In the Cold Dark Ground - Stuart MacBride

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      Urquhart puffed out a breath. ‘And Reuben wants me to pass on a message. He says you’ve got one last chance to get with the team. Which is kinda unique, normally he goes from nought to wrath-of-God like that.’ A clicking noise.

      ‘I’m a police officer.’

      ‘There’s a guy called Stevie Fowler going to be in your neck of the woods next week. You collect a package from him and keep it somewhere safe till Reuben tells you who to hand it over to and where.’

      Even though there’d been no one banged up in the cells for over a decade, the power was still on. There was a radiator hidden inside the ceiling – behind the render – and it belted out heat, making the tips of his ears glow. ‘What’s in the package?’

      ‘Don’t tell anyone you’ve got it, and squirrel it really out of the way. OK?’

      ‘What – is – it?’

      ‘No idea.’

      Logan raised his chin. ‘And if I don’t?’

      Urquhart sighed. ‘Then Reuben sends round the three guys in the Transit van, and you get to feed the pigs.’

      Not much of a choice, was it?

      Become a crooked cop or die.

      Samantha’s voice was warm and soft in his other ear. ‘Or you could kill Reuben. You won’t have to do favours for him if he’s dead.’

      Logan licked his lips. ‘I can’t.’

      ‘Mr McRae, you can… Look, it doesn’t have to be like this.’ A deep breath sounded in the speaker. ‘You can still take over from Mr Mowat, like he wanted.’

      ‘Kill him.’ She wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘Get that rifle from the firearms store and blow his big fat head off.’

      ‘If you took over, you could get the guys in the van to go pick Reuben up instead. Turn him into pig food.’

      From Duty Sergeant in B Division to head of Aberdeen’s biggest criminal empire in one easy step.

      Yeah.

      Right.

      Samantha’s lips brushed his ear. ‘One way or the other, he has to die.’

      Logan closed his eyes and leaned forward until his forehead thunked against the cell wall. ‘Steve Fowler. When and where?’

       12

      Rain lashed the window, rattling the glass in its peeling wooden frame. ‘Well I hope you’re happy.’

      The little room was a bit of a hole. Wedged in at the top of the stairs, the walls were close enough to reach out and touch with both hands. And yet, somehow, Steel’s minions had managed to cram a desk and two chairs in, amongst the filing cabinet, a filing cupboard, and the two lockers that usually lived there.

      On the other end of the phone, Steel’s voice was all tinny and echoey – as if she was calling from inside a porta potty. ‘Aye, I’m dancing a jig here, can you no’ hear the band?’ She blew a wet raspberry.

      Whoever had shifted the desk in had piled all the existing boxes of files into the corner, where it made a wobbly tower of grey cardboard and archived crimes.

      ‘Wifie Milne swears blind her husband’s no’ run off. He’s a model husband and father.’

      Logan sat on the edge of the desk. ‘You didn’t show her the photos then?’

      ‘No, but it’s going to come out eventually, Laz. Can’t protect her forever.’

      ‘What about holiday homes, or family and friends?’

      ‘If you were her, would you want the first time you hear about your hubby having threeways and hot man-on-man action with his business partner to be right there, in open court? When the defence try to make out he’d never kill Shepherd because he loved him? Several times a week. Oh, and here’s the photographic evidence.’

      She had a point.

      ‘We need to get posters up at all the ports and stations. Set up a Scotland-wide lookout request.’

      ‘Do we? Wow. I’d no’ have thought of that all by my little old self. Good job we’ve got a big strong man like you on the team to keep us right.’

      Logan scowled at the carpet tiles. Someone had tried to fix a couple of them with duct tape. ‘Are you finished?’

      ‘Becky’s already done it. Now get rid of the PC Plod outfit: I want your scarred backside in a fighting suit and ready to go in ten. You, me, and the boy Rennie are off on a family outing to Peterhead.’ The grin was obvious in her voice. ‘Be just like old times.’

      ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

      Rennie peered out of the car windscreen. ‘How do you think you pronounce it? Gayrod? Geeirod? Jerryod?’

      Rain dripped off the big green sign: ‘GEIRRØD ~ CONTAINER MANAGEMENT AND LOGISTICS’ with the same Viking logo Milne and Shepherd had been wearing in the photo. An angry bearded man, in a winged helmet, with a double-headed axe in his hands.

      The sign sat in front of a bland two-storey office block of brick and glass, with a handful of cars parked out front on a stretch of potholed tarmac. A security hut sat to one side, where a fat old man watched the metal barrier that controlled entrance to the container yard. The whole place was wrapped around with chain-link fence, punctuated with warning notices about razor wire and guard dogs patrolling this area.

      Steel reached across from the passenger seat and whacked Rennie on the arm. ‘Yes, because they set up a company, and called it “Gay-Rod”.’

      ‘Ow.’

      ‘Well, don’t be so homophobic. What, two blokes are shagging each other so they’re going to call their company “Gay-Rod”?’

      Sitting in the back, Logan kept his mouth shut.

      She gave Rennie another thump. ‘That’s a “slashed O”, you ignorant spud. It’s pronounced “eau”.’ Steel made a noise like a dying sheep. ‘Now park.’

      He lumped the pool car through the holes and into the spot marked ‘VISITORS’ by the front door. Then sat there, rubbing his arm. ‘Why have you got to be so horrible?’

      ‘I’ll be horrible to your backside with my boot in a minute.’

      Yeah, just like old times.

      Logan unclipped his seatbelt and climbed out of the car.

      Heavy grey clouds covered most of the sky, but at least it had stopped raining. There was even a patch of blue big enough to let shafts of golden light shine through. They set off a glowing rainbow above the power station in the distance.

      GCML’s office and yard sat on the southernmost corner of a small industrial estate. Lots of chunks of machinery and pipes, locked away behind high fences. A place that specialized in refrigerated lorries sat across the road, the sound of shrieking metal coming from a large open-fronted garage.

      Steel slammed her door shut, then had a dig at her bra – jiggling its contents. ‘Right, listen up, children. You will be on your best behaviour. You will do what you’re told. You,’ she pointed at Rennie as he locked the car, ‘will no’ embarrass me. Are we clear?’

      He stuck his nose in the air. ‘Not going to dignify that with an answer.’

      ‘Right, here’s the plan: I want… Hoy, Laz, where do you think you’re going?’

      ‘To do your job for you.’ Logan

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