Dying light lm-2

by Stuart MacBride

  Either frightened off by the cold or the huge police presence. Maybe the killer would be too? Maybe he couldn't get it up if there was an army of constables and CID watching. Or maybe his dick shrivelled up in the cold and no amount of pounding some poor cow's skull in with a rock would help.

  Whatever it was, Logan got the feeling their man wasn't going to show tonight. This had all been one huge waste of time. » She's been standing on this street corner for ages, and it's bloody freezing. Shifting from foot to foot, trying to get some sort of circulation going, she cups her hands to her mouth and blows. Breath comes out in a fog, momentarily warming her fingertips, but even that small relief is soon whipped awaj in the icy wind. 'Fuckit,' she says to herself under her breath. If she didn't need the money so much… By all rights she should be at home tonight, curled up in front of the fire with a bottle of vodka and something nice on the telly. But that would be asking for too much, wouldn't it? God forbid Joe should get off his arse and go to work for a change. No: much better he should raid the fucking housekeeping and bugger off with the money for the electric. What the hell were they supposed to do with no bloody electricity? The sodding card meter was already down to its last flicker. So Joe goes out on the piss and she has to go out on the game.

  In the freezing cold. Just so they can have enough fucking electricity to see by. 'Selfish fuckhead.' He hadn't even left her enough for a packet of fags. She'd had to beg some off Joanna. She scrunched up her face and scowled at the deserted street. Enough was enough. The lazy bastard had to go. It wasn't as if he was even good to her. No, it was always demands and complaints and… A car. She pulled herself upright and tried for a smile as it slowed down. It was a nice car, one of those new ones they were advertising on the telly. Whoever it was, they weren't short of a bob or two. She wriggled her bra down, getting as much cleavage on show as possible.

  Maybe tonight wouldn't be such a let down after all.

  18

  The sun was already well on its way up the sky when Logan finally slouched into work at half past nine.

  Yesterday's shift had been way too long: eight am on the Tuesday right round to five am on the Wednesday. Twenty two hours straight. By the time he was climbing the stairs to his flat things had started to get a little strange. His hands left vapour trails when he moved them, and his eyes made whooooshing sounds. Showered and barely shaved, Logan groaned his way up to DI Steel's incident room, just catching the end of an update meeting with the head of

  CID.

  Apparently every single person they'd detained last night had a cast-iron alibi for the Monday and Friday – surprisingly enough there was no mention of Councillor Marshall or his Anal Adventurer. Whoever the killer was, they hadn't caught him. When the DCS had gone, and the rest of the team was dispersed to perform the myriad tasks DI Steel had thought up for them, the inspector cornered Logan and told him he looked like warmed-up shit.

  Thanks a heap,' he said, rubbing his tired face. I've had about two hours' sleep in the last day and a half.'

  Steel stood up straight and peered down her nose at him.

  'So have I, but you don't see me slouching in here looking like a zombie's armpit.' Which wasn't entirely true. Whatever magic the inspector had performed on her wild hair yesterday, it'd worn off. The suit was still new, if a little more creased than it had been, but the top of her head looked like a frightened mongoose.

  Logan stared at her in disbelief. 'You spent half the stakeout asleep! I watched the bloody alleyway while you were snoring your head off!'

  The inspector grinned at him, completely unabashed. 'Aye?

  Well, privilege of rank and all that shite. Come on, I'll buy you a nice bacon roll on the way.'

  'On the way where?' But she was already gone.

  For some reason DI Steel's assertion that shifts were for the weak didn't extend to DC Rennie: he wouldn't be in until later – so Logan had to pick up a CID pool car and drive them to the hospital, expending all his concentration on not crashing into anything. By the time they were sat at the traffic lights on Westburn Road, the lush green jungle of Victoria Park on one side, the wide-open spaces of Westburn Park on the other, Steel was onto her second post-bacon-buttie cigarette.

  'You're no' still sulking are you?' she asked as the lights changed and they inched forward.

  I'm not sulking, I'm tired.'

  'Aye?' The inspector eyed him sceptically. 'How come you've no' asked why we're going up the hospital then?'

  Logan sighed. 'We're going to see Jamie McKinnon.'

  Steel nodded. 'Aye. Want to guess why?'

  'Not really, no.'

  'Suit yourself.'

  The ward was fairly quiet when they arrived, most of the beds were full, their occupants sitting on their own, engrossed in the morning paper or staring morosely out of the window.

  Jamie McKinnon had been moved to a bed in the far corner and was lying on his side with his back to the door, hiding under the blankets.

  Steel plonked herself down on the end of the bed and gave him a cheery, 'Jamie, my wee porridge-muncher, how's it hanging?' The man in the next bed harrumphed and ruffled his Press and Journal.

  'Come on, Jamie, don't be rude: you've got visitors! I even brought grapes.' Steel pulled a tube of sweets from her pocket and tossed them onto the bedspread. 'Well, wine gums, but it's the thought that counts, eh?'

  Jamie McKinnon rolled over and scowled at her with his one good eye. For some reason his bruised face wasn't healing much. If anything it was worse than before. 'Go fuck yourself.'

  'Ah, Jamie, Jamie, Jamie… if only I had time. We found this huge dildo last night, but between you and me, it's a bastard on the batteries.' She picked up the wine gums. 'You wanting these or not?'

  He snatched them out of her hand and glowered. 'Nothing happened.'

  'No…?' Steel faded off into silence, looking over her shoulder at Logan standing at the foot of the bed. 'For God's sake get yourself a chair, you look like an undertaker standing there with your face like that.' Grumbling Logan did as he was told, dragging an orange plastic seat over from the next bed. He was just about to sit down when Steel told him to draw the curtains round the bed.

  'There we go,' she said when he'd closed them off from the rest of the ward. 'Much more cosy. Now, Sunshine.' She poked Jamie in the shoulder. 'A nice nurse told me you had some visitors last night. And that when they were gone, you pressed your little "help me" button and she had to get your hand X-rayed.' Logan's eyes darted to Jamie's left hand. All four of the fingers were splinted together, wrapped in white gauze bandage.

  'I… fell.'

  'You fell.' Steel nodded. 'You fell and managed to break four fingers.'

  'That's right.'

  'Hit your eye on the way down too?' Steel pointed at the swollen mass of bruised flesh.

  'I fell, OK? I fell on my face and I put my hand out to stop myself and I banged my fingers.'

  'You sure?'

  Jamie suddenly found the packet of wine gums very interesting; he fumbled awkwardly at the wrapper with his splinted fingers before giving up and trying with his other hand.

  Logan had a bash at being the good cop. 'Who were they, Jamie? The people who came to see you last night?'

  Jamie shrugged, never taking his eyes off the packet in his hands. 'Just some people I know. You know, friends, like…'

  The inspector snorted. 'Bollocks. Tell you what, Jamie, I think your visitors were trying to pass you controlled substances. So, just to be on the safe side, I'm going to call a nice man from the Drugs Squad and get him to perform a full body-cavity search on you. Would you like that?' She smiled. 'Would you?

  Nice big hairy man's hand all the way up your backside looking for a package of fun? Mmm? Big, big hairy hands?'

  'They didn't give me nothing, OK? They wanted to, but I wouldn't take it.'

  DI Steel's smile softened. 'I wish I could believe you, Jamie, I really do. But you're going to need to give me more information than that. I want
their names.' 1 don't know their names!'

  Steel shook her head, then mimed pulling on an elbow length rubber glove, complete with sound effects. Jamie's eyes darted from the inspector to Logan. 'I don't know! They wouldn't tell me! Please!'

  'What did they want?'

  They said I had to use them as suppliers. I told them I wasn't doing that kind of stuff any more, I was going straight…' He held up his hand so Logan could see the bruises in between the fingers where the bandages didn't quite meet. Then they did this.'

  Logan winced. 'Why didn't you call for help?'

  Jamie laughed painfully. Think I didn't want to? Big fucker had me pinned to the bed, stuffed a rag in my mouth while his fucking friend giggled and snapped my fingers. Couldn't even scream.'

  'And no one saw anything?'

  They pulled the curtains.'

  'You could have said something afterwards.'

  Jamie raised his undamaged hand to his swollen eye, touching the puffy flesh with a wince. 'Said they'd be back.

  Said they knew where I lived. Said they could have a lot of fun with my sister if I fucked things up for them.'

  Steel listened to all this with a thoughtful look on her face.

  When she was finally certain that they weren't going to get anything more out of Jamie McKinnon she hopped off the bed and motioned for Logan to follow. Thanks for that, Jamie. Oh, and you'll be sad to know that some other tart got herself beaten to death on Friday night.' At that Jamie sat up straight in bed. 'Nah.' Steel shook her head. 'Don't get your hopes up, we're treating them as separate incidents.

  You're still going down for what you did to Rosie. See, we got the lab results back this morning: Rosie was up the stick with your kid. You knew that. Couldn't stand the thought of your baby inside her getting poked by strangers' dicks every night.' All the blood drained from Jamie's face and the inspector grinned. 'You have fun now.'

  Jamie was in tears as they pushed their way out of the ward, Steel making the call to her friend on the Drugs Squad to set up Jamie's full body-cavity search.

  Ailsa stood at the kitchen sink washing the breakfast things in hot soapy water. Normally she would have done the washing up straight after breakfast, but she was a bit behind today. Gavin had bought her a dishwasher, he was good like that, but somehow it seemed so wasteful to put it on just for a couple of plates, and she couldn't bear the thought of the breakfast dishes festering in there all day, so she always did them by hand, staring out of the kitchen window through the fence, watching the schoolchildren troop across the grass and in through the doors. Praying that one day, she'd have one of her own… But it was late and they were all gone now, leaving the playground empty and silent, waiting for the morning break to come. She sighed and scrubbed dried-on egg off the good plates.

  Gavin had been in a foul mood last night. He'd had to work late yet again – even though he'd promised – and when he finally got home the horrible woman next door was out in the garden. Staggering about, screaming and swearing at her boyfriend. Gavin had dumped his briefcase in the hall and marched right round there to give them a piece of his mind. She had never, ever, heard her husband use language like that before. But it didn't make any difference to the harpy next door: she just started shouting and swearing at Gavin instead. Then she got violent! Screaming obscenities and swinging punches… Gavin came in with the beginnings of a black eye. He called the police, not that it ever did any good. After that he didn't want to eat the supper she'd made for him, preferring instead to drink a huge amount of whisky. And even though the schedule they'd got from the doctor said they had to try every night while she was ovulating, he said he couldn't. Not after a long day in the office and the fight. He was going to have another drink and watch the television. So Ailsa had gone to bed alone.

  That horrible woman next door had ruined everything…

  With a sigh, Ailsa stacked the last mug on the draining board. The noise next door was getting worse again, the yelling, the foul language, the sound of something breaking.

  Then the pointy-faced boyfriend limped out into the back garden, covering his head with his hands as a beer bottle sailed out through the French windows. The horrible woman lurched out after it, drunk at half past ten in the morning, swigging from another bottle. The boyfriend tried to get out of the way, but she grabbed him by the collar and punched him in the face! She was going to beat him up again: right there in the back garden, where everyone could see!

  He staggered back, blood streaming from his crooked nose and she tried to swing for him again, missing, collapsing on the grass. Crying. The boyfriend turned and ran into the house, screaming that he was leaving her, that he'd had enough, slamming the door behind him.

  Ailsa never saw him again.

  The horrible woman rolled over onto her back, like a beached whale in jogging pants, and started to snore. Ailsa shuddered – maybe she should call the police?

  But she didn't. Instead she picked up the dishtowel and started to dry.

  The nurse who'd seen to Jamie McKinnon's fingers wasn't exactly the most attractive woman ever to don a blue uniform: bobbed brown hair, squinty nose, pointy ears and thinnish lips, but DI Steel was smitten from the outset. She perched on the edge of the nurse's desk, giving the young woman her undivided attention while she told them all about Jamie McKinnon's visitors last night. Two men, both neatly dressed in suits. One with really nice teeth and short blond hair, the other with shoulder-length black hair and a moustache.

  A little warning bell went off in the back of Logan's head.

  They didn't have Edinburgh accents by any chance, did they?'

  They did.

  Steel protested, but eventually Logan managed to drag her away from the nurses' station and up to the hospital's security office, where a lone guard kept an eye on a bank of CCTV monitors. He was dressed in the standard turdbrown uniform with brass buttons and yellow trimmings that looked disturbingly like chunks of sweet corn. It took a little persuasion, but eventually he showed them last night's tapes. There wasn't a camera in Jamie McKinnon's ward, but there was one in the corridor not far from it.

  Logan ran through the tape, watching the fast-forward flicker of motion as the machine played back yesterday evening. The system was only set up to record an image every couple of seconds and the doctors, nurses and civilians jerked past in a strange stop-motion ballet. Two large figures twitched into view, drifting along the corridor to disappear suddenly outside Jamie's ward. The timestamp at the bottom of the screen said ten seventeen. Regular visiting hours ended at eight. When they re-emerged the timestamp said ten thirty-one. Fourteen minutes of dislocating Jamie McKinnon's fingers and threatening his family. Logan hit the pause button. Now the figures were walking towards the camera he had a good view of their faces. The picture quality wasn't great, but it was good enough: the bloke in the suit with the short blond hair was the same 'corporate investment facilitator' Miller had met for breakfast in the pub. And the man at his side was a dead ringer for the driver who'd been waiting in the car outside while Miller agreed to write a puff piece on McLennan Homes' latest business venture. 'And we have a winner.'

  'What?' Steel was slouched in her chair, not really paying attention to the screen, or to the clockwork animation people on it.

  'This one,' said Logan, poking the screen with his finger.

  'Works for Malcolm McLennan.'

  It was DI Steel's turn to swear. 'You sure?'

  'Yup. So anything your mate digs out of Jamie McKinnon's arse belongs to Malk the Knife.'

  19

  Eleven o'clock and they were back in the car again, heading for the HQ of Aberdeen's main local newspaper. DI Steel sat in the passenger seat, worrying away at her thumbnail, her expression conflicted.

  Jamie McKinnon was being kept under close supervision, not even toilet breaks allowed, until Steel's mate from the Drugs Squad turned up with his long rubber glove. She was determined to pin something on the two thugs from down south. The trouble would be getting
any sort of case together.

  Somehow Logan didn't see Jamie McKinnon having the balls to stand up in court and say, 'Yes, Your Honour, those are the men that forced six kilos of heroin up my backside.' Not if he didn't want to end up filling a shallow grave out in the Grampian hills somewhere. But you never knew your luck.

  Logan took the car up across Anderson Drive and onto the Lang Stracht. The Press and Journal – local news since 1748 – shared a squat, concrete, sprawling box of a building with its sister paper, the Evening Express, on a small industrial estate packed with car dealerships and warehouses.

  Inside it was all one huge, open-plan office. It always amazed Logan that the place was so quiet, just the ever-present hummmmm of the air-conditioning and the odd muffled conversation overlaying the soft, plastic clickity-clack of people typing on word processors. Colin Miller, however, was hunched over his computer, hammering away at the keyboard as if it had recently called his mother a schemie whore. The desks around him were packed with piles of paper, mugs of congealing coffee and bespectacled journalists.

  Every head within an eight-desk radius snapped up as Logan tapped Miller on the shoulder and asked for a quiet word.

  'Oh, for fuck's sake! Can you no' see I'm busy?'

  'Colin,' said Logan in a low, friendly voice. 'Trust me on this; you want to have a wee chat with us. And it'll be much nicer if we have it over an early lunch in the nearest pub than down at the station. OK?'

  Miller looked from Logan to the article flickering away on his screen – something about a bake sale in Stonehaven, if Logan wasn't mistaken – before hammering Ctrl-Alt-Delete, locking his computer. 'Come on then.' Miller stood and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. 'You bastards is buyin'.'