In the Cold Dark Ground. Stuart MacBride

couple of steps up the bank and… OK.

      There was a dip in the earth: semicircular with a chunk of lichen-covered granite at one end. Stalks of dead weeds poked up through the yellowed grass. And right in the middle, lying flat on its back, was the body of a man. Naked. Hands behind him. One leg crooked out at the knee, the foot resting against his other shin.

      His torso was a tie-die pattern of purples, blues, and yellows fringed with green, the bruises spaced randomly across pale-grey skin slick with drizzle.

      Syd’s voice came from the other side of the bush. ‘That him?’

      Logan blew out a breath. ‘Difficult to tell…’

      The head was covered with black plastic – like a bin-bag – fixed around the neck with thick strands of silver duct tape. There was a strange smell too. Maybe bleach?

      The pubic hair was a sickly yellowy-white, so it could be bleach.

      Probably bleach.

      Someone covering their tracks, trying to make sure they hadn’t left any DNA or trace evidence behind that could be identified. Yeah, good luck with that. Something always survived.

      Another smell lay under the bleach, something sweet and meaty and cloying. Like a chunk of mince, forgotten about at the back of the fridge, a couple of days past its sell-by date.

      Definitely dead.

      Logan unzipped his jacket and pulled out his Airwave handset. Punched in the Duty Inspector’s shoulder number. ‘Bravo India from Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

      Inspector McGregor’s voice crackled out of the speaker, sounding slightly plummy, as if she was eating something. ‘Go ahead, Logan.’

      ‘Guv? I think we might have found Martin Milne…’

       2

      ‘Sarge?’ Tufty pulled his eyebrows in, made his watery blue eyes all big and puppy-dog. Pouted, sinking his cheeks even further into his bony face. ‘Just in case: someone’s planning a surprise party Monday, right?’

      Droplets pattered off the peak of his cap, hissed through the needles on the trees, rippled the puddles at their feet.

      ‘Monday?’ Logan ducked in under a pine, using the canopy of needles to keep the worst of the rain off. Up above, between the branches, the sky was nearly touching the treetops. Heavy and dark.

      ‘Well, Tuesday morning. I know we don’t get off nightshift till seven, and most places will be shut, but someone’s organizing something, right?’

      Logan punched Calamity’s shoulder number into his Airwave handset. ‘Constable Nicholson, safe to talk?’

      A crackle, then her voice came through: ‘On my way back now, Sarge. I’ve taped the road off at the junction.’

      Tufty pulled one shoulder up to his ear. ‘Because it’s a big thing, isn’t it? Not every day you go from being a probationer to a full-blown instrument of justice.’

      ‘You got the tarpaulin, Calamity?’

      ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Course I’ve got the tarpaulin.’

      ‘Well hurry up then. Tufty’s going to suffer fatal rectal boot-poisoning if I have to put up with his whingeing much longer.’

      There was a little pout, then Tufty inched closer, peering down at the body. ‘Funny, isn’t it? Soon as you cover a person’s face like that, you make them less … human. Like it’s not really a person any more.’

      ‘It’s still a person.’ Logan put his Airwave back on its clip. Cupped his hands to his mouth and blew, filling them with warm fog. ‘Wonder how long he’s been lying there?’

      Tufty ducked, then worked his way through the jagged branches of the tree next to Logan’s, until his back was against the trunk. ‘First week I was on the job, there was this motorbike crash. Young woman, a girl really, didn’t make the corner – straight through a barbed-wire fence. She wasn’t wearing a helmet.’

      ‘All this rain. Probably not a lot of trace left on the body. Might get fibres off the bin-bag, though.’

      ‘Head came clean off.’

      Then there was the bleach. If whoever did it bleached the body while it was lying here, they might not have turned it over to do its back. Could be DNA there, protected from the rain and the elements.

      ‘Searched for ages.’ Tufty frowned. ‘I found it in a clump of dead nettles. She was staring up at me with this confused look on her face. Surreal…’

      The dirt track was the obvious point of entry to the scene. No sign of any tyre marks, though. So, they probably carried the body here from wherever they’d parked. Strange to go to all that effort when you could have just pitched it out of the boot.

      Maybe the road was blocked?

      Or maybe the victim was still alive when they got here? Maybe the killer made them walk from the car to here? Jesus, how frightened would you be? Naked, hands tied behind your back, picking your way along the forest road, knowing that when you got to where you were going, you’d be dead.

      ‘Anyway, we stuck the two bits back together and: bang, suddenly she was a person again. Never thrown up so much in my life.’ He shuddered, then blew out a billow of steamy breath. ‘See that? Probably getting frostbite.’

      ‘Feel free to shut up at any point.’

      Syd appeared from the woods behind them, hands dug deep into his pockets, golden retriever trotting in lazy circles around him. ‘Nothing.’

      Logan shrugged. ‘Worth a go. Thanks anyway.’

      ‘Been nice to get out and do something for a change. Retirement’s not all it’s cracked up to be. A lifetime of fixing-up the house and garden, DIY as far as the eye can see…’ A shudder. ‘Like a wheelbarrow: always in front of you.’

      Lusso loped over to Tufty and stuck his nose in the constable’s groin.

      ‘Errr…’ Tufty flattened himself against the tree. ‘Doesn’t bite, does he?’

      ‘Anyway, if you don’t need me, I’ll head off. She Who Must wants a trip to B&Q. Apparently the spare room needs new wallpaper.’

      ‘We’ll give you a shout about a statement.’

      ‘And that pint you owe me.’ Then Syd clapped his hands. ‘Come on, Lusso, leave the poor wee loon’s winkie alone. We’re going home.’

      A bark made Tufty flinch, then the golden retriever turned and trotted after its master. Up the slope and away into the forest.

      Tufty wiped a hand down the front of his trousers, as if reassuring the contents that the nasty doggie had gone. Then squinted up at the heavy grey sky. ‘Think it’s cold enough to snow?’

      Probably.

      The rain fell.

      And fell.

      And fell.

      Sod this. He punched Maggie’s number into his handset. ‘Maggie, safe to talk? You got an ETA for us yet?’

      ‘As far as I know they’re en route, Sergeant McRae.’

      ‘Well … if you hear anything, let us know, OK? It’s hammering down out here.’

      He hooked the Airwave back into place, wrapped his arms around himself and tucked his hands into the armholes of his stabproof vest.

      Tufty made a sound like a deflating whoopee cushion. ‘First time in my life I’m actually looking forward to a Major Investigation Team