeeep
.

‘You wouldn’t believe how much money Daddy spent on a custom coffin today.’

‘
M
ESSAGE
F
OUR:
Logan, it’s your mother. You know I don’t like talking to this infernal machine. Why on earth you can’t simply—
’

Delete.

‘Going to have to live on lentil soup and the cheap cat food for a couple of years. Sorry about that.’

‘
M
ESSAGE
F
IVE:
Hello, my name’s Debora McLintock, Louise at Sunny Glen gave me your number. It’s my role to help families when the decision has been taken to end—
’

Delete.

‘
Y
OU
H
AVE
N
O
M
ORE
M
ESSAGES
.
’

He played Helen’s message again. Then deleted the lot.

Samantha lay back on the couch with her legs across Logan’s lap. ‘Any good?’

He frowned up from the book. ‘Put it this way: JC Williams is no MC Beaton.
PC Munro and the Poisoner’s Cat
?
Nothing but a half-baked Hamish Macbeth rip-off.’ Logan sniffed. ‘She’s only getting media attention because she’s a local author. If this wasn’t set in Banff, no one would touch it with a sharny stick.’

‘So don’t read it then.’ She dragged her fingers through her hair, working a chunk of it into a scarlet plait. ‘Or at least stop moaning about it.’

‘I mean, listen to this: “Och, hud your weesht,” said PC Robbie Munro dismissively, “the lad’s clearly been poisoned. His tongue’s all black and that always happens when someone’s given arsenic.”’ Logan lowered the book. ‘Which is utter bollocks. The only way you can tell someone’s taken arsenic is with a blood toxicology screen.’

His left foot rested on a pillow on the coffee table, a bag of not-so-frozen peas balanced on the ankle. He stretched the joint out, flaring his toes. Ankle was a bit numb from the cold, but it was better than the throbbing ache. And at least the swelling was going down.

Samantha wriggled her legs. ‘You know, you don’t
have
to live on lentil soup. Soon as I’m gone there’ll be no more care-home bills to pay.’

‘And who the hell poisons people with arsenic? It’s not the eighteen nineties: do you have any idea how difficult it is to get hold of arsenic these days?’

‘Rat poison.’

‘Thought that was warfarin?’

‘Not all of it. Maybe you could go on holiday or something? Head over to Spain and see Helen.’

Yeah, because the last time worked out
so
well.

He went back to his book. ‘I’m not talking about this again.’

‘And ant poison. Why not?’

‘Can we just leave it, please?’

‘And weed killer. What are you scared of?’

He poked the book. ‘I’ve read this sentence three times now.’

‘Come on, Logan, it’s not as if you don’t get urges. I’ve seen your internet browser history and—’

‘You’re not dead, OK?
That’s
why not.’ He thumped the book down on the coffee table. ‘You’re… I don’t know what you are. I don’t know what
we
are any more. You’re lying on your back, hooked up to all those machines in the care home, and I’m sitting here arguing with a bloody hallucination!’

‘Logan—’

‘No wonder Helen…’ He picked up the book and slammed it down again. ‘Five years since the fire.
Five years
of you lying there. We only went out for two. I’ve known coma you nearly three times as long as the real thing.’

She pulled her legs from his lap and stood. Then knelt in front of the couch, holding his elevated knee. ‘Do you want me to go?’

‘If you’d died five years ago, I could’ve mourned and moved on. But this…’

‘I’ll go if you want me to.’

The doorbell launched into its flat, two-tone,
bing-bong
.

Samantha sighed. Hung her head. ‘Saved by the bell.’

‘I don’t know what I want.’ He stood. ‘But this isn’t helping.’

Bing-bong
.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ Logan headed into the hall, unlatched the Yale, and opened the door.

The man on the pavement smiled, making the pockmarks on his cheeks dimple. He had a black umbrella, black overcoat, black suit, and black shoes. The only concession to colour was the green silk shirt. He stuck his hand out. ‘Mr McRae. You ready?’

Logan frowned at him. Why did he look familiar? …

Oh.

Damn.

Something curdled deep inside Logan’s stomach.

‘You’re John Urquhart.’

‘Guilty as charged.’ Urquhart shrugged, then he turned his offered handshake into a hitchhiker’s thumb and jiggled it at a black Audi TT. ‘Thought it might be best if I gave you a lift, like. Mr Mowat’s really looking forward to seeing you. Been ages.’

Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘This a request, or an order?’

‘Nah, don’t…’A grin. ‘It’s not an
order
. God, no. If it was an order it wouldn’t be me, it’d be three huge guys with a sawn-off, some duct tape, and a Transit van. Nah, this is just in case you and Mr Mowat have a wee dram or something. Don’t want you getting pulled over for drink-driving, right? That’d be embarrassing.’ The thumb came around and Urquhart poked himself in the chest with it. ‘Designated driver.’

So it was go with Urquhart and have a drink with a dying gangster, or wait at home for the three guys and an unmarked van.

Not much of a choice.

And Napier would twist either into a sign of guilt, even the duct-tape-and-van option. Tell me, Sergeant McRae, don’t you think it’s
suspicious
that Wee Hamish Mowat’s boys picked
you
to abduct? Why would they pick you? What makes
you
so special to the man who runs Aberdeen’s underbelly?

Still, at least this way he’d get to keep all his teeth.

‘OK.’ Logan let his shoulders droop. ‘Let me get some shoes on.’

The Audi purred through Oldmeldrum. Past the knots of newbuilds lurking beneath the streetlights, the old church, the garage, bungalows, old-fashioned Scottish houses, and out into the fields again. The purr turned to a growl as they hit the limits.

Logan turned in his seat, looking out through the rear window as the town receded into the darkness.

Urquhart raised his eyebrows. ‘You OK?’

He faced front again. ‘Used to know someone who lives there.’

‘Right.’

The Audi’s windscreen wipers swished and thunked back and forth across the glass. Swish,
thunk
. Swish,
thunk
.

Urquhart tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the wipers. ‘No offence, but your house is a bit… Let’s call it a development opportunity, yeah? Fix up the outside: some render, bit of pointing, coat of paint. Get those boarded-up windows ripped out and replaced with a bit of decent UPVC.’ He frowned, bit at his bottom lip for a bit. ‘What’s the inside like? Bit manky?’