In the Cold Dark Ground. Stuart MacBride

to Tufty rambling on about physics. ‘“WE’LL NEVER STOP PROTESTING AGAINST THE EVIL CONCRETE RUBIK’S CUBE!” SAYS LOCAL CAMPAIGNER.’ Who bore an uncanny resemblance to a scrotum in a shirt and tie.

      Outside the car windows, rain lashed the fields and bushes and trees, making the tarmac shine in the Big Car’s headlights as they wound their way along the Fraserburgh road.

      ‘I think time’s an emergent property of an entropic field. You know, like the Higgs boson is caused by vibrational ripples in the Higgs field?’

      ‘Hmm…’ Then there was an article about a project to get big, painted, fibreglass sheep installed across the city. Because all the dolphins weren’t enough.

      ‘And just as the Higgs field gives particles their physical mass, the entropic field gives particles their chronological mass.’

      Next up, a long piece on Emily Benton’s death. Quotes from her parents and friends about how lovely she was and how everyone liked her and she didn’t have any enemies. Which obviously wasn’t true, because someone battered her to death. The Examiner had gone out and done a vox pop in Inverurie – little photos of cold-looking shoppers above banal statements about how that kind of thing shouldn’t happen and their prayers were with her family.

      ‘So time is actually a boson. You see?’

      ‘Hmm…’

      Then there was a half-page on Banff Academy raising money for Macduff lifeboat station after one of the pupils nearly drowned on a fishing trip.

      ‘And that’s why the faster you move, the slower time gets. The entropic field is like cornflour – go slow and you pass through it without noticing, go fast and it seizes up.’

      Logan turned the page, where there was an opinion piece on the number of bodies being found in woods about Aberdeenshire. ‘Of course, you know what this means, don’t you?’

      ‘Exactly. Time is the physical manifestation of a non-Newtonian-fluid-like field.’

      Logan looked at him over the top of the paper. ‘No, it means we’re going to have to release details of the bodies, or the papers will start screaming, “Serial Killer!” Surprised they haven’t already.’

      ‘Oh. Right. Well, anyway, so the entropic field only allows travel in one direction or it violates the second law of thermodynamics, right? And—’

      ‘The chronology’s interesting, isn’t it?’

      Tufty beamed. ‘That’s what I think. Entropy, thermodynamics, the time boson—’

      ‘Emily Benton’s body is discovered in woods ten days ago. Then Martin Milne disappears a week after Emily was found. And Peter Shepherd turns up battered to death with a bag over his head, in different woods, three days after that, when he’s meant to be in Chesterfield buying containers.’

      The sign for Gardenstown flashed by on the left, and the sea was back – a thin line of charcoal on the horizon.

      ‘So…’ That thinky frown worked its way across Tufty’s face again. ‘Milne killed Emily, and his business partner? Thought the MO was meant to be different?’

      ‘Her skull was bashed in with an adjustable wrench. We’ve got no idea what happened to Shepherd’s head: there’s a bag over it.’ Logan went back to the paper, frowning at an article about childcare services getting cut in Ellon. ‘Maybe that’s why they’re different? Emily was killed in situ. Imagine you’ve just gone berserk on someone’s skull with a wrench, and now you’ve got to dump the body. That head’s going to leak blood and fluid and bits of brain all over your boot. So you stick a bin-bag over it and duct-tape it tight around the neck so nothing oozes out.’

      ‘Ooh. That has a sensible.’

      ‘Then you get the hell out of Dodge, before the police come looking for you.’

      The windscreen wipers droned across the glass, clearing a path that immediately vanished to be cleared again.

      Tufty coughed. ‘Mind you. Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? Shepherd’s death just happens to be exactly the same MO as this Edinburgh gangster?’

      ‘Hmm…’ There was that.

      ‘And why kill Emily Benton?’

      There was that as well.

      A big four-by-four rattled past in the opposite direction, its driver oblivious on her mobile phone, big Dulux dog in the back seat.

      More fields drenched with rain.

      ‘How long till Pennan?’

      Tufty peered at the dashboard clock. ‘Five minutes?’

      Trees swallowed the road, thumping heavy droplets from their sagging branches. Then out the other side.

      Next: an article on diesel thefts around Turriff.

      OK, so the evidence was circumstantial at the moment, but Milne’s disappearance made him look guilty. If he had nothing to do with Shepherd’s death, why did he run? Innocent people didn’t vanish three days before their business partners turned up dead in the woods.

      And then there was Milne’s obsession with crime fiction and TV shows. All those stories telling him how not to leave forensic evidence behind.

      Couldn’t deny that it fit.

      Martin Milne killed Peter Shepherd, dumped the body, covered his tracks, then did a runner.

      Logan wriggled in his seat, getting comfortable. Steel had a team of what, twenty officers? Maybe thirty? And she didn’t have a clue. Here he was, with nothing but Tufty for backup, and he’d already solved the murder. Two murders, if Milne killed Emily Benton as well.

      Tufty was right: Steel wasn’t going to be very happy. But you know what? Tough.

      He flipped the page.

      Sometimes the gods smiled upon…

      Oh.

      No.

      The breath curdled in his lungs. His fillings itched. A wave of electricity riffled the hairs on the back of his arms and neck, finally settling in his bowels.

      There, sandwiched between something on house prices in Strichen and a bit about a new music festival in Fraserburgh, was a photo of Wee Hamish Mowat.

      All the moisture disappeared from Logan’s mouth as his throat closed up.

      ‘LOCAL BUSINESSMAN’S CHARITY LEGACY’

      The newspaper trembled in his hands.

      Under the photo, the caption was: ‘PHILANTHROPIST HAMISH ALEXANDER SELKIRK MOWAT PASSED AWAY IN HIS SLEEP LAST NIGHT.’

      How the hell did the Aberdeen Examiner get the news out so fast? What did Reuben do, hire a publicist?

      There was a quote from the Lord Provost about what a great man he’d been. There were quotes from three different charities about how generous his contributions were. But there was nothing about him running the biggest criminal empire in the Northeast of Scotland. Nothing about the punishment beatings. Nothing about the pig farm where people disappeared.

      Nothing about the fact that Reuben would be coming for Logan now.

      Oh God…

      ‘Sarge?’

      The funeral was set for Friday. Tomorrow.

      But then Wee Hamish Mowat was never one for hanging about.

      And neither would Reuben.

      ‘Sarge? You OK? You look like you’ve swallowed a bee.’

      Logan lowered the paper. Blinked out at the hostile world. ‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘Fine.’

      Liar.