Dying light lm-2

by Stuart MacBride

  I

  groaned. Just like if he kept on solving Steel's cases for her, it was always going to be in her best interests to keep him around. She'd never give him enough of the credit to let him escape her Screw-Up Squad. All that time he'd spent telling Jackie this was his only way to get away from that manipulative, wrinkly old bag, and he'd just ended up making himself indispensable.

  'Bastard.' Insch had pretty much told him the best chance he had of getting out of the Fuck-Up Factory was to work on the arson investigation. But would he listen? No.

  He had to go busting his hump, day in, day out, so DI Steel could take all the glory.

  'Everything OK, sir?'

  Logan looked up to see the admin officer frowning at him.

  'No it bloody isn't.' He dragged himself out of his seat. 'I'm going out. If anyone wants me, you don't know where I am.'

  The admin officer's frown grew confused. 'But I don't know where you're… Sir?' But Logan was gone.

  He signed for a patrol car, not recognizing the registration number until he got down to the rear podium and beheld the same rubbish-filled mobile tip they'd taken yesterday. If anything, it was even more of a mess now; the whole vehicle stank of stale fast food and cigarette smoke.

  A patrol car pulled up as Logan was stuffing chip papers into the wire bin by the door with bad grace. Someone familiar unfolded himself from the back seat: DI Steel's mate from the Drugs Squad, the one with the big hands. He looked up, saw Logan, nodded a greeting then turned to help an old lady out of the car. Graham Kennedy's grandmother, looking shaken. Poor old cow probably had her flat broken into and vandalized again. 'You OK, Mrs Kennedy?' asked Logan, going back for an armful of pizza boxes, the cardboard waxy with cold cheese-grease.

  She wouldn't look at him, but Detective Big Hands grinned.

  'Not today she isn't. Sweet little old ladies shouldn't run drug rings from their homes, using wee kiddies as mules. Should they, Mrs Kennedy?' No response. 'She had a pair of little boys pushing their wee sister about in a stroller packed with drugs. All nice and innocent looking. Attic was full of hydroponic equipment and a big fuck-off chemistry set – growing cannabis and making PCP. One-woman drug cartel. Weren't you?' The old woman kept her face folded shut, staring at the ground. 'No comment, eh? Well, we'll see if you're more talkative after a full body-cavity search.' He led her in through the back door, followed by the WPC who'd been driving carrying a large plastic evidence bag with a teddy bear in it, one of the ears chewed almost bald – leaving Logan alone on the rear podium with a pile of fat-saturated cardboard.

  'Fuck.' He should have bloody known. Bloody thing had been staring him in the face the whole bloody time! He'd even found a huge bag of the stuff in her fridge, for God's sake! 'Fuck!' He hurled the pizza boxes in the bin and stomped back to the car. All those kiddies hanging around, watching her house, waiting for the police to sod off so they could go about their Telly Tubby drug-running business.

  'Fuck!' The bloody chemistry teacher thing. The locked attic.

  The grandson drug dealer. It was all there and he didn't put it together. 'FUCK!' Swearing and cursing he mashed the last of the boxes into the bin then took two steps back and kicked it hard enough to buckle the wire frame. Then limped back to the car, pulling out his mobile phone and telling Rennie to get down here pronto: they were going out.

  By the time they pulled into the Craiginches car park the sun was blazing, not a cloud in the sky, a faint haze on the horizon as the morning haar burned off. But summer didn't seem to have penetrated the prison walls. There was a man in a filthy boiler suit hunkered down by a radiator in the reception area, banging away at it with a spanner, trying to make it work by a combination of foul language and violence.

  'Right,' said Logan when the tired-looking woman behind I hi' desk went off to get a list of all the prisoners who were supposed to be out in the exercise yard when Jamie McKinnon overdosed. 'This is how it's going to work – you lead the interview, I observe. If I want to ask a question I'll slep in, but other than that, you're the man, OK?' Logan was going to be the organ grinder, rather than the monkey for a change.

  Rennie squared his shoulders and nodded. This was his chance to shine…

  Four interviews later and they were no nearer getting anyone for McKinnon's death. No one had seen anything.

  Surprise, surprise. As the fourth inmate trooped out of the door Logan let out a yawn. Much to his surprise, Rennie had turned out to be a pretty competent interviewer; he'd only had to step in twice to get something clarified and that was during the first session – after that the constable had made sure he included Logan's supplementary questions for everyone else.

  But they still weren't getting anywhere.

  Frustrated Logan checked the list they'd got from the guard again – twenty-seven people in the exercise yard while someone pinned Jamie McKinnon down, someone else covered his mouth so he couldn't scream and a third rammed a syringe into his arm. How could no one have seen anything? 'Er, sir?' He looked up to see Rennie shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 'Any chance we can take a break? I'm bursting.'

  'Good idea: pee and tea break.'

  Rennie nodded, resignation on his face. 'Yes sir. Two teas coming up: milk no sugar.' And Logan remembered his own moment of epiphany.

  'No, you know what? This time I'll make the tea.'

  The staff rest area was a small room, jaundiced by decades of cigarette smoke, the Thank You For Not Smoking sign on the wall modified by someone with a black marker pen so the cigarette in the red circle now looked like a penis, dripping sperm from the end. The word Smoking had been crossed out and Wanking scrawled in its stead. Classy.

  Logan filled the kettle and stuck it on to boil. There were no clean mugs in the cupboard, but someone had hidden a packet of Wagon Wheels behind a collection of yellowing coffee filters, so Logan helped himself to a couple. There was a loud sneeze from tlie corridor outside and he hurriedly stuffed the biscuits in his pocket as the rec-room door opened. It was the social worker from last time, still looking as if she was dying from a cold. Logan slapped a smile on his face. 'Hi, just looking for some clean mugs,' he said, trying to provide a non-chocolate-biscuit-stealing reason for rummaging about in the cupboards.

  'In this place? No chance.' She blew her nose on a tatty grey handkerchief and prodded the rumbling kettle. 'You'll have to wash one.' So Logan did, picking two that didn't look as if they'd recently been used for slopping out and rinsing them under the hot tap.

  'Still on your own?' he asked, making small talk while the kettle boiled.

  'As sodding usual.' She shook a mountain of instant coffee into a huge mug. 'Margaret can't come in today. Margaret's got flu.' The coffee was followed by an unhealthy amount of sugar. 'Bloody hangover more sodding like 'So,' she said as they walked back along the corridor, 'you here for anything special?'

  'Remember Jamie McKinnon?'

  'Christ, how could I forget! Got a sodding Fatal Accident Enquiry to go to for that one.' She scowled and sniffed, putting on a whining voice, '"Why wasn't he more closely supervised?

  Why was he allowed to commit suicide on the premises?

  Why was he allowed to get hold of drugs?" Like he filled in a sodding form asking permission!'

  346

  I

  'II il's any consolation, we think someone killed him. We're interviewing everyone who was in the exercise yard at the lime.'

  That produced a laugh. 'Good luck – you'll need it!' They'd reached the interview room. 'Anyway,' she said, 'I've got a pile of reports to get back to. Every bastard in here has to be re-checked for "suicidal tendencies" since Jamie McKinnon.'

  Another bitter laugh. 'And do I get any sodding credit for doing the work of a whole sodding department on my own?

  Do I hell!'

  Logan grunted, the scowl on his face matching hers. 'Tell me about it,' he said. Bloody Steel and her… something occurred to him. 'What about Neil Ritchie? He on suicide watch?'

 
She looked momentarily puzzled. 'Ritchie…? Oh, the "Shore Lane Stalker". Too bloody right he is, the man's a wreck. One death in custody a week's more than enough.'

  A grim smile pulled at Logan's face. DI Steel couldn't get a confession out of Ritchie, but then she couldn't interview her nose for bogies. Now if he got Ritchie to cough, they'd have to let him out of the Screw-Up Squad. 'Any chance I could have a word?'

  She shrugged. 'Don't see why not. Can't hurt after all.'

  No, thought Logan, it couldn't hurt at all.

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  36

  Neil Ritchie looked like shit: hunched over, dark purple bags under his bloodshot eyes, hair wild and unkempt, rocking back and forth in a creaky plastic chair. The noise of an overcrowded prison going about its daily life filtered in through the interview-room walls, while an old cast iron radiator clunked and rattled impotently in the corner.

  All being recorded for posterity by the tapes whirring away in the machine. The mug of tea Logan had made for DC Rennie sat in front of the trembling man along with one of the pilfered Wagon Wheels, neither of which he'd touched. 'So,' said Logan, leaning forward in his seat, purposely mirroring Ritchie's posture, 'how you feeling, Neil?'

  The man stared fixedly at the tea, watching a thin skin form on the surface. His voice was little more than a whisper.

  They… they put me in a cell with a criminal. He stabbed someone! He told me he stabbed someone…' Neil Ritchie screwed up his face, holding back the tears. 7 don't belong here! I didn't do anything!'

  This was exactly the same trick he'd pulled with DI Steel, protest total innocence and repeat ad nauseam. Logan struggled to keep the sympathetic expression on his face. 'What about Holly McEwan, Neil? They found her hair in your car, on the passenger seat. How did it get there, Neil? Help me understand how it got there and maybe I can help you. Did you give her a lift?'

  'No!' The word came out like a moan. 'I never did anything with those women – I promised Suzanne. Never again.

  Never.'

  'But they found her hair in your car, Neil.' Logan settled back in his seat, sipping hjs lukewarm tea, letting the silence stretch.

  On the other side of the desk, Ritchie shuddered. 'I told her – the inspector – I told her it must have happened before I got the car!' His eyes locked on Logan's, shining with tears.

  'Someone else gave her a lift! It wasn't me… it wasn't me…'

  'Your car's brand new, Neil. The garage delivered it to you by seven pm the night Holly went missing: there's a video of her being driven away in your car five and a half hours later.'

  'No! No! It… the car wasn't there till the morning! I woke up and it was in the drive, it was supposed to be there on Tuesday night – I had to take the bike to the shops. I was going to complain to the garage, but they left a note and a bottle of champagne Lies. Logan sat back in his seat and watched Ritchie rattling on about how he didn't like to complain, like the good, little passive-aggressive monster he was. It was odd to think that this trembling wreck had killed three women.

  Not to mention beating the crap out of Skanky Agnes Walker. 'What happened to your old car, Neil?' he asked, cutting across Ritchie's incessant whining. He was willing to bet it would be chockablock with forensic evidence.

  'When you bought the Audi – what happened to your old car?'

  The man looked at him, puzzled. 'I… I didn't have one.

  Nol for years. I've been on I he hike. I only bought the bloody Audi because Suzanne kept going on about growing up…'

  A sob. 'Oh God, why did I have to listen to her?'

  Logan sat and stared at him. Then slowly, and with much consideration, he said, 'Oh, shite.'

  Five minutes later Logan charged back to the interview room and told Rennie to drop whatever he was doing. The constable spluttered, pointing at the greasy individual sitting on the other side of the table. 'But I'm in the middle of an interview!'

  Logan shook his head. 'Not any more you're not. And anyway,' he said, giving the prisoner a quick once over, 'Dirty Duncan here isn't your man. Wouldn't hurt a fly would you, Dunky?' The man smiled nervously and mumbled apologies, hands busy beneath the table while Logan hurried Rennie out of his seat.

  'But-'

  'But nothing. Dunky would've been too busy wanking himself blind to see anything. Wouldn't you Dunky?' Dirty Duncan Dundas nodded coyly, his shoulders quivering as he rubbed at himself under the table. They got out of there before he could finish.

  'But I don't understand!' Rennie whined on the way back to the car. 'What's going on?'

  'Someone's screwed up big time, that's what's going on.' Logan hooked a thumb over his shoulder, back the way they'd come. 'That brand-new car Neil Ritchie bought?

  It's the first one he's owned for years; he normally rides a motorcycle, his wife drives a tiny hatchback.'

  'So?'

  'Skanky Agnes: her flatmate said whoever beat her up was driving a big flashy BMW. That sound like a Renault Clio to you?'

  Rennie thought about it. 'Oh fuck.'

  'Pretty much what I said.'

  'So we're back to square one!'

  'No,' Logan grinned again. 'We're not. Not by a long chalk.'

  Wellington Executive Motors gleamed in the sunshine, the glass-and-chrome building only outshone by the polished, expensive motorcars arranged around it. The same Vivaldi soundtrack greeted them as they pushed through onto the showroom floor, but the saleswoman kept her distance: she'd obviously learned her lesson last time – McRae and Rennie weren't here to spend money.

  Mr Robinson, the manager, wasn't pleased to see them back either. He hustled them into his office before any of the paying customers could be put off their purchases. 'What now?' He closed the blinds, hiding the showroom.

  'Your staff,' said Logan. 'Do they have access to the cars?

  Out of hours?'

  Mr Robinson licked his lips and said 'em…' a couple of times. 'The sales team are encouraged to drive the demonstrator models and study the manuals, so they can answer any questions.' He gave a sickly smile. 'It's all part of Wellington Executive Motors' commitment to-'

  'The guy who delivered Neil Ritchie's car…' Logan checked his notebook for the name. 'Michael Dunbar – what does he drive?'

  'He, em…' Round beads of sweat were prickling out on Robinson's shiny forehead. 'I'd have to check.'

  'You do that. And while you're at it, I want to know every car he's had in the last two months. And I want to see his personnel records too.' Logan sat in one of the comfortable leather seats reserved for special customers and smiled as the beads of sweat on Mr Robinson's face started dribbling their way down his face and around his jowls. 'And yes, we'd love a cappuccino.'

  According to the company's records, Michael Dunbar had been assigned a different car every week: Lexus, Porsche, Mercedes, but he was driving a silver BMW the week Skanky Agnes was assaulted. 'So,' said Logan, 'where is he today?'

  Mr Robinson worried a hand through the strands of hair stretched across his bald crown. 'I just don't see how this can do any good. I mean, there's no way any of my staff-'

  'Where is he?'

  'He, erm… called in sick this morning: migraine.

  Michael suffers from them now and then, ever since the divorce Logan scanned through the showroom timesheets for the last fortnight. 'Looks like he called in sick last Wednesday too.'

  The day after Holly McEwan went missing, presumed dead.

  'Another migraine?' Mr Robinson nodded. Logan double checked the sheet: every time a prostitute was abducted and killed, Michael Dunbar called in sick the next day. And today he was off with another migraine. That probably meant another dead body.

  The radio is on in the garage, Classic FM playing Dido's Lament, Dame Janet Baker making every word hang in the air like a dying jewel. Humming along with the music, he packs away the vacuum cleaner's extendible hose and carries the machine back through into the house, returning it to the cupboard under the
stairs. Ever since Tracy… Ever since THE DIVORCE, he has kept the house spotless. Not a thing out of place.

  It's a big house – big enough for a husband, a wife and three children. Big enough to feel empty and hollow now that it's just him on his own. With a sigh he lays his forehead against the wall and closes his eyes, sharing the house's emptiness. Its sadness.

  In the garage, the music swells to a close and then some crass advert for double-glazing blares out, spoiling the moment. Frowning, he goes back through and turns the radio down.

  The car sitting in the middle of the garage is now as clean as the house: a shining, top-of-the-range BMW coupe, silver with black leather and walnut trim. Very stylish, and his for another three days. Then, maybe he'll try a Lexus, something with a lot of storage space? After all, this time it's been a bit of a squeeze. He closes the BMW's boot, making sure the plastic sheeting doesn't get caught in the lock. He'll go for a drive later, somewhere nice and secluded where no one will see him.

  He takes one last look at the car before heading back into the house.

  The cellar is bigger than it looks. Before THE DIVORCE this room was full of things: forgotten wedding presents, the children's old toys, shoeboxes full of photographs, bits of furniture Tracy inherited from her parents… But not any more. It all went when Tracy did. Now the basement is hollow and dead, swept twice a day, mopped every other day.

  Cleanliness is important. Cleanliness is always important. After all, one wouldn't want to catch anything.

  The doorbell goes and he looks up at the ceiling. Perhaps if he ignores it… But the doorbell sounds again, a cold and empty noise in a cold and empty house. He sighs, but does his trousers up. He can always come back. There's no rush.

  He climbs back up the stairs to the hall, and locks the cellar door behind him as the doorbell chimes once more.