In the Cold Dark Ground. Stuart MacBride

years, right? John.’

      ‘Is there something wrong with the flat?’ Because if there was he could take a flying leap. No way Logan was paying to fix anything. Things were bad enough as it was.

      ‘I’m calling on behalf of Mr Mowat. He wants to see you.’

      And now, they were worse.

       5

      Logan closed his eyes and leaned against the door. ‘I can’t—’

      ‘He really wants to see you, Mr McRae.’ Urquhart puffed out a breath. ‘He’s an old man. And he’s dying.’

      ‘He’s not dying. No way a little cancer is getting the better of Wee Hamish Mowat: it wouldn’t dare. He’s—’

      ‘Oncologist says maybe a week, week and a half if he’s lucky.’

      Oh. ‘I see.’

      ‘Please?’

      Logan pushed through the door into a warm, small-ish room with a couple of leather settees arranged on two sides of a glass coffee table. Tasteful flower arrangements. Framed testimonials on the walls. An understated desk with a brass carriage clock on it – no computer, no brochures, no paperwork. And no sign of anyone. ‘I’m a police officer, I can’t… If they find out I’m sitting vigil with Wee Hamish—’

      ‘He’s dying and he wants to see you. It matters to him.’

      ‘I…’ Logan’s shoulders slumped, dragged down by the weight of all the knives stabbed between them. ‘I can’t promise anything. But I’ll try, OK? If I can.’

      ‘Thanks. He’s looking forward to it.’ And Urquhart was gone.

      Logan stood there, frowning down at his phone till the screen went dark.

      Wee Hamish Mowat.

      Oh, Chief Superintendent Napier would love that. Gah… Why did the Ginger Whinger have to be sniffing about now? Why couldn’t he have waited a month or two till it was all over?

      By then, with Hamish dead, Reuben would’ve taken over. And after he’d finished killing everyone, Logan would probably be facedown dead in a ditch somewhere and wouldn’t have to worry about getting hauled up in front of Professional Standards and done for corruption.

      Yeah, that was it: look on the bright side.

      Logan put his phone away. Scrubbed a hand across his face.

      Oh God…

      And when he lowered them, a thin man in a black suit was standing in front of him, head lowered, hands clasped together. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ Then an eyebrow went up. ‘Sergeant McRae? Well, this is a pleasant surprise.’ He stuck his hand out for shaking. ‘I’m not used to you coming to us.’

      Logan shook. ‘Andy.’

      ‘Come, come.’ He turned, beckoning Logan to follow him as he stalked towards a curtain behind the desk. Pulled it back to expose a plain wooden door. ‘Tea? Or we have a rather nice coffee machine. It’s new. I think there may even be biscuits.’

      Logan followed him through into a bare breezeblock room, with a small metal table in the corner, a kettle, fridge, microwave, sink, and a huge shiny chrome coffee maker. Posters lined the walls – displaying different brands of coffin with all the associated added extras.

      ‘Sit, sit.’ Andy pointed at the plastic chairs tucked under the table. ‘Now, tea or coffee?’

      Logan sat. A heady whiff of pine air freshener pervaded the room, along with something much darker seeping under a door through to the rear of the building. ‘I need to arrange a funeral.’

      ‘I see. In that case, I think a cappuccino.’ He poked and fiddled with the chrome monster. ‘May I ask the name of the deceased and when they passed?’

      ‘Samantha Mackie. And it’ll be the day after tomorrow. She’s not dead yet.’

      The eyebrow climbed higher up Andy’s forehead. ‘Sergeant McRae, we here at Beaton and Macbeth consider ourselves to be a very progressive firm, but we do draw the line at interring the living.’

      ‘It’s my girlfriend. Well, partner. Sort of. She’s been in a coma for years, they’re … we’re withdrawing life support on Friday. She can’t breathe on her own. So… Yeah. Friday.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ Andy’s fingers twitched and clicked off one another. ‘And I took you back here. I’m so sorry, Sergeant McRae, please, let’s repair to the chapel of rest and I can—’

      ‘No. It’s OK. Here’s fine.’ Logan took a deep breath. ‘I need a black coffin with a red silk lining. And do you have anything with skulls-and-crossbones on it?’

      The Sergeant’s Hoose sulked on the corner, diagonally opposite Banff station and a lot less impressive. Large patches of rough stonework poked through the crumbling render on the gable wall, one of the windows there still boarded up. Have to do something about that. The front was a bit better. Kind of. If you ignored the entire right-hand side with its sealed off doors and windows.

      Logan switched the carrier bags to his other hand and dug his keys out. Let himself in. Dumped the carrier bags.

      ‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s home.’ He clicked the hall light on, took his soggy fleece off, and went to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Where’s Daddy’s little kittenfish?’

      No reply. No thump of fuzzy paws battering down the stairs. No prooping or meeping.

      ‘Cthulhu?’

      Nope.

      Lazy wee sod was probably still asleep.

      Logan picked up the mail from the mat, flicking through it on his way to the kitchen. Bill. Bill. Bill. You May Already Have Won!!! Donate To Charity Now! Buy A Hearing Aid. Do You Need New Windows And Doors?

      He dumped the lot on the table and stuck the kettle on, then limped through to the living room while it groaned and pinged towards a boil.

      The answering machine glowered at him with its angry red eye. He jabbed the button and a flat electronic voice growled from the speaker. ‘MESSAGE ONE:’ Then Helen’s replaced it, every word carving out a jagged chunk from his chest. ‘Hello?… Logan, are you there?… Please pick up if you’re there. … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to end like that. I…’ A sigh. ‘Look, this was a mistake. I just… I wanted to hear your voice again.’

      Bleeeeeep.

      His finger hovered over the delete button a moment too long.

      ‘MESSAGE TWO:’ A harsh, smoky voice gravelled out into the room. Steel. ‘Laz? Where the hell are you? Why’ve you no’ called me—’

      Delete.

      ‘MESSAGE THREE: Mr McRae? It’s Sheila here from Deveronside Family Glazing Solutions…’

      A soft meyowp came from the doorway behind him, then a small fuzzy body leaned into his leg with a thump – brown and grey and black stripes leaving hairy trace fibres on his damp Police-Scotland-Issue trousers. She wrapped her big fluffy tail around his leg, adding yet another layer of hair.

      ‘Where have you been then?’

      ‘…let you know that your new windows have come in.’

      ‘About time, been waiting six weeks.’

      He bent down and picked Cthulhu up, turned her over so she was lying on her back, white fuzzy tummy on display as she stretched out her arms and curled her big white feet. He rubbed her belly, getting a thick rumbling