In the Cold Dark Ground. Stuart MacBride

      His lips move, but the words are broken mushy things forced out between ruined teeth. ‘Gnnnnfnnnn … mmmm … nnngh…’

      ‘Do you see?’ A boot stamps down on his head. Something crunches. ‘Do you see what happens?’

      Blood drips onto the mat of rusting pine needles, making it dark and shiny. ‘Nnnngh…’

      Another voice: quiet, shaking. ‘Please. Please, I’ll do whatever you want. Please.’

      ‘Damn right you will.’

      A black plastic bin-bag crackles out like the wing of a giant bat. It soars above him for a moment, then gets yanked into place, enveloping his head. The scratchy growl of duct tape rips through the air.

      And, at last, he finds enough breath to scream.

— Wednesday Dayshift —

       1

      Where the hell was Syd?

      The song rambled to a halt, and the DJ was back. ‘Wasn’t that great? We’ve got JC Williams on in just a minute, talking about her latest book PC Munroe and the Poisoner’s Cat, but first here’s Stacy with all your eleven o’clock news and weather. Stacy?’

      Logan screwed the cap on his Thermos, popped it on the dashboard, then wrapped his hands around the plastic cup. Warmth seeped into his fingers, almost making it as far as the frozen bones. Tendrils of steam mixed with his breath, fogging the windscreen.

      ‘Thanks, Bill. The hunt for missing Fraserburgh businessman, Martin Milne, continues today…’

      He wriggled in his seat, pulling himself deeper into the stabproof vest, like a turtle. Knees together, rubbing slightly to get maximum itchiness from the black Police-Scotland-issue trousers. Took a sip from the Thermos lid.

      Tea: hot and milky. Manna from heaven. Well, from the station canteen, but close enough.

      ‘…concerned for his safety after his car was found abandoned in a lay-by outside Portsoy…’

      Logan wiped a porthole in the passenger window.

      Skeletal trees loomed on either side of the dirt track. Gunmetal puddles in ragged-edged potholes. The bare stalks of old nettles poked out of the yellow grass like the spears of a long-dead army. All fading into the dull grey embrace of February drizzle.

      Something bright moved in the distance – where the oak and beech gave way to regular ranks of pine – a fluorescent-yellow high-viz smear. Then the woods swallowed it.

      ‘…with any information to call one-zero-one. A teenage driver who crashed through the front window of Poundland in Peterhead was six times over the drink-drive limit…’

      Sitting next to the Thermos, his mobile phone dinged, skittering an inch to the right as it vibrated. He grabbed it before it fell off the dashboard. Pressed his thumb on the text message icon.

      Laz: call me back ASAP!

      No screwing about – it’s urgent!

      Where the hell are you?!?

      Sodding DCI Sodding Steel. Third time today.

      ‘Leave me alone. I’m working, OK? That all right with you?’

      He deleted the message. Scowled at the empty screen.

      ‘ … eight pints of cider at a friend’s eighteenth birthday party…’

      A pair of headlights sparked in the rear-view mirror: the cavalry had arrived. With any luck they’d brought biscuits with them.

      ‘…remanded in custody. The body of a young woman, discovered ten days ago in woods outside Inverurie, has been formally identified…’

      Logan took another sip of tea, then popped the door open, climbing out as a battered green Fiat lurched and rolled to a halt, windscreen wipers squealing across the glass.

      Everything smelled of dirt and mould and green.

      ‘…Emily Benton, a nineteen-year-old philosophy student from Aberdeenshire…’

      The Renault’s door clunked open and a man climbed out, dressed in tatty black combat trousers and a quilted black fleece. Big grin on his face. Short grey hair circled a wide strip of shiny pink scalp. His breath steamed out into the drizzly morning. ‘Fine day for it.’ He pulled a baseball cap from his back pocket: black with ‘POLICE’ embroidered over a black-and-white checked strip. He put it on, hiding his bald patch from the rain.

      Logan toasted him with the Thermos cup. ‘Syd. You bring your hairy friends with you?’

      ‘Emily was last seen leaving the Formartine House Hotel on Saturday night…’

      Syd leaned back into the car and came out with a thick leather lead, draped it around his neck, under his arms, and clipped it behind his back, like DIY braces. ‘Thought you and your minions already searched this one.’

      ‘…anxious to trace the driver of a red Ford Fiesta seen in the vicinity.’

      ‘Didn’t find anything.’ A shrug. ‘Thanks for coming.’

      ‘Forget about it.’ Syd waved a hand. ‘Only so many times you can watch Lord of the Rings.’ He marched around to the back of the car and popped the boot open. A golden retriever scrabbled out onto the track, tail wagging, feet pounding round and round his master, nose up to him, mouth hanging open. ‘You ready to put that nose back to work, Lusso? Are you? Yes you are. Yes you are.’ He ruffled the dog’s ears. ‘Do you good to get off your backside and do some work for a change, you fat lump.’

      ‘…appeal for witnesses. Now, are you ready for Valentine’s Day? Well, one enterprising teenager is auctioning his booking for a romantic meal for two at the Silver Darling restaurant in—’

      Logan clicked the radio off and downed the last of his tea. Pulled a padded high-viz jacket on over his stabproof vest, then dipped into the kitbag stuffed down into the rear footwell. Came out with a brown paper evidence bag. ‘Here you go.’

      ‘Socks?’

      ‘Better.’ Logan opened the bag and came out with a red T-shirt. The company name was speckled with paint: ‘GEIRRØD ~ CONTAINER MANAGEMENT AND LOGISTICS’

      ‘Well, you never know your luck. Since we retired, Lusso’s sniffed out nothing more challenging than other dogs’ bumholes.’ He unrolled a small fluorescent-yellow waistcoat thing and slipped it over the golden retriever’s head, clipping the straps together behind its front legs. Then Syd took the T-shirt and wadded it up into a ball. Squatted down and held it under Lusso’s shiny black nose. ‘Big sniffs.’

      Logan pulled on a pair of padded leather gloves. ‘We set?’

      ‘As we can be.’ Syd stood, then swept his arm out in an arc, hand pointing towards the woods on one side of the track. ‘Come on, Lusso: find.’

      The dog scampered around them a couple of times, then its nose went down and it snuffled away.

      They followed Lusso across the damp leaf litter, into the forest gloom, ducking under branches and crunching through brittle beige curls of dead bracken.

      Logan nodded at the dog. ‘What do you reckon?’

      ‘Long shot, to be honest.’ Syd tucked his hands into his pockets. ‘If you’re after dead bodies, cash, or explosives: Lusso’s your dog, but this tracking thing…’ He sucked on his teeth. ‘Well, you never know.’

      The musky brown scent of earth rose from the ground