In the Cold Dark Ground. Stuart MacBride

      He struggled onto his side. Then to his knees.

      Ow…

      Pressed the talk button. ‘Where were you?’

      ‘Got him, Sarge. Lumpy was pelting full tilt down Low Shore – pulled out right in front of him.’ A laugh. ‘You should’ve seen it, went sprawling across the bonnet, all arms and legs and packets of Edam.’

      Logan hauled himself upright, wobbled a little. Leaned on the wall. ‘Come get me.’

      The coast slid by the window, grey and dreich, robbed of colour by the driving rain. The Big Car’s wipers squeaked and squonked across the glass, thumping at the end of each smeared arc. The noise fought against the roaring blowers – on full, and losing the battle against Lumpy Patrick’s truly unique odour.

      Rancid onions and garlic and off cheese, underpinned by something warm, diseased, and peppery.

      ‘God’s sake…’ Calamity buzzed her window down an inch, letting in the roar of the road and the hiss of the rain. ‘Did you go swimming in a septic tank, Lumpy?’

      He was hunched in the back seat, with his hands cuffed behind his back, unwashed hair covering his face, hiding him from the rear-view mirror. ‘Said I was sorry.’

      Logan turned away and stared out of the passenger window. The North Sea pounded against the cliffs, slate grey against dirty brown. Or was it the Moray Firth here? Either way it wasn’t happy.

      Calamity shuddered. ‘You sure we can’t put the blues and twos on, Sarge?’

      ‘Sharing an enclosed space with Lumpy Patrick isn’t an emergency. Police Scotland frowns on that kind of thing.’

      A sniff from the back seat. ‘Not my fault. It’s my glands.’

      ‘It’s being allergic to soap and water.’

      More rain. More cliffs.

      Then the road twisted away inland.

      Another sniff. ‘This shoplifting thing. Any chance, you know: slap on the wrists and that? Learned my lesson. Promise to be a good boy in the future?’

      Calamity laughed. ‘You’re kidding, right? How many times is this now? Sheriff’s probably going to make an example of you, Lumpy. Can’t have druggies nicking all the bacon and cheese in Banff and Macduff.’

      ‘Didn’t nick it. I was… It… Hold on. I found it. Yeah. Found it.’

      ‘Course you did.’ Logan shifted his legs in the footwell. Grimaced as little shards of ice gouged through his left ankle. Bloody garage roof. What was the point of building a garage if the roof wasn’t sturdy enough for someone to land on it without going straight through?

      ‘You know what, Lumpy?’ She threw a scowl at the rear-view mirror. ‘I tried to get some smoked streaky for butties yesterday and there wasn’t a single pack in Tesco or the Copey. You and your druggy mates had the lot on five-finger discount.’

      More shards of ice when he rotated the ankle left and right. Should’ve strapped it up and stuck some frozen peas on it. Probably be the size of a melon by the time they reached Fraserburgh station.

      ‘What do you think, Sarge? Four months? Out in two with good behaviour?’

      Not to mention all the paperwork needed to compensate the garage’s owner.

      ‘You’re screwed, Lumpy.’ Calamity grinned. ‘But look on the bright side: at least you’ll get regular showers in the nick. It’ll do your social life a world of good, not smelling like a dead sheep.’

      She slowed down for the limits at New Aberdour. Then put her foot down again a minute later when they’d passed through the matching set on the way out. Then buzzed her window down a little further. ‘Can’t believe we’ve got to suffer this all the way to Fraserburgh.’

      The kettle rattled and pinged its way to a boil. A dirty-cauliflowery smell pervaded the canteen, giving it the unwelcome ambience of a hospital waiting room. The place was at least four times bigger than the one back at Banff station, with not one but two vending machines, an open-plan kitchen area, a picture window, a row of recycling bins, comfy sofas, big flatscreen TV, and enough space to hold a reasonably intimate ceilidh if you moved the four tables up against the walls.

      A faint buzzing oozed out of vending machine number two – which was out of chocolate – competing with the mindless drone of some Cash-in-the-Bargain-Hunt-Cheap-and-Nasty-Antiques-Car-Boot-Sale rubbish coming from the TV.

      Logan retrieved the remote and switched the TV off, killing a permatanned idiot mid-ramble, leaving nothing but buzzing and rattling in the large yellow room that smelled like hospitals.

      He put the remote control down.

      A voice, behind him. ‘What’s with the face?’

      Logan didn’t look around. ‘Just thinking.’

      ‘Sounds dangerous.’

      He turned back to the kettle as it clicked itself off. Dumped a teabag in a dayglow pink mug with ‘World’s Greatest Duty Sergeant’ printed around the outside. Poured boiled water in on top. ‘You want a tea?’

      ‘Can’t. Persistent vegetative state, remember?’

      ‘Yeah…’ He stirred the bag, turning the water brown. ‘Do you think you’ll feel anything? When they switch you off?’

      Her hand was warm on his shoulder. ‘When they switch me off?’

      Logan dug the bag out of the mug with the spoon. Squeezed it against the side to make it bleed. ‘Will it hurt?’

      ‘What’s this “they” business? After all we’ve been through, you’re wimping out on me?’

      Milk.

      ‘Don’t make me…’

      ‘Logan.’ A pause. Then the hand on his shoulder squeezed. ‘Logan, look at me.’

      He puffed out a breath. Put the semi-skimmed down on the countertop. Turned.

      Her hair glowed scarlet in the canteen lights. Tribal tattoos poked out from the sleeves of her skull-and-crossbones T-shirt, their spikes mixing with skulls and hearts and swirls. But the ink wasn’t bright and vibrant any more, it was faded and grey, as if she’d been photocopied one time too many. A gold ring looped through the edge of one nostril, semiprecious stones glittering in lines up the outside edge of her ears. She smiled at him and the small stainless-steel ball bearing that stuck out below her bottom lip turned into a dimple. ‘I’m not going to feel anything, OK?’ Samantha draped her arms over his shoulders, stepping in close. ‘I died five years ago. This is just housekeeping.’

      ‘That why I don’t… I don’t really feel anything?’

      ‘Hmmm.’ She sighed. ‘Speaking of which: this morning, the body in the woods. You used to care, Logan. You used to feel for them. You used to empathize. What happened?’

      Outside the picture window, rain lashed the streets of Fraserburgh, drummed on the roof of parked cars. Sent an old man with an umbrella hurrying across the road.

      Logan frowned. Shrugged. ‘I was just doing my job. You heard what Calamity said: covering the face dehumanized the body. Made it less of a person. Doesn’t mean I don’t care.’

      ‘Maybe it’s not the victim who’s been dehumanized.’

      The old man lost hold of his umbrella and it went dancing away in the wind, pirouetting and whirling into the distance as its owner stumped after it.

      To add insult to injury, a small red hatchback wheeched past on the road, right through a puddle that sent a wall of water crashing over the stumpy man. He stood there, arms out, dripping, staring after the disappearing car.

      ‘Logan?’ Samantha