In the Cold Dark Ground. Stuart MacBride

we go.’

      ‘No, listen. Quantum mechanics and the theory of general relativity have these, like, completely different ideas about how time works.’

      ‘…Mrs Garden, sixty-nine, was remanded in custody following a road-rage incident outside the Strichen Post Office…’

      ‘Einstein says time’s relative, depending on where you are and how fast you’re going, yeah? Faster you go, the slower time is.’

      Logan turned and faced the passenger window. ‘He’s right. When I’m in the car with you it slows to a sodding crawl.’

      Brown and dull-green fields stretched away on either side of the road. A flock of sheep huddled in the lee of a drystane dyke.

      ‘…man’s body discovered in woods south of Macduff yesterday. Police Scotland aren’t releasing any details until the next of kin have been informed…’

      ‘Quantum mechanics, on the other hand, says time’s absolute and external to the universe: keeping track of the wave function in quantum systems.’

      Maybe getting killed by Reuben wouldn’t be so bad? At least he wouldn’t have to sit here listening to Tufty any more.

      ‘…were angry scenes outside BP’s offices in Dyce yesterday, as protesters gathered to picket the oil giant over redundancies and proposed cuts to service companies’ rates…’

      Skinned alive and fed to the pigs.

      Logan closed his eyes. Swallowed down the bitter taste of tarnished copper.

      How was he supposed to kill Reuben? How?

      What switch was he supposed to flip to make that possible?

      A hand squeezed his shoulder, delicate, the nails painted a shiny black.

      Samantha leaned forward from the back of the car. ‘Maybe you could sneak a gun out of the firearms store? There was that hunting rifle you confiscated last week – the one with the telescopic sight and silencer. That’d do it. Get a bit of distance, find somewhere with a good vantage point, and put a bullet straight through Reuben’s head.’

      ‘Never going to work.’

      Tufty nodded. ‘Exactly: they can’t both be right, can they? Time’s either fixed or it isn’t. And some scientists say it doesn’t really exist at all.’

      ‘All you’ve got to do is squeeze the trigger.’

      ‘I’m not talking about this.’

      ‘Yeah, I know it’s a bit complicated, but stick with me, Sarge.’

      Pull the trigger? Simple as that? Point a gun at someone’s head and kill them?

      Logan’s stomach lurched again.

      ‘…further protests organized for tomorrow. Weather now…’

      ‘According to the thermal time hypothesis, time’s a statistical artefact—’

      ‘For God’s sake, Tufty. Can we … five minutes… Please.’

      ‘…afraid this cold snap looks set to continue for the rest of the week. The Met Office have issued a yellow warning…’

      Tufty pursed his lips. Shrugged one shoulder. ‘Thought you’d be interested.’

      Half a dozen bungalows appeared on the right, clustered in the corner of a field. They looked like the advance guard of a much bigger army, posted on the clifftop to keep a lookout over the waves. An eight-foot-high chain-link fence wrapped around the chunk of field next to them, already scarred with a rough arc of gravel and concrete. Pipes and cables jutted up from concrete foundations like thick plastic weeds. Reinforcements on their way.

      Samantha squeezed his shoulder again. ‘Just think about it, OK? That’s all I’m asking.’

      ‘…back with more at nine.’

      ‘Thanks Ashley. Noo, let’s kick off the hour with a wee bittie Proclaimers and “Sunshine on Leith”, cos looks like we’re gettin’ neen o’ that fir weeks up here.’

      Tufty slowed, then indicated, and turned into the scheme as the singing started.

      Kept his eyes forward.

      Not speaking.

      It was like working with a small child.

      Logan let his head fall back against the rest. ‘Sorry.’

      Another shrug. Then Tufty pointed through the windscreen at the furthest bungalow in the development. It was huge – had to be at least five bedrooms – with a blockwork drive, double garage, conservatory, and landscaped front garden that looked a lot more bedded in than any of the other houses. ‘That’s it.’

      A couple of manky hatchbacks lurked at the kerb to either side, engines idling. Windows rolled down a crack so the warty individuals inside could smoke while they waited for something to happen.

      Tufty pulled onto the drive, parking in front of a white Range Rover Sport. Switched off the engine. And sat there, still not saying anything.

      ‘I said I was sorry.’

      ‘No problem.’ Then Tufty climbed into the rain, jamming his hat on his head. Clunked the door shut and marched up the drive to the front door. Rang the bell.

      A very small, very annoying child.

      Logan grabbed his high-viz jacket from the back seat and got out of the Big Car.

      The occupants of the hatchbacks scrambled out, shoulders and hoods pulled up, fiddling with big digital cameras. ‘Hoy! Over here! Sergeant? Did you find Martin Milne’s body yesterday? Is it him?’

      Wind snatched at the fluorescent-yellow material of the jacket as Logan fought his way into it. Rain hammered and pattered off the surface. Off his hat. Off his stabproof vest. Stinging his face and hands like a thousand frozen wasps. While the two lumpy middle-aged men snapped photos.

      ‘How did Martin Milne die? Did he commit suicide?’

      Logan hauled the zip up and turned his back on the wind. ‘How long have you two been out here?’

      ‘It’s Martin Milne, isn’t it?’

      He pointed at the hatchbacks. ‘Police Scotland aren’t issuing any statements at this time. Now, please return to your vehicles and respect the Milne family’s privacy.’

      The garden sloped away to the East, where the sea surged and pounded against the curling line of the headland. Probably really impressive in summer, when the sun was shining, but on a dreich Thursday in February? Sod that.

      The shorter of the two curled his top lip. ‘Come on, Sergeant, throw us a bone, eh? Been freezing my nuts off out here since six. Is it Martin Milne?’

      ‘We’re not issuing any—’

      ‘“Statements”, yeah, I got that the first time.’ He tucked his camera into his coat. ‘Off the record?’

      The other one sidled up beside him. A nose like a sandblasted golf ball, wrapped round with broken spider veins. ‘Promise we’ll sod off if you let us have something.’

      Logan stared at the ground for a moment. ‘I can’t right now, but…’ He glanced over his shoulder at the house and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Look, give me your business cards, and I’ll let you know what’s going on soon as I can. You get first dibs.’

      Frozen Nuts sniffed. ‘What, both of us?’

      ‘But you have to promise not to tell anyone else I tipped you off, OK?’

      ‘Deal.’ Golf-Ball Nose dug into his pocket and came out with a card. ‘Bob Finnegan, Aberdeen Examiner. That’s got my mobile number and my email.’

      His