In the Cold Dark Ground

39

‘And we finally have some good news.’ Standing with her back to the whiteboard, Harper pointed the remote. The screen on the wall opposite filled with a satellite image of the coast. Gardenstown was marked with a big arrow, as if no one in the room would know what the place was.

The two arms of the harbour made a broken triangle, poking out into the sea like a cartoon nose and jaw — with mooring jetties for teeth.

Harper pressed a button and a red laser dot appeared, then swept towards the harbour entrance. ‘We got a phone call from Martin Milne at half six this morning. Malk the Knife’s people have been in touch.’

A rumble of conversation went around the room.

Standing against the wall, by the door, Logan shifted from one foot to the other. Something hard and spikey was frolicking across his back, digging its claws into his spine. He took another swig of water from his mug. Didn’t seem to matter how much he drank today — his mouth was still like a desert, head throbbing like an overripe boil full of burning pus.

‘Narveer?’

Her sidekick stood and read from a sheet of paper, voice slightly rounded and mushy. Forced down a bruised and swollen nose. ‘At four o’clock this afternoon, the Jotun Sverd will leave Peterhead harbour and rendezvous with a private yacht sixty miles east of Bora in the Moray Firth. The crew will take on board a number of sealed crates and conceal them in containers already on board.’

The screen changed to a photo of a small supply boat — about a third as big as the usual neon-coloured monstrosities — with superstructure at the front and a railed loading bay at the back. Like a floating pickup truck. It probably would have taken two full-sized containers, but they’d managed to fit about eight of the smaller ones on it, each emblazoned with ‘GEIRRØD CONTAINER MANAGEMENT AND LOGISTICS’ and their angry Viking logo.

Logan took another swig.

It wasn’t as if he could blame a hangover. One whisky and that was it.

No, the churning sensation in his stomach and head was probably down to what he’d hidden beneath the passenger seat of his rusty old Fiat Punto. Sealed away in a freezer bag, sealed inside another freezer bag, with a brown-paper evidence bag over the top of that.

One semiautomatic pistol of Eastern European extraction, with a full magazine of bullets and a silencer.

All ready to bark in Reuben’s face.

‘The Jotun Sverd will then make its way north of Gardenstown and wait there until six o’clock tomorrow evening, when it’ll come into the harbour and be met by a Transit van. Malcolm McLennan’s men will then unload the merchandise and take it away.’

He ran a hand across his face, it came away damp.

‘Thank you, Narveer.’ Harper pointed the remote and the aerial view was back, but zoomed in so the harbour filled the screen. ‘We will be positioned here,’ the red dot swept to the left-hand side, ‘here,’ right, ‘and here. A secondary unit will cover the access roads in and out of Gardenstown.’

Everything had seemed so clear last night. He wasn’t doing it for himself any more, he was doing it to stop Reuben sending someone after Jasmine and Naomi. He was doing it to save Steel from another beating. He was doing it to stop a turf war between the Aberdeen mob and everyone else. He was doing it because no one else would and it needed to be done.

It really did.

It was all decided.

So why could he barely breathe?

‘You’ll get your team assignments tomorrow.’ Harper put the remote down. ‘Now, any questions?’

Steel sidled up next to him, kept her voice low. ‘You all right?’

Someone’s hand went up — Becky. ‘Did we get a result last night?’

‘Yes and no, DS McKenzie. Two individuals arrested at the Welshes’ house have confessed to selling class A drugs and are giving up their supply chain, thanks to Sergeant McRae.’

Everyone turned to look at him. Lots of nods and smiles.

His stomach lurched, saliva flooding his dry mouth.

Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick.

He swallowed it down.

‘As for Ricky and Laura Welsh, it’s “no comment” all the way. So far there’s nothing concrete to connect them with Ma Campbell or the murder of Peter Shepherd. That doesn’t mean we’re going to stop digging though.’

‘Seriously, Laz,’ Steel put a hand on his arm, ‘you look like you’re about to blow chunks.’

‘I’m fine.’ Liar.

Harper held up her hand. ‘Right, you all know what you’re doing, so go out there and do it.’

The assembled hordes shuffled from the room.

Harper and Narveer settled at the conference table, scrawling notes across piles of actions. Steel wandered over to the window, mobile phone clamped to her ear.

Logan blew out a shaky breath. ‘Well, if you don’t need me, I’m going to—’

‘No you don’t.’ A sniff, then Harper straightened up. ‘Sergeant, while I appreciate your assistance last night, I want you to get something perfectly straight: I expect members of my team to turn up for work sober and functioning. Not hungover and useless.’

‘I’m not hungover.’

‘How am I supposed to catch Peter Shepherd’s killers if my officers are the walking dead after last night’s binge drinking?’

‘I’m — not — hungover!’

‘And while we’re at it, what did I say about you coming to work in plainclothes? I was perfectly clear: you’re—’

‘Hoy!’ Steel held the phone against her chest. ‘Much though I hate to break up this family bondage session, your big brother’s telling the truth. Mr Grey-and-Sweaty here looks like a puddle of sick because he’s off to bury his girlfriend today. Hence the ugly suit.’

‘Ah.’ Harper closed her mouth.

‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to have phone sex with my wife here. I’ll tell you all about it later, if you like, Super? Blow-by-blow?’

‘No. Thank you.’ The muscles worked in Harper’s cheeks, clenching and unclenching, as she gathered up her actions and stuffed them into an awkward pile. ‘That won’t be necessary. Narveer, we’d better go... out.’

The DI kept his face expressionless. ‘Yes, Super.’ He followed her from the room, pausing only to throw a wink back at Steel from the doorway, before sealing the pair of them in.

Logan sagged against the wall. ‘Thanks.’

‘What time’s the funeral?’

He pointed at her phone. ‘Aren’t you keeping Susan waiting?’

‘Nah, it’s only Rennie — he’s away to the baker’s for breakfast butties. You want booby-trap or sausage?’

‘Sausage.’ Maybe it’d help settle his stomach? ‘Funeral’s at twelve.’

‘Brown or red?’

‘Red.’

A nod, then she was back on the phone. ‘Aye, and another sausage butty with tomato sauce... Of course he wants both sides buttered, have you never seen MasterChef?... Good... Get on with it then.’ She stuck her phone back in her pocket. ‘Susan’s coming, and she’s bringing Jasmine and Naomi. Apparently Jasmine insisted. Says you need her there to hold your hand.’

‘That’s... very kind.’

‘Tell you, Laz, she’s turning into a right little control freak.’ Steel settled on the edge of the conference table. ‘You OK?’

‘No.’

‘Know what you’re going to say?’

‘The eulogy? Yeah.’ He rubbed at his face, then sighed. ‘Got to head into town early. Make sure everything’s sorted with the church and the lawyers and the cemetery. And I’ve still got to sort out the insurance for the caravan.’

‘You know Susan and me are here for you, right? If you need someone to lean on, you’ve got people on your side, Laz. All of us. Even Rennie. I know he’s a useless wee spud most of the time, but he means well.’

Logan nodded. ‘Thanks.’

‘Now: have your butty, then sod off and go do what you’ve got to. I’ll clear everything with your wee sister.’ A grin burst its way across Steel’s face. ‘And if she gives me any trouble, I’ll tell her about the time I went caravanning in the Lake District with a dental hygienist, and the Bumper Book of Lesbian Fun. Ah, the glory days of youth...’

‘Sarge?’

Logan looked up from his sausage butty, and there was Tufty, hanging his head around the Sergeants’ Office door. ‘Officer Quirrel, I presume?’

He limped into the room. ‘And on the last and final night, verily didst the brave Probationer do battle with a ravening wolf and recover the fair maiden, Tracy Brown.’

‘You found Tracy Brown?’

Tufty leaned on the desk and raised his gimpy leg off the carpet an inch. ‘She was holed up with a married man in Strichen. His wife was off to Disneyland Paris with the kids for a week, so Tracy and him were having a nonstop humpathon till they got back.’

‘Typical. Too busy shagging to notice the whole northeast of Scotland is plastered in missing posters with her face on them. Why do we bother?’ He bit another mouthful of sausage and bun, tomato sauce making a dribbly bloodstain across the back of his hand. Chewing around the words, ‘What about the wolf?’

‘Bloke had a poodle. But it was massive. At least two foot tall with teeth like carving knives.’

Logan pointed a finger at the limpy leg. ‘Get that seen to.’

‘Course, soon as Big Donald Brown finds out someone’s been riding his wee girl like she’s the Indiana Jones et le Temple du Péril roller-coaster, he’s going to go balistique.’

‘Might be an idea to put a grade-one flag on the house. Just in case.’

‘Will do.’ Tufty puffed out a breath. ‘You hear we got a fatal RTC last night? Wee boy in his pimped-out Peugeot lost it in the snow on the Fraserburgh road. Bang, right into a telegraph pole. Little sod walked away, but his girlfriend?’ Tufty grimaced. Shook his head.

‘Every winter. They prosecuting?’

‘Bloody hope so.’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Anyway, you coming to Whitehills with us? Drookit Haddie, fish, chips, beer. They might even break out the karaoke machine.’

‘I’d love to, but I can’t. It’s Samantha’s funeral.’

Tufty’s eyes went wide. ‘Oh crap. I’m sorry, Sarge. It... Yeah. OK. I’m sorry.’

Him and everyone else.

‘Don’t worry about it. You go have fun. It’s not every day you get to become a proper police officer. We’re proud of you, Tufty.’

‘Sarge.’ He limp-shuffled his feet for a moment, then leaned forward and patted Logan on the shoulder. ‘If you need anything. You know.’ A shrug. A nod. Then Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Right, better go get my gaping wound seen to before they have to amputate my whole leg.’

‘You do that.’ Logan polished off the last bite of butty, wiped his hands on the napkin it came wrapped in, then sooked his fingers clean. Stood.

No point putting it off any longer.

By the end of the day there would be something much darker red than tomato sauce on his hands.

The song on the radio faded away, replaced by someone who sounded as if they’d not taken their medication that morning. ‘Hurrah! Wasn’t that terrific? We’ve got the news and weather coming up at the top — of — the — hour with Sexy Suzie. Don’t miss it. But first, here’s a blast from the past: anyone remember H from Steps? Well—’

Logan killed the engine and the rusty Fiat Punto pinged and rattled.

He checked his watch: nine fifty. Ten minutes.

Blew out a long rattling breath.

Come on. This wasn’t difficult. People did this all over the world every day. Gun. Forehead. Trigger. Bullet.

‘Yes, but I can’t do it in a solicitor’s office, can I?’

He glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror. ‘Well of course you can’t, Logan. That would be stupid.’

‘Not to mention all the witnesses.’

‘Exactly.’

He chewed on the ragged edge of a fingernail, working it smooth. ‘Have to get him somewhere private. Somewhere you can get rid of the body.’

‘Where though? Where’s he going to go with a police officer? A police officer he tried to have killed two days ago. He’s going to know something’s up.’

‘And what about the body? How do we get rid of it?’

Logan blinked at his reflection.

‘Are we really doing this?’

‘You know we’ve got no choice. Be the bigger dog.’

‘What about the pig farm? Kill two birds and one fat violent bastard with one stone. People die out there all the time. What’s one more meal for the pigs?’

‘True. Very true.’

‘But how do we get him out there? He has—’ A knock on the car window sent him flinching back in his seat. ‘Jesus!’

He turned, and there was John Urquhart, smiling in at him.

Logan undid his seatbelt and climbed out into the bitter morning air. ‘Mr Urquhart.’

‘Mr McRae. Glad you could make it.’ He stuck out his hand for shaking and nodded at the manky Fiat Punto. ‘Hope I didn’t interrupt your phone call.’

‘Phone call?’

‘Don’t know about you, but I always feel a right nutter talking on a Bluetooth headset. Everyone thinks you’re talking to yourself.’

‘Yes. Not a problem.’ Logan locked the car, as if anyone would be desperate enough to steal a rusty pile of disappointment when it was surrounded by all these Audis, Jaguars, and BMWs.

The car park was tucked off Diamond Street — which didn’t exactly live up to its name. Instead of sparkling, the road was lined with the backs of buildings: half facing out onto Union Terrace, the other half Golden Square. Leaving a dark narrow canyon of grey and old brick.

Urquhart patted the roof of Logan’s car. ‘Suppose you’ll be upgrading after today.’

It took a moment for that to sink in: Wee Hamish’s bequest. Two-thirds of a million pounds. ‘Probably not.’

‘Right. Got you. Don’t want to arouse suspicions. Clever.’

Logan put a hand in his pocket, steadying the gun. ‘Better get this over with. Got a funeral to go to.’

‘Yeah, totally.’ A nod. Then he led the way to a black-painted door in the corner of the car park, with an intercom mounted beside it. Pressed the call button. ‘Mr Urquhart and Mr McRae for Mr Moir-Farquharson. We have an appointment?’

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...’

40

‘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.’

The wind moaned through the trees and between the headstones.

‘Anyway, yeah...’ Logan frowned. Bit his bottom lip. ‘Don’t suppose they’ll let me visit much, you know: after they catch me, prosecute, and send me down for sixteen years. Assuming Reuben doesn’t pull a fast one and kill us both.’

A thick eddy of snow whipped past, dancing among the dead flowers and ceramic teddy bears. Down by the roundabout, someone leaned on their car horn, as if that was going to get the traffic moving at more than a snail’s crawl.

‘You know, you could say something.’

The high-pitched pinging rattle of an approaching train sang through the frozen air, getting louder and louder until it was swamped by the diesel roar of the train itself. It clattered by on the line up the hill, between the cemetery’s top edge and the dual carriageway beyond. A ribbon of flickering lights and bored faces, staring out of the carriage windows at the falling snow.

‘Mr McRae?’

Logan didn’t turn around. Didn’t have to. ‘Mr Urquhart.’

‘Sorry I couldn’t make the service.’ Urquhart stepped up beside him, a bouquet of black roses in his hand. ‘Thought she might like these.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Yeah.’

The flickering strobe of passing carriages faded, leaving them alone in the snow.

Urquhart squatted down, then dropped the black roses onto the black coffin lid nestled in its black grave. He stood and wiped his hands together. ‘We’re all set for tonight. The guys who run the pig farm will stay well away till I say otherwise, and they’ve got half a dozen porkers who haven’t been fed for a couple of days. So Reuben turns up, we go for a little walk.’ Urquhart made a gun from his thumb and fingers. ‘Pop. Munchity crunchity.’

‘What, no Shakespeare this time?’

‘Nah, a time and a place, right, Mr McRae?’

Mr McRae.

Logan puffed out a cloudy breath — it was torn away by the funeral air. ‘I think, John, as we’re conspiring to commit murder, you can call me Logan, don’t you?’

41

Might as well not have bothered having a wake. It wasn’t as if the funeral was oversubscribed, and only half of the attendees made the trip across town to the burial. And only a dozen of those made it to the Munro House Hotel in Bucksburn, even though it wasn’t even five minutes from the cemetery.

The function room carpet was a muted red tartan, faded by the passage of feet and years. Its wood-panelled walls were thick with landscapes of Glencoe and paintings of grouse and deer. Two stags heads, mounted on opposite walls, glared out with gimlet eyes as if they were about to charge each other.

The remaining twelve people milled around the buffet table, looking swamped in a room that probably held five hundred on a good day.

But then this wasn’t a good day.

Steel popped a wee pastry thing into her mouth, talking as she chewed. ‘Good spread.’ She helped herself to another vol-au-vent from the tray, nestled amongst all the tiny pies and sausage rolls and mini Kievs and filo prawns and the bowls of crisps and pickled onions and untouched salad. ‘You’re staying with us tonight. And before you say anything, Laz, that’s no’ a polite invitation it’s an order.’

Logan stared down the table at the dwindling mourners. ‘There’s enough food here for about sixty people.’

She held up her glass — filled nearly to the brim with whisky. ‘And don’t think we don’t appreciate it. And the free bar.’ She clinked it against his mineral water. ‘Slàinte mhath!’

The young man threw his head back and laughed. ‘Oh God, and the smell!’ He took another scoof of what looked like Coke, but reeked of rum. ‘Tell you, you think a septic tank would be bad enough, but try throwing in a decomposing corpse!’

The woman with him grimaced at Logan. ‘Sorry about this, he’s had—’

‘No, wait a minute, wait a minute.’ Mr Rum-And-Coke stifled a belch. ‘So there we are, in like chest waders, and we’re like up to our knees sloshing about, trying to find all the bits of this dead girl, and Samantha slips, right?’ Another laugh. ‘She slips and it’s like in slow-motion and you can see it in her face, she’s going down, but she’s damned if she’s going down alone—’

‘Come on, Billy, we should get going, it’s—’

‘—reaches out to steady herself and grabs Fusty Frankie, and he’s like, “Holy crap!”’

‘Billy, come on, you—’

‘And he grabs me, and I’m like, “Aaaargh!” and I grab Gordie’s leg, cos he’s not down in the tank, he’s up on the ground above us—’

‘Billy!’

‘—and there’s screaming and swearing and down we all go...’

‘Sarge?’ Someone tapped Logan on the shoulder, and when he turned, there was Calamity. ‘Sorry we can’t stay, but we’re back on shift at ten and if I don’t get Tufty and Isla back to Banff soon they’ll be sod-all use tonight.’ She grimaced. ‘Isla’s been on the Baileys, and you know what she’s like with a drink in her. Probably going to get The Smiths’ greatest hits all the way home.’

Logan nodded. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘What are friends for?’ She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Let us know if you need anything, OK?’

And then there were five.

Logan struggled his way through yet another testicle-sized Kiev and washed it down with a mouthful of mineral water.

‘Laz! Laz, Laz, Laz...’ Steel marched over to him, back fence-post straight, one arm swinging completely out of time with her legs — which seemed to have developed an opinion of their own about how knees actually worked. ‘How come you’re not drinks? Got to drinks. It’s a wake.’ She held up a tumbler half-full of amber liquid. ‘Is only Grouse, but I like it. Good for you.’

‘No. Thanks. Don’t really feel like it.’

‘You sure?’ She blinked at him, then threw back a mouthful. ‘Is there any crisps? Oooh, never mind, I spy sausage rolls!’ And she was off.

Susan wrapped an arm around Logan’s waist and gave him a lopsided hug. ‘I’m really sorry, but the little monster needs her bed.’ Naomi nestled in the crook of her other arm, looking for all the world like a cross between ET and some sort of pink grub. Blinking and making big wet toothless yawns.

Logan kissed the top of Susan’s head. Her hair smelled of oranges. ‘Don’t be. Thanks for coming.’

She let go and backed up a pace. ‘And you’re sure you’re OK taking the big monster home?’

They both turned.

Steel was over by the bar again, one leg wandering back and forth, while the other kept her upright. She was pouring from a litre bottle of Bells, and, to be fair, getting most of it in the glass.

‘She needs a day off, doesn’t she?’

Susan sighed. ‘You’re preaching to the clergy, Logan.’ Then she turned and waved at Jasmine. ‘Come on, Horror, put the Nintendo away, we’re going home.’

‘Don’t suppose you want to take some of this food home with you?’

She picked up a wee individual cheese-and-ham tart, grimaced, then put it down again. ‘I hate to let it go to waste, but we’re all on diets.’

Steel wobbled over and wrapped her arm around Logan’s shoulders, whisky slopped out of the glass in her other hand. ‘I love you. No, I do. You’re a... a good person. For a man.’

The last mourner at the wake raised an eyebrow at Logan. ‘And with that, it’s time for me to go.’ He shook Logan’s hand. ‘I’m really sorry about Sam. She was one of the best Scene Of Crime officers I ever worked with.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Nooo!’ Steel sloshed more whisky at him. ‘Stay! We’ll have... have a drinks.’

A pained smile, and he grabbed his coat and left.

Logan took the glass off her. ‘Come on, bedtime.’

‘But is whisky.’ Reaching for it.

‘No more whisky. Home.’

‘Nooo...’ She lurched out into the middle of the room and did a wobbly three-sixty with her arms out, squinting at the empty room. ‘Where everyone gone?’

‘Can we please just go home?’

‘Hungry.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Ooh, sausage rolls!’

God’s sake.

Logan let her scoop up a couple of pockets’ full of assorted funeral food, then steered her down to the car.

‘Yeah.’ Logan shifted his grip on the phone, fingers already going numb as snow whipped in through the bare trees’ branches. ‘Look, I’ve told them to leave the food out, and the function room’s paid for till five. So anyone who wants it, is welcome.’

On the other end of the phone, Napier’s weirdo IT guru made lip-smacking noises. ‘That’s very generous of you, my dear Sergeant McRae. The Magnificent Karl, and all associated officers of Bucksburn station, salute you! We’ll make sure it gets a good home. Oh my, yes.’

Which meant the locusts would descend and the hotel would be lucky if the function room still had its carpet by the time they finished.

‘Thanks, Karl.’ He hung up and slipped his phone back in his pocket, keeping his hand there. Shivered.

Ding-Dong hadn’t been kidding: there was almost nothing left of Samantha’s static caravan. The axles and some drooping bits of metal sat amidst piles of blackened stuff. Bits of wall, bits of floor. Something that used to be a washing machine, its plastic door melted to a vitrified amber. All dead. All slowly disappearing under a duvet of snow.

He nudged at a mound. A charred Dean Koontz novel emerged, followed by what was left of a thick paperback with a zombie on the cover.

Nothing but ashes and death.

But then, what else did a life leave behind?

He kicked the books into the wreckage.

The question now was: what to do till midnight?

No point going all the way back up to Banff, to come all the way back again. Might as well take Susan up on her offer. Hang out, drink some tea, maybe watch a film. Then slip out, kill Reuben, and feed him to the pigs. Do it right and no one would know he’d even left the house. No one except for John Urquhart.

Still have to figure out what to do with him.

Logan turned back to the car.

Steel sagged in the passenger seat, head lolling against the window, mouth wide open. Snoring hard enough to make the Punto’s roof vibrate.

Oh joy.

Logan pulled up outside Steel’s house, behind the patrol car. Climbed out into the snow.

The street was quiet, expensive, secluded — a cul-de-sac lined with old granite buildings and trees on both sides. Their canopy of naked branches blocked about half of the flakes that spiralled down from the darkening sky, but let plenty through to pile up on the roofs and bonnets of fancy four-by-fours and family saloons.

Snow crunched beneath his feet as Logan picked his way along the road to the patrol car and rapped on the driver’s window.

It buzzed down, exposing a square face with thick eyebrows. ‘Help you?’

Logan showed her his warrant card. ‘Sergeant McRae. Anything happening?’

‘Nah. Kids came home from school about twenty minutes ago, Tesco van dropped off shopping at number twelve, other than that: quiet as the grave.’ A sniff. ‘Freezing our backsides off here.’

‘It’s OK, you can Foxtrot Oscar. I’ll stay over and keep an eye on the place. Just make sure someone’s back here for nine-ish tomorrow.’

She curled her lip and raised one of those family-sized eyebrows. ‘Yeah...’ Then reached for her Airwave. ‘Think I’ll check with my guvnor first, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Be my guest.’ Logan hooked a thumb back towards his manky rusting Punto. ‘But before you go, you can give me a hand getting DCI Steel inside.’

‘Ummmph...’ Logan dumped Steel on her bed, then stood back panting. ‘She’s heavier than she looks.’

‘Why do you think we’re all on diets?’ Susan hauled one of Steel’s legs up and undid the boot on the end.

The bedroom looked like something out of a catalogue: the bedding toned with the carpet and the curtains, the wallpaper went with the two chairs, and the wooden bed frame, wardrobe, vanity unit, and ottoman all had exactly the same twiddly bits.

He stepped over to the window as Susan got to work on the socks. ‘Hour and a half it took to get here. Traffic’s appalling.’ The front garden was almost swallowed by snow, the shrubs and bushes fading into soft outlines. Thick plumes of white purred from the patrol car’s exhaust, then it pulled away from the kerb. Off to fight crime. Logan smiled and turned his back on the scene. ‘And the snoring. Dear God, it was like being battered over the head with a chainsaw.’

‘Welcome to my world. Give me a hand with her jacket?’

They ate in the kitchen.

‘Nothing fancy, I’m afraid.’ Susan put a big bowl of pasta down in front of him, studded with mushrooms and flecks of bacon. Then she sat and watched him eat, her own plate untouched. ‘Are you feeling all right, Logan? Only you seem a bit... you know.’

‘This is lovely, thanks.’ He shovelled in another mouthful and tried for a smile. ‘I’m OK. You know: been a tough week.’

‘Well, if you need someone to talk to.’ She reached across the breakfast bar and took his hand.

‘Thanks.’ But two people in an illegal conspiracy was probably enough.

‘Come on, Monkeybum, time for bed.’

Jasmine stuck her bottom lip out and pulled on a kicked-puppy expression. ‘But I’m watching Adventure Cat with Dad.’

On the TV, a round fuzzy cat in a weird hat leapt off a space jukebox and ninja-kicked an oversized rat dressed as the King of Transylbumvania.

If Police Scotland really wanted to make inroads into the drugs trade, arresting everyone involved in children’s television would probably be a good start.

‘You heard your mum.’ Logan switched off the telly, then plonked a palm down on top of Jasmine’s head and ruffled her hair. ‘Teeth, then bed. And if you’re good I’ll read you some of your favourite book.’

‘But, Da-ad...’ Head on one side, making her eyes as big as they possibly could be — eyelashes fluttering.

Yeah, she was going to cause fights in pubs when she was older.

‘No Skeleton Bob and the Very Naughty Pirates for you then.’

‘Oh... poo.’ Then she hopped down from the table and went to do her teeth.

Logan checked his watch: eight o’clock.

Four hours to go.

Logan settled on the edge of the Peppa Pig duvet — covering Daddy Pig’s genitalia-shaped head — and picked the book up from the windowsill. ‘Are you sitting comfortably?’

It was strange, but after working with Detective Superintendent Harper, the family resemblance was actually pretty clear. OK, so the hair colour was different — Jasmine’s dark brown versus Harper’s off-blonde — but they both had the same strong jaw, the same lopsided smile. The same big ears.

Jasmine frowned at him. ‘Why do you always say that, before you read a story?’

‘Because I’m old.’ His hand drifted up, feeling the outline of his own ear. It wasn’t really that big, was it? Oh, sodding hell: it was. God, they were a family of elephant people.

He opened the book to a lurid illustration of a wee skeletal boy in a knitted pink suit and feathery pirate hat, on a boat, sword-fighting against what looked like octopus tentacles. ‘Ahem.’ He put on a cod West Country accent.

‘“The following tale, Dear Reader, I fear,

Is probably not for your sensitive ears,

The old and the wobbly, the scared and the sick,

Had better read something else pretty darn quick,

For this is a tale that’s both scary and true,

Of how Skeleton Bob joined a most scurvy crew...”’

Rasping snores thundered through the wall, making the paintings on this side vibrate. Logan lay flat on his back, on the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, with the evidence bag resting on his chest. Heavy. Pushing down on his heart.

A faint yellow glow oozed in through the curtains, picking out the edges of more catalogue furniture.

He pulled out his phone and checked the time: quarter past eleven. Give it another five minutes.

Surely Susan would be asleep by now? Then again, how anyone could sleep next to that racket was anyone’s guess. They said love was blind, but apparently it was deaf as well.

Four minutes.

Shadows made patterns on the ceiling, barely visible in the gloom. There an open grave, here a severed hand. Was that a claw hammer encrusted with blood and hair?

Where the hell was Samantha when you needed her? Someone to hold his hand and tell him he was doing the right thing.

He was, wasn’t he?

OK, not the right right thing, but it was this or... what?

Couldn’t even go to the Procurator Fiscal and get Reuben done for battering Tony Evans to death. No body, no witnesses. And even if he could get Reuben sent down for eighteen years, Logan would be off to a cell of his own. Where Reuben could have him shanked in the laundry room. Raped and strangled in the showers. Stabbed in the exercise yard.

Two minutes.

So grow a pair of man-sized testicles and do what needs to be done.

Easy as that.

God...

How could people like Reuben just kill people and not worry about it? Why didn’t it keep them awake, staring at the horror-film shadows on the ceiling?

One minute.

OK that was long enough.

Logan slipped off the bed and picked up his shoes. Eased out into the corridor. Closed the door, slow and gentle.

The snoring didn’t miss a beat.

He crept downstairs and out into the night.

42

‘You know what this is, don’t you?’

The Fiat Punto rattled its way along a narrow country road, windscreen wipers moaning their way back and forth across the glass, smearing the snow as it melted.

Logan glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror. ‘Stupid?’

‘What if it’s a trap? What if Urquhart’s set you up?’

‘Could be.’

A tiny row of houses crawled past on the left. Two or three lights were on, but other than that they were dark. Nearly midnight, and with luck nobody would be wandering about, taking down number plates.

Mounds of grimy white lined the tarmac. The road hadn’t been gritted, but it had been ploughed which made it slightly easier to drive on. Logan’s Punto rattled through the troughs, doing no more than twenty, heater up full, blowers at maximum.

‘Not too late to turn around and go home.’

He didn’t dignify that with an answer.

‘Is this doing-both-sides-of-a-conversation thing more or less healthy than talking to a hallucination of a woman who’s in a coma? Because I’m guessing less.’

Mirror Logan shrugged. ‘What about Urquhart? I mean, assuming he isn’t actually on Reuben’s side — he’s going to hold this over you for the rest of your life. He’d have you on murder.’

‘He already has — Eddy Knowles, remember?’

‘That wasn’t our fault.’

‘We killed him.’

A thick black line emerged through the snow ahead. That would be Gairnhill Wood.

‘OK, you have to stop talking to yourself in the plural. Bad enough as it is.’

‘All right: you killed him, doesn’t matter if you meant to or not. No one’s going to buy self-defence if you conspired to get shot of the body.’

‘Which I didn’t.’

‘Yeah, but who’s going to believe that?’

‘True.’

The woods swallowed the Punto. Its headlights made a tiny smear of life in the darkness.

Not far to go now.

‘So how does Urquhart turn me in without implicating himself? He’s the one who got rid of the body.’

‘Allegedly.’

‘Hmmm... There is that.’

‘Here we go.’

A sign hung on chains by the side of the road: the silhouette of a pig with ‘ç WEST GAIRNHILL FARM’ printed above it in faded letters.

Logan touched the brakes and the Punto slithered a bit, then slowed. He took the turning at a crawl.

‘Are you sure you’re sure?’

‘No. Now shut up.’

Trees lined both sides of the farm road like long-dead sentries. The Punto rocked and thumped through potholes hidden by the snow, following the tracks of at least two other cars.

‘They’re already here.’ He bashed the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. ‘Damn it. Should’ve got here an hour ago. Scoped the place out. Been waiting for them.’

‘Don’t be an idiot: it’s Reuben’s farm, his people live here. If you’d turned up early they’d have clyped on you. Or taken you in and given you a cup of tea. Either way, you were never getting the element of surprise. Now shut your porridge-hole and let me concentrate.’

The road bumped and lurched through the woods to a clearing where the land fell away downhill, overlooking rolling fields and jagged clumps of forest — all smothered beneath a layer of dirty white.

An old-fashioned farmhouse with gable ends and a slate roof loomed beside a cluster of agricultural buildings. Somewhere for keeping a tractor; another piled high with hay; and three long low buildings, ugly and naked, pinned to the ground by rows of blazing halogen lights. The pigsties.

Urquhart’s Audi sat next to a big red Land Rover that looked showroom clean under a thin dusting of snow.

Everyone was here.

Logan parked on the other side of the Audi.

Right.

He pulled on his stabproof vest. Might not help against a bullet, but at least it was something. A brand-new cagoule went over the top, hiding it, then he snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and opened the evidence bag. Slipped the second freezer bag off — leaving the gun one layer of protection. Then took a biro and poked it through the plastic, wriggling the pen about until the hole was big enough to get his finger around the trigger. The slide hauled back with a clack. Safety off. Logan eased the semiautomatic into the cagoule’s pocket.

With the silencer attached a quick draw was out of the question, but it was a pig farm, not the OK Corral.

‘Right.’

Deep breath. It wasn’t easy with the stabproof vest hugging his ribs.

‘Come on. You can do this.’

Out.

The air crawled with the brown sickly-bitter stench of pig shit, bolstered by the sharp tang of fermenting urine. Steam rose from the three long buildings, caught in the glare of the lights. Grunts and squeals rang out from inside.

It was a bit like walking into an episode of The X-Files.

Logan tightened his grip on the gun and followed the footprints in the snow to the sty furthest from the house.

Not too late to turn around.

Not too late to run.

And then it was.

The big metal door clattered back and John Urquhart smiled out at him. ‘Mr McRae, cool, glad you could make it.’ He’d dressed for the occasion: suit, shirt, tie, heavy black overcoat. Not exactly the best outfit for killing someone and disposing of the body. ‘Come in, come in.’

Logan was going to die here, wasn’t he? Die and be eaten.

Come on. Not dead yet.

Logan nodded, put his other hand in his pocket — hiding the blue glove — then followed Urquhart inside.

Out there, the cold had obviously dampened the smell, because in here the stench of pig was so thick it coated the inside of his mouth with a greasy sour film. It was warm too, condensation trickling down the corrugated iron. Rows and rows of naked pink backs filled the sties on either side, three or four to a bay. Metal gates bolted into breezeblock walls.

Reuben stood at the far end, arms crossed over his massive chest. He’d ditched the expensive suit for scabby green overalls, the shiny leather shoes for a pair of manky rig boots. A black holdall sat at his feet. He jerked his head up, setting those scarred chins wobbling. ‘You’re late.’

Wrong — bang on time. ‘Nice to see you too, Reuben.’ Kind of surprising — how calm his voice sounded. As if this was any other meeting, in a pig sty, with a killer and his right-hand-man.

Logan turned and leaned back against the nearest sty, where he could see Reuben and Urquhart at the same time. Kept his hands in his pockets.

‘Rightiehoo.’ Urquhart beamed. ‘So, Stevie Fowler, yeah? What to do?’

‘Kill him. You steal from me, you die. That’s how it works.’

‘Yeah, OK, one vote for death. Mr McRae?’

‘We—’

‘NO!’ Reuben kicked a sty gate with his steel toecaps, setting the metal ringing and the pigs squealing. ‘This isn’t a bloody democracy. I say Fowler dies, you make it happen. End of.’

Urquhart’s smile slipped a bit. ‘Right. OK. Got you. Fowler gets an accident in prison, and—’

‘Not an accident.’

‘Come on, Reuben, let’s be sensible about—’

‘NO BLOODY ACCIDENTS!’ His face flushed, teeth bared, flecks of spittle flashed in the harsh light. ‘He suffers and everyone gets to see what’s left, and they talk in frightened whispers about the moron who thought he could screw with me!’

Urquhart licked his lips. ‘OK, OK, you want him messy dead? We’ll get him messy dead. But the cops are going to know it was us, Reuben. They’re going to come after us.’

‘So what?’ He pointed a thick finger at Logan. ‘We got someone to make it all go away.’

Logan turned a bit to the left, so the semiautomatic in his pocket was more or less in line with Reuben’s stomach. ‘No, you don’t.’

He bared his teeth. ‘Don’t think you heard me properly, McRae.’

‘I’m not one of your minions, Reuben. I’m not going to make things go away. I can’t make things go away.’

‘You bloody well—’

‘It doesn’t work like that any more!’ Logan jabbed a finger back at him. ‘This isn’t The Godfather, police officers can’t just make investigations vanish. People notice, the media notice, the Procurator Fiscal notices.’

Reuben frowned at Logan’s hand. ‘What’s with the gloves?’

Why draw this out? Get it over and done with.

Kill him.

‘Scared of getting your hands dirty, McRae?’

Take the gun out and shoot him.

Do it.

‘What the hell did Mr Mowat ever see in you? Heir to the throne my arse. You haven’t got the balls to...’ Reuben raised an eyebrow and stared at the gun. Then snorted. ‘Aye, right.’

The semiautomatic was getting heavier with every heartbeat, and every time he tried to swallow, his throat closed up. The silencer’s black cylinder wavered, then drifted up to point at Reuben’s chest. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Genuinely? You think this scares me?’

Urquhart backed away a couple of steps. ‘Guys?’

Reuben laughed. Then squatted down and opened the holdall at his feet. ‘See, the trouble with people like you, McRae, is you’re all gob and no panties. Think a gun makes you a big man? Nah.’

‘I’m not screwing about. Put your hands behind your head.’

‘What makes you a big man, is being a man.’ Reuben pulled a sawn-off shotgun from the bag and stood. ‘Gun’s only a tool.’

Urquhart backed off some more. ‘Come on, let’s not do anything we’re going to regret, right?’

‘Reuben, hands behind your head. Now.’

‘A tool’s only as good as the craftsman who wields it.’ He cracked the shotgun open and slid two cartridges into the breech. ‘Mr Mowat told me that. Wise man, till it came to you.’ Clack, the shotgun was closed again. ‘See, you’re weak, so—’

Logan shot him.

The silencer’s phut didn’t even echo.

Reuben rocked back on his heels, but he didn’t go down. He stared at the spot of red seeping into the leg of his overalls, turning the green material a dark purple. ‘You...’ He glared at Logan. Then the shotgun came up.

Buggering hell.

Logan dived over the wall of the nearest sty, battering down amongst the huge pink bodies as a loud BOOOOOM reverberated back from the corrugated metal walls, followed by a clatter of shot.

Chunks of breezeblock sparked into the air, falling as gritty dust.

The pigs squealed, dirty hooves scrabbling at the straw bedding as they tried to get away. But the sty was barely big enough to turn around in. They barged against Logan, knocking him down, snouts and teeth flashing all around him.

‘GET OUT HERE YOU WEE SHITE!’

BOOOOOM.

Gah...

How could he miss? The guy was huge and all he’d managed to hit was a leg?

Clack, then the hollow rattle of empty shotgun cartridges hitting the concrete floor.

Now.

Logan snapped up to his knees, bringing the gun up two-handed. Phut. Phut.

Only Reuben wasn’t where he was meant to be.

Clack.

For a big guy, he moved incredibly fast. He’d got himself inside one of the other sties, sawn-off shotgun up and ready.

Logan ducked again.

BOOOOOM.

Something stung his cheek, like a wasp.

Up.

Phut.

Reuben grunted as red spread across his left shoulder. BOOOOOM.

The blast clattered against the breezeblocks as Logan dived amongst the pigs again.

‘YOU’RE DEAD, MCRAE, YOU HEAR ME? YOU’RE DEAD AND EVERYONE YOU KNOW IS DEAD!’

Clack. More shotgun cartridges hitting the floor.

Logan stuck his arm above the parapet and pulled the trigger. Not aiming, just hoping. Phut, phut.

‘DEAD!’

He scrambled to his feet, and there was Reuben.

The big man had Urquhart, holding him up by the armpits, arms wrapped around his chest. Urquhart’s head lolled to the side, blood darkening the front of his suit jacket.

Logan brought the gun up. ‘Put him down.’

Reuben still had the shotgun in his hand, only he couldn’t point it without letting go of Urquhart. ‘This is all your fault.’

Couldn’t get a clear shot with Urquhart acting as a human shield.

‘Put — him — down.’

The big man backed towards the far door, dragging Urquhart with him. ‘This isn’t over, McRae.’

‘I’m warning you, Reuben: put — him — down!’

‘This isn’t over by a long way.’

He stepped out through the door, letting in a whirl of snow, slamming it shut behind him.

Logan vaulted from the sty and ran, gun up and ready. Reuben wasn’t getting—

BOOOOOM.

The shotgun blast ripped through the corrugated iron door, grabbed Logan by the chest and hurled him to the concrete floor.

‘Unnngh...’

The smell of fireworks fought against the piggy stench.

His whole front screamed in searing agony, like he’d been trampled by a burning elephant.

‘Ow...’

It took three goes to get to his knees.

The front of his cagoule was shredded, the stabproof vest beneath it torn and tattered. Bits of stuffing poked out, exposing the buckled armoured plate.

Every breath was laced with jagged shards of hot copper.

‘Arrrgh.’

He pulled himself up one of the sties and stood there, one hand holding his chest, the other holding the gun.

By the time he lurched out through the punctured door, Reuben’s Land Rover was nowhere to be seen.

43

Logan peeled off his shirt and dropped it to the bathroom floor. Locked the door. Shuddered in the darkness. Then pulled the cord.

The light on the medicine cabinet flickered on, casting a bluish-white glow, pushing back the gloom. It washed the colour from his skin, turning it pale and ghostly. A walking corpse. Shot in the chest.

He stepped closer to the mirror, where the light was brightest.

It had been what, an hour since Reuben tried to blow a hole in him? And the bruising hadn’t come up yet. But when it did, it would be huge. His whole chest was red and swollen, with purple contusions in the middle where the majority of the shot had hit. When he prodded them, it was like rubbing vinegar into a fresh cut. Thank God the blast had to travel through that metal door first, or the stabproof vest wouldn’t have stood a chance. The guys who ran Reuben’s pig farm would’ve been cleaning up his innards for days.

Bee-sting lumps speckled his cheek — six or seven of them, all about the size of a Smarty, each one with a dark dot at the centre, as if he was a teenager again, covered with blackheads. It hurt, but Logan squeezed one of them between his thumbnails until a tiny pellet plopped into the sink, leaving a plume of pink as it sank through the water.

One was barely an inch below his left eye.

Lucky he wasn’t blinded. Lucky the door had been there. Lucky he wasn’t pig food.

Yeah. He was a lucky, lucky guy.

He gritted his teeth and squeezed out the other flecks of shot. Then opened the bathroom cabinet as tiny rosebuds of blood bloomed on his cheeks and chin. A dusty old ceramic bottle of Old Spice was half-buried behind all the moisturizers and exfoliants and cleaners and hand cream. He eased it out and splashed a couple of shakes into his palm — like Henry Cooper used to do on the adverts — rubbed his hands together, then patted at the bleeding holes.

Dear... sodding... Christ, that stung.

Logan closed his eyes hissing breath in and out. In and out. Until it settled to a steady throb. Arrrrgh... That hurt more than being shot.

A brittle laugh burst free, but he stamped on it. Forced it down.

Shuddered.

Almost killed someone tonight. Not by accident. Not in self-defence. On purpose. Premeditated.

And who knew, maybe he had actually killed someone: maybe he’d killed John Urquhart? Maybe Urquhart had caught one of those random unaimed bullets? Or maybe he’d not backed away far enough when Reuben brought the shotgun out?

The bathroom mirror was cold against his forehead.

Idiot.

Why did he have to miss that first shot? This would all be over by now.

Well done, Logan.

Sterling job.

The distorted, bruised, and battered Logan stared back at him from the mirror. ‘Maybe you missed because Reuben was right: you don’t have the balls to kill anyone.’

‘I don’t want them.’ He lathered up with antibacterial handwash, then slathered it onto his face, working it into all the stinging pellet holes. Making them scream. Then shouted them down with a second dose of Old Spice.

Arrrrrgh...

The freezer downstairs produced a packet of petits pois, the drinks cupboard a half-empty litre of Famous Grouse. Logan pressed the former against his burning face and the latter into service as an anaesthetic.

Four ibuprofen and the same again of aspirin hadn’t made a dent in it, but the second dram of whisky worked its magic. Or it might have been the frozen peas numbing his skin. Either way it didn’t ache quite as much.

Of course, Reuben would come after him with a vengeance now. The gun-without-a-firing-pin incident was bad enough, but this? Tonight? He’d be like a rabid dog.

Maybe they’d have a few days while Reuben recuperated from his two bullet holes? Enough time for Logan to call his new lawyer and put his affairs in order.

That or flee the country.

A groan came from the kitchen doorway, followed by something out of a George Romero film. It was Steel, wearing a fluffy grey dressing gown, with penguin pyjama bottoms sticking out beneath, arms sticking out in front, and her hair sticking out in every other direction. Only she didn’t try to eat Logan’s brains; she shuffled over to the sink and turned the cold tap on full. Then dunked her head under it.

He topped his glass up, and screwed the cap back on the bottle.

She was still trying to drown herself in the sink.

Logan took a sip, rolling the whisky around his mouth, numbing it from the inside.

And finally Steel emerged from beneath the cascade of cold water looking almost completely unlike a shampoo advert. Instead of flinging her hair back in a glorious golden arc, she slumped against the sink, water running down her face and dripping onto her grey fuzzy dressing gown and the floor. Like a cat who’d just been fished out of the toilet bowl. ‘Pfff...’

He toasted her with his glass.

She wiped her face on a sleeve and squinted. ‘What?’

‘Didn’t say a thing.’

‘Got a head like a... Like a...’ Her shoulders sagged even further. ‘No, can’t be arsed.’

Logan stood and pulled another glass from the cupboard. Filled it from the dispenser built into the fridge. Held it out. ‘Here.’

She took it with both hands and gulped it down. ‘More.’

He refilled it and she guzzled that one too. And the next.

Then Steel settled into a chair on the other side of the kitchen table. Her eyes seemed to have difficulty both focusing on the same spot, and something was wrong with her mouth — all the words were soft and mushy, as if she was pushing them through a sieve. ‘I think I might’ve died in my sleep.’

‘Whose fault is that?’

‘Why did you let me drink so much whisky? It’s like there’s a ceilidh in my skull and only fat people in hobnail boots got invited.’ Another mouthful of water. ‘They’re doing an Orcadian Strip the Willow.’ Her top lip curled as she sniffed. ‘And why does it smell like an auld mannie’s pants in here?’

Logan lowered the bag of petits pois. ‘Cut myself shaving.’

She shook her head, then grabbed onto the table. Blinking. ‘Gah. Stop the world...’ A deep breath, then she relinquished her grip. ‘I — am definitely — not — going — to be — sick.’

‘You’re still drunk, aren’t you?’

‘No. Maybe. Kind of.’ Steel burped, then grimaced and shuddered. Had another mouthful of water. ‘I’m sorry about Samantha. She was a total Hottie McSexyPants. And I’m no’ just saying that! See if I wasn’t married and she hadn’t been in a coma?’

‘Go back to bed.’

‘Can’t. When I lie down the walls chase each other round the room.’ She drained the last drops from her glass. ‘More.’

Logan filled it. ‘Think I might give it up. Move somewhere warm and far away.’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘I mean, what’s the point? We spend ninety percent of our time dealing with five percent of the people. Barely scratch the surface.’ He knocked back a mouthful of Grouse, sucked air in through his teeth. ‘I’m not a very good police officer.’

‘If you move, how you going to watch Jasmine and wee Naomi grow up?’

‘Not very good at all.’

‘Don’t whinge, Laz. I hate it when you whinge.’ She sniffed. ‘Makes you sound like Rennie.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And we do make a difference.’ She put down her water and picked up his whisky, raised it to her lips. The colour drained from her cheeks and she put it down again. ‘Nope.’

‘Don’t think Detective Superintendent Harper really wants a big brother.’

‘Look at all the scumbags we put away every year. You got those people-traffickers last year. And that guy who was beating up auld wifies for their pension money.’

‘Don’t think my brother Eamon wants one either.’

‘Wah, wah, wah.’ She finished her water, stuck it back on the table with another burp. ‘We got anything to eat?’

He pointed at the fridge. ‘Sausage rolls, mini Kievs, and some of those tiny quiches. They’re a bit pocket-fluffy, but Susan cleaned the worst of it off.’

‘Done.’ She slumped over to the bread bin and extracted a Glasgow roll. Then raided the fridge. ‘And you want to make a difference? Make one. Don’t sit there moaning about it.’ The roll got split open and buttered on both sides. ‘Don’t see me with my thumb in my gob moaning on about scumbags I can’t put away, do you?’ Four sausage rolls went on the bun, followed by a couple of the Kievs. ‘No, because Roberta Steel doesn’t take “no comment” for an answer.’ Everything got slathered in tomato sauce, then she took a big bite, talking as she chewed, ‘You get a problem, you find a solution, Laz. That’s what the big girls do.’

He stared down into his whisky. ‘I’m in trouble.’

‘See when Jack Wallace intimidated his way out of a rape charge, did I go whingeing away with my tail between my knees? Bet your sharny arse I didn’t. I did something about it.’ She thumped down into the seat opposite again and jabbed the table with a finger, leaving a smear of tomato sauce behind. ‘And yeah, maybe I should’ve slipped someone a hundred to break every bone in his body instead. Got them to chuck him in the harbour to sink. But that’d be wrong, right?’

‘I think Reuben’s going to...’ Logan frowned. ‘Wait, you should have done that?’

‘The important thing is, he’s no’ on the loose attacking women any more. Wee shite’s where he belongs.’

‘What did you do?’

She waved a hand at him, and took another bite. ‘Come off it, like you’ve never bent the rules to get the right result. Course you have.’

‘I...’ More than she’d ever know.

‘Exactly.’ She drained her water. ‘You should’ve seen Wallace when we told him there wasn’t enough evidence to prosecute. Strutting about like there was a rooster up his backside. “Look at me, I won. And I’m going to do it again, because you’re all too thick to stop me.” Aye, well who’s thick now?’ She popped the final chunk of funeral-leftovers butty in her mouth and stood. Stuck the kettle on. ‘You want tea?’

‘You fitted him up.’

‘Course, could’ve done him for pretty much anything, but kiddy porn’s a classic, isn’t it? You get done for being a paedo, that’s with you for the rest of your life; that stain doesn’t wash off. Nah, he’s got to live with it till the day he dies. Now he knows how the women he attacked feel.’ She rattled a couple of mugs onto the worktop. ‘And with any luck some nice obliging nonce will shank the wee bastard in prison and take him out of the food chain for good.’

Logan stared at the back of her head as she fiddled about with teabags and spoons. ‘Where did you get the images?’

‘Oh, you’d no’ believe the things you can confiscate if you know the wrong people.’

Oh God.

Logan buried his face in the bag of frozen peas. ‘You fitted him up.’

‘Got loads of those photos left too, you know: if you ever need someone off to the jail?’

‘That’s not “bending the rules”! That’s snapping the damn things in half, then setting them on fire, then peeing on the smouldering ashes.’ Gah. He threw the petits pois down on the countertop. ‘How many times have you done it? How many people have you sent to prison on faked evidence?’

Steel dug out the steaming teabags and hurled them into the sink. ‘We hold a position of trust, Laz. It’s no’ about following the rules or ticking the boxes on this or that procedure, it’s about justice. Proper justice for the poor sods out there getting brutalized and attacked and raped and killed.’

He threw his arms out, as if blocking the way. ‘We’ve got rules for a reason! You can’t—’

‘Justice! And yeah: so I fitted Wallace up, so what? He bloody well deserved it.’

‘Napier was right.’

‘Napier’s a dick.’ She slopped milk into the mugs, then thumped one down in front of Logan hard enough to send a beige wave slopping over the side. ‘And he’s got sod all on me.’

‘The created dates on the images show they were all copied onto his machine in two batches.’

‘Doesn’t prove anything. If Napier had evidence he wouldn’t need you crawling about like a cut-price Columbo.’

‘God’s sake.’ He sat back.

She sat forward. ‘OK, so it was wrong. You happy now? I — was — wrong. But what the hell was I supposed to do? Jack Wallace raped Claudia Boroditsky, he raped Rosalyn Cooper. She killed herself because of him. It’s what he does.’ Steel poked the table again. ‘You want people like that running about when Jasmine’s growing up? Stalking her in nightclubs? Following her home?’

‘It’s not—’

‘But it’s OK. Don’t you see?’ A smile bloomed across Steel’s face. ‘You’re on the investigation. You can make sure Napier gets sod all, and if anything does come up, you lose it. And you make sure it stays lost.’

‘Christ.’ He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the bag of defrosting peas.

‘You owe me that, Logan. You owe me.’

The ceiling seemed like miles away in the gloom. Logan lay on his back, staring up at it. Every breath ached, but it was difficult to tell if the pain was from the battering his chest and ribs had got, or if it was something deeper. Something under the skin. Something malignant.

She’d fitted Wallace up.

So what? He’d killed Eddy Knowles. Tried to kill Reuben too. And failed.

Who came off worse in that comparison: the police officer who breaks the rules to get a rapist off the street, or the one who tries to murder a mob boss to save his own skin?

It wasn’t as if he’d had any choice though, was it? It—

‘Oh shut up.’ His voice barely bruised the silence.

‘Yes, but I didn’t have any—’

‘What’s the point of going over and over this? You think you did what you had to. So does she.’ Logan checked his watch. ‘It’s two in the morning. Go to sleep.’

‘Jack Wallace wasn’t going to kill her, though, was he?’

The bed creaked beneath Logan as he hissed and grunted his way over onto his side. ‘Got to be at work tomorrow.’

‘Napier’s not going to stop, you know that, don’t you?’

For God’s sake.

Logan sighed.

‘Of course he isn’t.’ The house was graveyard quiet.

‘So what are we going to do?’

‘Thought I told you about that: no plurals.’

‘OK, so what am I going to do? Cover for her, or tell the truth?’

‘She’d cover for you.’

‘Maybe she shouldn’t.’ The pillow was soft against his bruised face. ‘You can’t fit people up. If you do, you’re no better than Reuben, or Malcolm McLennan, or Jessica Campbell. The rules are there for a reason.’

‘So tell the truth.’

‘I can’t.’

‘What did you tell Reuben? We can’t make evidence disappear, the police force doesn’t work that way any more. The law applies to everyone. Him, me, even Steel.’

‘Look, let’s... sleep on it. See how we feel in the morning.’

‘I feel sick.’

Snow clattered against the bedroom window.

‘So do I.’