Dying light lm-2

by Stuart MacBride

  'Oh.' What a surprise, Steel had obviously taken all the credit for tracking down Neil Ritchie. 'So are you going to bring them in? Chib and his friend?'

  'On what grounds? That they're from Edinburgh and look a bit dodgy? Think the PF'll give me a warrant with no bloody evidence?' He scowled and finished off the packet, crushing it in one huge fist before throwing it at the nearest wastepaper basket. 'I've already had Dr "I'm-So-Sodding-Clever" Bushel in here twice this morning wanting to do up a profile on whoever killed Karl. Little attention-seeking, glory-hunting, four-eyed…' He snarled. 'Apparently the Chief Constable is delighted someone so knowledgeable and special is "assisting" poor thick old DI Insch. How? How does writing rubbish about the fires being a sexual thing help us catch the bastard doing it? What am I supposed to do with that?

  Put an ad in the personal columns? "Looking for white, male GSOH, mid twenties – into setting fire to people's houses, with them inside, and masturbating while they burn – for long-term commitment at Her Majesty's pleasure. Genuine psychos only; no time wasters." Can really see that working.'

  Scowl. 'Oh, and before I forget: we got the DNA results back on your wankerchiefs – both the same. I've got them running a search through the database, see if we can find some sort of match, but there's a dirty big backlog because of that serial rape case in Dundee.'

  'What about the MO? It's pretty distinctive.'

  'What a great suggestion, Sergeant. I hadn't thought to run a search on something as bloody obvious as that.' He gave Logan a withering glance. 'You think I sailed up the River Don on a used condom? Course I bloody checked.

  Three other fatal fires where the entrances were screwed shut – Lothian and Borders sent up the investigation reports.'

  'They got any idea who did it?'

  Insch gave him that same look again. 1 don't know, I forgot to ask. Why, do you think it might be important?'

  'OK, OK, there's no need to bite my head off; only trying to help.'

  Insch rummaged around in his suit pockets, but came up empty handed. He sighed. 'I know. I'm just pissed off because nothing's bloody happening. We've got someone out there burning people to death, and I haven't got a clue how to stop him.' The inspector hauled himself off the edge of the desk. 'Anyone asks, I'm off to the shops. There's a big bag of sherbet lemons out there with my name on it.'

  Logan watched the inspector go. So much for hiding out with DI Insch until Steel calmed down a bit. Maybe it would be best to make himself scarce. He signed for a CID pool car and headed out into the late morning traffic just as the first specks of rain started to fall. Logan clicked the radio over to Northsound Two, the music fighting a losing battle against the wheeeeeek-whonnnnnnnnk of the car's windscreen wipers.

  He drove about more or less at random, trying to figure out what he was going to do for the rest of the day. With Steel pissed off, the murdered prostitute case was pretty much off limits. There wasn't anything he could do about Chib Sutherland and his mate – even if they could pressure Jamie McKinnon into making a statement about the forced insertion of drugs, he wasn't going to stand up in court and testify against two of Malk the Knife's goons. Might as well wrap his willy up in smoky bacon and dance naked in a cage full of rabid Rottweilers. So it was the missing person case or nothing. At least it'd keep him busy. He'd already spoken to the wife and the colleagues, which left the pole-dancer and the neighbour. The strip joint was closer.

  Just off Union Street there was a steep cobbled alley, descending rapidly until it disappeared, three storeys down, under Bridge Street. Windmill Brae, home to nightclubs, bars and Friday-night fistfights. Secret Service was near the bottom of the hill, with not-so-discreet boards in the windows – silhouettes of naked women – protecting the public from seeing anything raunchy going on inside. Logan parked outside on the double yellows. The front door was open, a mop and bucket standing in the space between the narrow pavement and the kiosk, where you could buy your ticket.

  The water in the bucket swirled with disinfectant, trying to overcome the overpowering reek of last night's vomit.

  Inside it was pretty much what he'd been expecting: a long, dark room on three levels, bar on one side, dancing stage with four metal poles and floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the other. Just to make sure you didn't miss anything. Little round tables filled the remaining space, the chairs upturned on top so that a spotty youth could work a floor polisher in between them. The loud wub-wub-wub of the machine punctuated with the occasional clang as it bounced off one of the tables' central supports. A large man appeared behind the bar, clutching a bottle of detergent, yelling over the noise, 'How many times I have to tell you to go easy with that thing?

  It's no' a fuckin' race car!' Then he noticed Logan standing in the doorway and scowled. 'We're closed.'

  'I can see that.' Logan pulled out his warrant card. 'DS McRae. You've got a dancer called Hayley working here?'

  The man didn't move. 'Why – what's she done?'

  Logan crossed the still wet floor and leant on the bar. 'She's not done anything. I just want to know when you last saw her.'

  'Depends, doesn't it?'

  'On what?'

  'On why you want to know.'

  He pulled out a copy of the photo Mrs Cruickshank had submitted with her missing person report. 'This man's been missing since Wednesday afternoon. Someone told me he and Hayley were an item. 1 need to find out if she knows where he's gone.'

  'Ha, you'll be fuckin' lucky. Didn't show up for her shift Wednesday night. Hasn't been in since.'

  'Wednesday?'

  'Aye. She does it every couple of months, disappears off to Ibiza, or some other tourist trap, soon as she's got enough cash from the tips. Gets them last-minute deals off the internet and buggers off without a word. First we know of it's when the fuckin' postcard arrives.'

  'So it's not unusual for her to just go away like this?'

  'Sometimes one of the other daft cows here goes with her, sometimes she takes a bloke, depends who she's shagging at the time.'

  Logan proffered the photo again. 'You recognize him?'

  The man squinted at the picture. 'Aye: Gav. In here most nights when Hayley's dandn'. She's been doing him for a couple of months.'

  Logan took the picture back. It was beginning to sound like Gavin Cruickshank was an even bigger bastard than he'd thought – sodding off to Ibiza with a pole-dancer. 'You got an address for Hayley?'

  'Let's see that warrant card again.' Logan handed it over, and the man squinted at it for a while. 'OK,' he said at last, digging about under the bar and coming up with a box of postcards. 'Just had these printed. You know, showing off the best girls. Going to hand them out in the pubs at closing time, get the punters all hot and bothered for a lap dance.'

  He flipped the top card over, scribbling an address and telephone number on the back, before passing it across the bar.

  The photo showed a very attractive woman in her mid twenties, striking brown eyes, sexy smile, long black hair, black leather bikini, knee-length kinky boots, a small diamond crucifix hanging from her pierced belly button. First Ailsa, then the ScotiaLift receptionist and now this. How the hell did Gavin Cruickshank do it?

  The man grinned. 'Fuckin' tasty, eh? You wouldn't kick that out of bed for fartin'.'

  Logan gave him a business card. 'Call me if she gets in touch, OK?'

  Outside, the rain was getting heavier and Logan had to make a run for the car. According to the scribbled address, Hayley lived in a flat down the bottom of Seaforth Road. He didn't expect it to amount to much, but he drove over there anyway, the traffic creeping along in the downpour. The radio burbled away to itself as Logan navigated the drenched streets, wondering if last night meant things were finally starting to go right with Jackie again. It had been a good evening – good food, good wine, and afterwards had been pretty damn good as well. The news came on and Logan turned the radio up, listening to reports of a car crash in Torry, another protest being scheduled for Monday's planning mee
ting, and the main story of the day: someone was 'assisting the police with their enquiries' into the murder of a number of prostitutes. And lo and behold, there was Councillor Marshall on the radio, telling the world what a great job Grampian Police was doing and how we could all sleep safely in our beds again. A little bit of DI Steel's blackmail went a long way.

  Hayley's flat was on the second floor of a three-storey granite tenement block. From her front room she'd have a great view of the sprawling Trinity Cemetery with Pittodrie Stadium – home to the intermittently disastrous Aberdeen Football Club – lurking in the background, drab and dreary in the rain. Lovely.

  He clambered out of the car and rang the doorbell. No answer, not that he'd really been expecting one. So he tried the neighbouring flats; no one had seen Hayley since Wednesday morning. Later this afternoon he'd put in a call

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  i lo the local airport, sec if they had any record of her and Gavin buggering off to sunny climes in the last week. And if that didn't turn anything up there was always Inverness, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Prestwick…

  Wherever they'd gone, they'd turn up soon enough. All tanned and knackered from too much sex while his wife was at home, going frantic with worry. What a shit. Logan didn't really want to be the one to tell Mrs Cruickshank her perfect husband was probably off on holiday screwing another woman. Maybe he could get a nice, sympathetic WPC to break the news instead.

  He got as far as turning the car round before his mobile phone started ringing: DC Rennie calling on behalf of DI Steel – who was obviously still too angry to speak to him in person. Jamie McKinnon was dead. i

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  Logan was to collect DC Rennie from FHQ and then go to the prison. Take statements and make sure everything was done by the book. The rain was still hammering down, thrumming on the car roof, as he pulled up outside the back door to the station and called the constable on his mobile to let him know he was waiting. Two minutes later Rennie threw himself into the passenger seat and shivered. 'What a lovely bloody day!' He ran a hand through his hair and flicked the water off into the foot well. 'Here, these are for you.'

  Rennie handed over a small pile of yellow Post-it notes, each of them marking an individual phone call from Mrs Cruickshank, wanting to know if they'd found her husband yet. She must have called half a dozen times since yesterday.

  Logan stuffed them in his pocket; she'd just have to wait until they were through at the prison.

  Rennie was quiet as they drove down Market Street, past the harbour, but Logan could see him sneaking glances at him out of the corner of his eye. 'Come on then, out with it.'

  A blush. 'Sorry, sir, I was just wondering what you'd done to upset DI Steel'

  'Why?'

  'Er…' Rennie screwed up his face, obviously fighting for some sort of tactful way of putting it. 'She said I was to tell you: "don't fuck this one up, or she'd do the same to you."

  Swear to God, made me promise: word for word.' He threw another glance in Logan's direction. 'Sorry…'

  'I see.' God knew why he was surprised – hell hath no fury and all that. 'So tell me about Jamie: what happened?'

  'They released him from hospital yesterday morning went to court on the possession charge and straight back to Craiginches. Found him half an hour ago in the exercise yard. They think it's an overdose.'

  'In prison? How the hell did he manage that?'

  Rennie shrugged. 'You know what it's like these days, they want it bad enough, they're going to get it.'

  'Didn't bring it in from the hospital did he?'

  'No: I checked. After we found the drugs up his bum, he wasn't even allowed to take a dump on his own. What a great job that would be, eh? Standing in the corner while some wee scroat has a crap, checking to make sure they don't pick anything out of the bowl and stuff it back where it came from.'

  Logan pulled into the prison car park, between a patrol car and a familiar top-of-the-range Mercedes. 'Oh Christ…' he said, staring at Isobel's car. Just what he needed, someone else to give him a hard time.

  They found her at the furthest corner of the exercise yard, dressed – like everyone else – in a flattering white paper romper suit, hunkered down over the twisted remains of Jamie McKinnon. Looking knackered. The IB had strung together a makeshift lean-to over the body, running lines from one twenty-foot-high wall to the other, draping the blue plastic sheeting over the top. Trying to keep the worst of the rain off Jamie McKinnon's corpse.

  He was lying on his side, one arm twisted up behind his back, the other draped across his face. The bandages on his broken fingers were dirty and streaked with vomit. His left knee was up against his chest, right leg pointing due east.

  'Right said Isobel to an IB technician with a huge digital camera. 1 want everything photographed. Particularly the hands and soles of the feet.' She looked up and saw Logan as he ducked in under the blue plastic lean-to, out of the rain. Scowled. 'When you've done with the pictures, get him back to the morgue.' The photographer got to work, the hard clack of the flash making the raindrops spark as it caught them on their way to the ground. She stood, picked up her bag and started marching for the exit, accompanied by a mountain of muscle in a guard's uniform. Probably to ensure she didn't get free and maul one of the inmates.

  'Isobel?' said Logan as she tried to walk straight past him.

  'Yes?' Staring straight ahead. She really did look terrible: puffy and tired, as if she hadn't slept in a week.

  'I need to know what happened.'

  She scowled, looked at her watch and then back at Jamie McKinnon's corpse. 'He's dead. Apparently from an overdose, but I'm not confirming that until I do the post mortem. You'll have the preliminary report when it's finished.' Her voice was even more cold and clipped than usual. 'Until then, if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.' She didn't wait for an answer, just marched off, the paper suit making zwip-zwop noises as she disappeared from the compound.

  'Aye, aye…' said Rennie, 'someone's not gettin' any.'

  They grabbed a pair of spare SOC suits and clambered into them as the IB team finished off the photos and got ready to bag up the body.

  'You want we should hold on a bit?' asked the head technician, water droplets sparkling on his dirt-grey moustache. 1 can't give you long though, all this rain'll play havoc with any trace evidence.' He tucked the body-bag under his armpit and huddled with his colleagues next to the prison wall, keeping out of the downpour.

  Logan hunkered down next to Jamie. The bruises from before had faded slightly, but new ones had taken their place.

  Whatever was going on in here, Jamie looked like he was on the receiving end of most of it. There was vomit in his hair and jumper, the acrid reek of bile slowly mingling with the stink of fresh urine. 'So,' said Rennie, copying Logan and dropping down next to the body, 'what makes them think it was an overdose?'

  'Are you serious?'

  Rennie looked up, puzzled. 'What? Is it 'cos he's got a history of drugs and…' he trailed off into silence as he saw what Logan was pointing at: a small disposable syringe sticking out of the crook of Jamie's left arm. 'Jesus, that's a bit grim!'

  'Er… Sergeant?' it was Dirty Moustache again, clutching his empty body-bag as if it was a hot-water bottle. 'We're really going to have to get him back to the morgue now.'

  Logan left them to it.

  Inside the prison, the social worker in charge of Jamie McKinnon's case, along with God knew how many others, was slumped over a desk in the admin wing doodling furious skull-and-crossbones images on a to-do pad. She was the only person in there. If Logan thought the prison itself was dingy and depressing, it was nothing compared to the in house social work offices, a converted paint shed with oppressive strip lighting, dirty yellow-grey ceiling tiles, peeling paintwork, and carpet tiles worn down to the fibres. Box files and trays of paperwork lined the walls, filling the space between the high, barred windows and the You Don't Have To Be Mad To Work Here poster. Onto which someone had added the rider U
nless You Plan To Stay in blue magic marker. The only concession to life was a cluster of sickly houseplants, their leaves slowly browning as they too succumbed to the atmosphere of doom and neglect. Logan settled down on the other side of the desk and asked her about Jamie McKinnon.

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  i The woman looked tired, bags under the eyes, the end of her long, straight nose tinted strawberry pink, as if she'd been blowing it for years. 'Wonderful, isn't it? Like I don't have enough bloody paperwork to do!' A sigh. Then she rubbed her face with her hands. 'Sorry, we're short staffed at the moment – as bloody usual – one on maternity leave, two off on the stress, one walked out four months ago and we've still not hired anyone to replace them!' Logan counted the desks: there were only six.

  'So you're pretty much on your own then.'

  The and sodding Margaret, and she's useless at the best of times.' A loud sniff, followed by fumbling about in a desk drawer for a man-sized paper tissue, and then a lot of wet snorking noises. 'What you want to know?'

  'It looks like Jamie's taken an overdose: think he might have done it on purpose?'

  Her whole face clouded over. 'He was on suicide watch!

  OK? We're short staffed. There's only so much-'

  'I'm not looking to assign blame: I just want to know if you think it was an accident, or suicide.'

  She sighed, sounding tired and depressed. 'He's been having a rough time. Beaten up a lot – don't know why, but a lot of the guys had it in for him. Then there's being accused of murdering his lover, on top of having to deal with her death. And last time we spoke he'd just found out she was pregnant with his kid. He wouldn't stop crying…' Shrug.

  'So yeah, I think it's likely. What's he got to lose? The love of his life's dead, so's his unborn child, and all he's got to look forward to is getting beaten up in prison every day for the next thirteen to twenty years.'