Dying light lm-2

by Stuart MacBride

  His very own makeshift crematorium.

  The location was perfect: a little winding road down by the river in the south of the city. High stone walls on one side – keeping the lowlife out of some sort of hotel grounds – scattered, detached houses on the other. Secluded enough to stop the alarm being raised too soon, and with plenty of cover for him to hide in and watch the place burn. And even if someone did raise the alarm, the fire engines were busy elsewhere.

  He knew he shouldn't be here. Not so soon after the other fire. He knew he would get in trouble for this one, but he just couldn't help himself. Standing in the shadows, on the other side of the road, he grimaced, pounding away at his erection as the upstairs windows exploded outwards in a shower of glass.

  God, this was beautiful.

  The screaming had lasted for ten whole minutes. Four petrpl bombs in through the bedroom windows. Someone had even braved the inferno in the hallway, hammering frantically against the front door, not knowing he'd screwed it shut, just like the one round the back. He bit his bottom lip, imagining their flesh crackling and popping in the heat.

  Flames raging downstairs, flames raging upstairs. Nowhere to run. All they could do was die. He grunted and shuddered … squeezing tighter, trying to make it last, but it was too late. He threw back his head and moaned in ecstasy as the roof finally gave way, sending an eruption of orange and white sparks spiralling up into the night. Then the fire brigade arrived – charging about with their ladders and their hoses, but it was far too late for the family of four charring away beneath the burning rubble.

  He really shouldn't have burned the house; he was bound to get in trouble.

  But right now, he just didn't care.

  Seven forty-five, Friday morning, tired, bleary and hung over. It hadn't been a good night for Logan; DI Steel had sent him home early, where he'd made friends with a bottle of twelve-year-old single malt whisky. Getting drunk and maudlin and thoroughly depressed. One minute PC Maitland was lying there in his persistent vegetative state, and the next he was gone. DI Insch had told Logan not to worry: it was dreadful, but these things happened. It wasn't his fault.

  It would all blow over. And when the inspector had gone, marching back up the road in the rain, DI Steel told him that Insch was talking bollocks. This was a perfect opportunity for the slimy bastards to crawl out of the woodwork and stab him in the back.

  The summons from Inspector Napier had been waiting for him when he got into work first thing this morning.

  So here he was, sitting outside Professional Standards, feeling sick, stomach churning away as he waited for Napier to call him into the Office of Doom. Right on cue the inspector stuck his pointy face around the door and beckoned Logan inside. This time the room was crowded. In addition to Logan, Napier and the silent, unnamed inspector in the corner, Big Gary was sitting in one of the uncomfortable visitors' chairs, his huge frame making the plastic buckle alarmingly.

  He looked up and nodded as Logan entered. This was it then.

  He was in real trouble this time.

  'Sergeant McRae,' said Napier settling down behind his pristine desk. 'As you can see, I have asked your Federation representative to attend this meeting.' He threw a cold smile in Big Gary's direction. 'But before we start I'd just like to say how saddened we all are at the news of PC Maitland's untimely death. He was a good officer and will be greatly missed by his colleagues and friends. Our thoughts and prayers go out to his wife and…' Napier peered down at a sheet of paper on his desktop. 'Daughter.'

  And then Logan had to go through the bungled raid again, while Napier nodded gravely and Big Gary took notes. 'Of course,' said Napier when Logan had finished, 'you realize that we have been lucky with the timing of this.' He held up a copy of that morning's Press and Journal. The headline Fatal Fire Kills Four! was stretched across the front page above a photo of a ruined house, still burning in the darkness with fire engines clustered outside. 'This arson story has far more public appeal. Also, the papers didn't get wind of Constable Maitland's untimely death until after their second editions had run. Naturally we can expect "prominent citizens" like Councillor Marshall…' the name came out sounding like a disease from Napier's lips, 'to ma,ke their feelings known on the subject.'

  Logan suppressed a groan. That pompous, slimy wee pervert would have a field day.

  'Of course, the internal enquiry now has to take into account the fact that an officer died during the operation you organized, resourced and led,' said Napier, probably loving every minute of this. 'If you are found to have been negligent, you can expect a reduction in rank and possible expulsion from the force. Criminal charges cannot be ruled out.'

  Big Gary sat forward in his beleaguered plastic seat and frowned. 1 think it's a wee bit premature to be talking about criminal charges, don't you? Sergeant McRae's no' been found guilty of anything.' The silent inspector in the corner twitched.

  Napier held up his hands. 'Of course, of course. I apologize.

  Your Federation representative is quite correct: innocent until proven guilty and so forth.' He stood and opened the door. 'A date for the enquiry will be set later today.

  Please feel free to drop in should you wish to discuss things further.'

  Interview room number six was vacant, so Big Gary commandeered it, dragging Logan in for a pep talk. Screw Napier. Logan hadn't done anything wrong, had he? No. So there was nothing to worry about: the internal enquiry would come back negative, they'd all have a big touchy-feely lessons learned exercise, and everyone would get on with their lives.

  Everyone, thought Logan, except for Constable Maitland.

  When Big Gary was gone, Logan slumped back in his chair and scowled at the ceiling tiles. Bloody Napier and his bloody witch hunt, as if he didn't already feel guilty enough about Maitland being dead! Any excuse to belittle, or threaten, or condescend and there was Napier, ready to stick the knife in and twist. And where the hell did he get off telling Logan to make sure Steel wasn't screwed over by the press? Bloody Steel and her bloody sarcasm and her bloody 'everything's not black and white' like he was some sort of school kid! Protect her from the press? It'd be Logan getting a roasting off that smug, sanctimonious, child molesting pervert Marshall, not DI Steel. No, she had him eating out of the palm of her nicotine-stained hand…

  Fine, you know what: two could play at that game. Logan yanked his phone out, dialled Control, and asked for a contact number for Councillor Andrew Marshall. It took him three minutes to get past Marshall's personal assistant, but finally the man's familiar voice oiled imperiously out of the phone, 'Is this important? I have a chamber meeting in five minutes.'

  Logan smiled. 'Just a quick question, Councillor: does the name "Kylie" mean anything to you?' There was silence on the other end of the phone. 'No? Young Lithuanian prostitute, claims to have been sexually intimate with you and a friend of yours last month. At the same time.'

  A bit of stammering, and then, 'Sexually intimate?'

  'Well, the exact term she used was "spit roast". I believe you took the back end?'

  'I… I don't know what you're talking about.'

  'We've got her in custody: she identified your picture. Did you know she was only fourteen?'

  'Oh God…' There was a long pause. 'What do you want?

  Money? That's it isn't it – it's what you people always want! Why can't you all just leave me alone?'

  Logan smiled. He'd always suspected DI Steel was on the take. 'So someone's already blackmailing you for having anal sex with a fourteen-year-old girl?'

  'Oh God this is a nightmare… 7 never knew she was fourteen till he told me afterwards! I swear! I wouldn 't have touched her if I'd known!' He was starting to panic.

  The smile froze on Logan's face. 'Till he told you? Who's he?'

  'It… I… I don't know his name. I just got a letter and a photo of me… of the three of us… together. I didn 't know she was fourteen!' He was getting louder and louder, and Logan wondered if Marshall had been brigh
t enough to close his office door, otherwise the whole council would know about his little 'indiscretion' by lunchtime.

  'I want your friend's name, Councillor, the one on the other end of your underaged rotisserie.'

  A pause, then another gulp. 'He… You're going to blackmail him as well, aren't you?' 1 want his name.'

  It was John Nicholas, the council's Chief Greenbelt Development Planner. Feeling pretty pleased with himself, Logan hung up. An underaged Lithuanian prostitute up from Edinburgh has sex with the guy responsible for deciding what can and can't be built outside the city, photos are taken, threats are made, and all of a sudden Malk the Knife's property development company has permission to put up a stack of new homes on greenbelt? If it was a coincidence it was a bloody unlikely one. And as Brendan 'Chib' Sutherland was Malkie's fixer, he was probably responsible for McLennan Homes' sudden turn of good luck. Something else to ask him about, presuming Colin Miller ever managed to dig up an address.

  It didn't take long for the news of PC Maitland's death to get out – the first call from the media came at nine on the dot, putting an end to Logan's good mood. The press office issued a statement that was much the same as Napier's:

  PC Maitland was a fine officer and would be missed by his colleagues, blah, blah, blah. By the time PC Steve stuck his head around the incident-room door and asked if Logan had a minute, almost every news organization in the country had been on the phone.

  'Been another fire,' said PC Steve, holding up a copy of the P amp;J.

  'I know, Napier showed me this morning.'

  PC Steve raised an eyebrow. 'You seen Dracula? How come…' and then he ground to a halt as he remembered.

  Maitland's death was all over the station. Coming into work this morning had been like walking into a silent movie; all conversation stopped as soon as Logan entered a room. 'Aye, well,' said the constable, blushing slightly. 'Inspector Insch wants you to join him up at the scene. Says you're to come do your morbid bit.'

  Logan didn't bother clearing it with Steel first.

  The scene of the fire wasn't hard to spot amongst the restrained bucolic splendour of Inchgarth Road. The rain had drifted away, leaving the trees and bushes a verdant green, glowing in the warm, golden light of a hazy sun. Down here, the city fought an awkward battle with the countryside, allotments and farmland mingling with council housing estates and expensive private homes. Gritty, soot-coloured dirt made a slick across the road surface, clogging the drain and leaving a shallow lake on the tarmac. What was left of the house hulked at the end of a short gravel drive, one end wall caved in, spilling bricks and mortar across the debris. A dirty white Transit Van was parked next to a scorched rose bush, along with a grimy police pod, people in white paper boiler suits drifting back and forth, taking samples and photographs. It was cramped in the pod, but there was just enough room for Logan and Steve to change into their scene-of-crime outfits while someone boiled the kettle for a brunch Pot Noodle. And then it was back out into the garden.

  The firemen had battered the front door down, which can't have been an easy task: the frame was peppered with three inch wood screws, just like last time. That was all they needed, another serial nut job. The part-glazed door lay on its back in the middle of the hall, half buried under a pile of broken roof tiles and charcoaled timbers.

  Inside, the upper floor was, gone, just the occasional beam marking the level where a whole family had died.

  The remaining walls were blackened and scorched. Rubble filled the corridor along with the twisted remains of the staircase.

  Insch was in what would have been the lounge, dressed in amp; straining white paper over suit, balancing on top of a mound of rubble while a man in grimy overalls and a fire brigade hard hat poked about with a long pole. Teetering over fallen bricks and lumps of charred wood, Logan joined the inspector. 'You wanted to see me, sir?'

  'Did I?' Insch frowned. 'Oh, yes. Family of four: mother, father and two little girls. Fire investigators say petrol was poured in through the letterbox, followed by petrol bombs through the windows. Sound familiar? Whoever did it made four hoax calls from a stolen mobile phone, every one of them on the other side of the city. By the time the fire brigade got here it was all they could do to stop it spreading next door.' He shook his head and picked his way down the mound of debris to the blasted remains of the front window.

  'Poor bastards didn't have a chance. I was beginning to think the last fire – the squat – was drugs-related, but this feels more… I don't know, personal, if that makes sense.' He sighed and ran a hand across his round, red features. 'I can't get it to match up. That's why I want you to take a look: fresh pair of eyes.'

  Logan nodded. 'They found the bodies?'

  'Bits of them… Seems the girls' bedroom was above the kitchen. When the roof caved in, the whole lot collapsed.

  Best guess the mother and father were in there with them.

  We won't know till we get the room emptied.'

  Logan picked his way through the remains of the house, moving from room to room, taking in the devastation. There wasn't much left he could recognize, everything had burnt or melted, the only thing even vaguely intact was the battered front door, still lying where it had fallen, the paintwork blistered and peeling, the glass panes cracked and nearly opaque with soot. He stood staring down at it – the only thing to survive a fire that claimed four lives. There was a little brass plaque on the door, just above the letterbox, and he squatted down, brushing away the dirt and debris until he could read it: Andrew, Wendy, Joanna amp; Molly Lawson. The

  I

  only thing missing was Rest In Peace. He was just turning to leave, when he thought he saw something through the door's fire-damaged glass. Heart hammering in his ears, he wrapped his hands round the edge of the door and pulled, the wood creaking and groaning as it came free of the debris, sending roof tiles clattering to the brick-strewn floor.

  Underneath, part buried in bits of ceiling, was a burnt human face, features gone, ochre teeth the only really identifiable feature, the skull flattened on one side by a chunk of fallen masonry. Logan's hung-over stomach lurched.

  When he called for help, DI Insch came lumbering through, took one look at what Logan was pointing at, frowned, then the swearing started. 'Every bastard and their dog's been through here!' He shouted for the bloke from the fire brigade, demanding to know why the hell no one had found this sooner? While they were arguing over whose responsibility it was to make sure people didn't go traipsing over dead bodies, Logan lurched across the threshold and out into the real world again.

  The sun was still shining, but the air was full of the stench of burning meat and roasting timbers. Closing his eyes, Logan tried to take a deep breath. He wasn't going to be sick, he wasn't going to be sick – charred women and children, battered prostitutes, the skinned face of a young woman, rotting animal carcasses, Maitland… He was going to be sick.

  Logan managed a few slow steps in the direction of the garden wall before abandoning all pretence and sprinting for the safety of a large purple buddleia, ripping his mask aside, falling to his knees and retching behind the bush. When there wasn't even any bile left, his stomach aching from the effort, he shivered to his feet, wiping the strings of bitter spit from his mouth with the sleeve of his jumpsuit. Please God let no one have seen him puking in the bushes… He cast a quick glance around, but everyone was going about their business, getting on with the job like he was supposed to be.

  Standing on the flattened grass, looking up at the ruined building, he tried not to think about the faces of the dead.

  The fire at the squat, where six people died, had been a spectator sport, he was sure of it. One man out there in a darkness all his own, turning human beings into charred corpses while he played with himself in the shadows. He would want a good view of proceedings. Preferably close enough to hear their flesh pop and sizzle. Logan started a tour of the garden, looking for the perfect position from which to watch a family of four burn, somewhe
re that wouldn't become a trap if the fire brigade turned up earlier than expected. There wasn't one. He did a slow three hundred and sixty degree turn.

  There was a hotel driveway across the road, the entrance marked by rusting lanterns set into the eight-foot-high stone wall. It would be the only place with a really good line of sight.

  Still dressed in his white boiler suit, surgical gloves and booties, he sloshed through the puddle of soot-coloured water and into the hotel's grounds. You could lurk behind the granite posts, peering round the corner and hoping no one looked in your direction while you were busy having a wank, but that would probably spoil the romantic atmosphere … There was a huge rhododendron bush six feet in from the entrance. Perfect: if anyone looked, all they'd see were leaves and shadow. Logan walked through the wet grass to the rhododendron, peering under the fringe of dark green, waxy leaves. The flower heads were dying back, their delicate scarlet blooms battered away by last night's rain, lying like flecks of blood on the grass. There was a clear footprint in the mud, just inside the bush.

  The manager of the hotel was a little concerned about the effect a blue plastic scene-of-crime marquee was having on his guests. It was bad enough that the road had been blocked off since last night, but to have a bunch of people wandering around the hotel grounds like something off the television was just… Well, he wasn't quite sure what it was, but he did send a nice young man out with a huge thermos of tea, another of coffee and a platter of Danish pastries. Much to DI Insch's delight.

  Things were looking up. The leaves hadn't just kept their arsonist dry while he played with himself, they'd also helped preserve any evidence he'd left at the scene. In addition to the footprint, they'd also discovered another disposable paper handkerchief, smelling of semen. And the Identification Bureau were swarming all over the inside of the rhododendron, looking for fibres, traces, fingerprints, anything.

  Insch was happily finishing off a third pastry from the tray when a patrol car pulled up outside the burnt-out shell opposite and a familiar bald-headed clinical psychologist stepped out. Hands behind his back, he strolled around the house's garden, peering at things.