Broken Ground

By Val Mcdermid

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The slap of spades in dense peat was an unmistakable sound. They slipped in and out of rhythm; overlapping, separating, cascading, then coming together again, much like the men’s heavy breathing. The older of the pair paused for a moment, leaning on the handle, letting the cool night air wick the sweat from the back of his neck. He felt a new respect for gravediggers who had to do this every working day. When all of this was over, you wouldn’t catch him doing that for a living.

“Come on, you old git,” his companion called softly. “We ain’t got time for tea breaks.”

The resting man knew that. They’d got into this together and he didn’t want to let his friend down. But his breath was tight in his chest. He stifled a cough and bent to his task again.

At least they’d picked the right night for it. Clear skies with a half-moon that gave barely enough light for them to work by. True, they’d be visible to anyone who came up the track past the croft. But there was no reason for anyone to be out and about in the middle of the night. No patrols ventured this far up the glen, and the moonlight meant they didn’t have to show a light that might attract attention. They were confident of not being discovered. Their training, after all, had made clandestine operations second nature.

A light breeze from the sea loch carried the low-tide tang of seaweed and the soft surge of the waves against the rocks. Occasionally a night bird neither could identify uttered a desolate cry, startling them every time. But the deeper the hole grew, the less the outside world impinged. At last, they could no longer see over the lip of the pit. Neither suffered from claustrophobia, but being that enclosed was discomfiting.

“Enough.” The older man set the ladder against the side and climbed slowly back into the world, relieved to feel the air move around him again. A couple of sheep stirred on the opposite side of the glen and in the distance, a fox barked. But there was still no sign of another human being. He headed for the trailer a dozen yards away, where a tarpaulin covered a large rectangular shape.

Together they drew back the canvas shroud to reveal the two wooden crates they’d built earlier. They looked like a pair of crude coffins standing on their sides. The men shaped up to the first crate, grabbing the ropes that secured it, and eased it off the bed of the trailer. Grunting and swearing with the effort, they walked it to the edge of the pit and carefully lowered it. ■ Val Mcdermid has sold more than 15 million books to date, and her work has been translated into over 40 languages. Her latest novel, Broken Ground, is published by Little, Brown on 23 August. She is at the Edinburgh International Book Festival on 21 August .

About the author