In the Cold Dark Ground. Stuart MacBride
Logan nodded. Kept his mouth shut.
‘Soon as he does, that’s it. I’m the man, you got me? I say jump, you don’t ask “why”, you ask “how high”.’
‘It’s a different world, Reuben. I’ve not been CID for years.’ He shifted Wee Hamish’s bottle from one hand to the other. ‘I’m a uniform sergeant way up on the coast.’
‘Don’t care if you’re a pantomime dame in Pitlochry, you’ll do what you’re told.’
Logan did his best not to sigh, he really did. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this.’
‘Oh aye, it does. Cause I say it does.’ The big man stepped in close. ‘Your protection dies with Mr Mowat. You either get with the team, or you and me are going to have words.’
The whisky bottle was cold and solid in Logan’s hand. It’d make a pretty decent weapon.
Reuben grinned, then dropped his voice to a growling whisper. ‘Well, I’ll have the words, you’ll be too busy screaming.’
Could batter Reuben’s brains in right here and now. Probably. As long as he got the first blow in. And kept on going till the huge sod stopped breathing.
Logan stared back at him. ‘Grow up.’
Reuben lunged, grabbed Logan by the throat and shoved him back against the car, held his big scarred face close. The words came out on a wave of bitter garlic. ‘Listen up and listen good, you wee shite, I will skin you alive, do you hear me? And I’m not being metaphoric, I will take a knife and slit the skin from your pasty wee body!’
The whisky bottle came up, ready to hammer down.
Then Urquhart’s voice boomed out from the door. ‘STOP IT RIGHT THERE!’
No one moved.
‘Mr Mowat was very clear about this, Reuben. What did he say?’
Reuben hissed another sour breath out through gritted teeth. Then he shoved Logan and stepped back at the same time. Shot his cuffs. Glowered.
Urquhart took out his keys and plipped the Audi’s locks. ‘OK then.’
A huge paw came up, one finger prodding at Logan’s chest. ‘Enjoy your whisky, Sergeant. I’ll be in touch.’ Then he turned on his heel and lumbered back into the house.
Logan sagged a little. Opened the car door and settled into the passenger seat. Clutched the bottle against his chest where Reuben had poked him.
The front light went out, plunging the driveway into darkness.
‘So…’ Urquhart put the car in gear and drove down the drive towards the gates. ‘You and the Reubster, then.’
‘Who does he think he is? Threatening police officers?’ Logan hauled on his seatbelt. Kept his face forward. ‘Moron.’
‘Yeah, Rubey Doobie Doo. Hmm.’ The gates buzzed open and Urquhart took them out onto a narrow country road. ‘You know he’s moved into Mr Mowat’s other house? Set himself up like lord of the manor over there in Grandholm. You ever meet his fiancée?’
Logan stared across the car. ‘Someone’s marrying that?’
‘Big Tam Slessor’s daughter.’
Ah. A marriage made in the Hammer House of Horror studios.
‘Yeah, Mr Mowat gave them the Grandholm place for an early wedding present. I got them a dozen towels and a fondue set from John Lewis. Very classy.’ He turned right at the junction, heading for Aberdeen along the dark winding road. The Audi’s headlights reflected back at them from the rain-slicked tarmac. ‘You getting them anything?’
How about a shallow grave?
Trees whipped past the windows.
Logan shifted in his seat. ‘When I asked you if Reuben was planning anything, you laughed.’
‘Well, you know Reuben. These days he’s all about the strategic planning.’ Urquhart cleared his throat. ‘Mr McRae?’
The headlights caught a stiff bundle of feathers in the middle of the road – a pheasant, with its bottom half flattened and stuck to the road.
‘See, I was wondering… When Mr Mowat’s gone, he wants you to take over, right?’
‘I’m a police officer.’
‘Yeah, but he wants you, right? He doesn’t want Reuben. Doesn’t think the Reubmeister’s up to running the show. Thinks it’ll all just collapse into anarchy and war: all these guys coming up to carve Aberdeen into bite-sized chunks.’ A hand came off the steering wheel, ticking them off one finger at a time. ‘Malk the Knife from Edinburgh, the Hussain Brothers from Birmingham, the Liverpool Junkyard Massive, Ma Campbell from Glasgow, and Black Angus MacDonald with the Dornoch Mafia.’ A frown. ‘I know for a fact the Hussains are already sniffing about.’
They weren’t the only ones. Not if Lumpy Patrick was telling the truth. Which would be a first.
Drizzle misted the windscreen, and Urquhart put the wipers on. ‘Anyway, point is: they’re lining up to take their chunks. And soon as Mr Mowat’s gone, they’ll be here. And it’ll be war.’
‘And Reuben can’t stop it?’
Urquhart bared his teeth. ‘Tell the truth? I think he’s looking forward to it.’
Logan waited for the Audi’s tail-lights to disappear around the corner before letting himself into the Sergeant’s Hoose. Closed and locked the door. Put the snib on, just in case. Probably wouldn’t hurt to get a chain fitted. Maybe one of those metal bar things as well…
Not that it’d stop Reuben or his minions from coming in the window.
Still, that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for them.
He clicked the switch, setting the hall’s bare bulb glowing. ‘Cthulhu?’
Samantha poked her head out from the lounge. ‘You’re still alive, then. No trip to the pig farm for you?’
‘Not tonight. Not till Hamish Mowat dies.’
‘You want a tea?’
‘Nope.’ Logan held up the bottle. ‘Present.’ Through to the kitchen for a tumbler, which got a good splash of the Glenfiddich.
Samantha’s hand on his shoulder. ‘You need a plan, you know that don’t you?’
He rolled a sip of warm leathery whisky around his mouth. ‘Thought I’d give Beaton and Macbeth your photo from Rennie’s engagement party. You always liked that one. Get them to match your make-up.’
‘This is serious, Logan. Reuben’s dangerous, you know that. If you don’t do what he wants, he’ll kill you. Slowly.’
‘Can’t decide what to do about all the piercings, though. I mean, he’s a nice enough guy, but I don’t fancy Andy fiddling about getting your nipple ring back in. Never mind the more intimate ones. Maybe he could get George to do it?’
‘You need a plan!’
‘I know George has got huge hands, but she’s not as rough as she looks. Did I tell you she breeds chinchillas?’
‘God’s sake, Logan, listen to me. Reuben will grab you, torture you, kill you, then feed you to Wee Hamish’s pigs. Is that what you want? Are you happy with that?’
Another sip of whisky. It seeped through his innards, spreading across his chest. He lowered his head. ‘I’m a police officer.’
‘And I don’t care.’ She stepped in front of him. ‘You have to kill Reuben, or you have to get the hell out of Narnia. If you don’t, you’re pig food.’
‘Maybe