In the Cold Dark Ground. Stuart MacBride

      Delete.

      ‘YOU HAVE NO MORE MESSAGES.’

      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?’

      ‘Work in progress.’

      ‘Cool. Cool. So spend a couple of grand – ten, fifteen tops – and you could probably flip it for a pretty decent profit. I could help, if you like?’ He reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a business card. ‘Got a couple of boys I use. Did three places for me last year. Good finish too, none of your cowboy rubbish. They’ll do it at cost, you know, as you and me go way back.’

      Logan turned the card over. Then over again. ‘The house belongs to Police Scotland. I just live there.’

      ‘Ah. Not quite so cool.’

      And let’s face it – their last transaction didn’t exactly help.

      Trees and fields swept past in the gloom. A handful of cars coming the other way, stuck behind a big green tractor with its orange light flashing.