McRae 2 - Dying Light

by Stuart MacBride

Rosie Williams case. These are all the condoms we could find in Shore Lane. They're to be stored for DNA analysis.' Isobel shook her head in disbelief. 'Are you out of your mind? Do you know how long it'll take to analyse the DNA from two hundred used condoms? It'll cost a fortune!' Logan held up his hands. 'Don't look at me; it's that new deputy fiscal.' Isobel sighed and snatched the box off the cutting table, muttering under her breath. She poured the lot into a large evidence bag, made Logan sign over the chain of evidence, and hurled the condoms into one of the specimen freezers. There wasn't anything to say after that.

  DI Steel rolled in at a quarter to eight, looking as if she'd slept in an ashtray. She yawned her way through a hastily reconvened morning briefing, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, before sending them all on their way with the usual benediction about not being at home to Mr Fuck Up. Everyone except Logan. She had a job for him: they were off to look for Jamie McKinnon. Outside Force HQ, the sun was shining happily down on Aberdeen from a clear blue sky. The inspector led the way out through the front doors and down onto Queen Street, not bothering to sign out one of the CID pool cars. Instead they wandered up Union Street, enjoying the late summer warmth. When the weather was miserable so was Aberdeen: grey buildings, grey skies, grey streets and grey people, but when the sun appeared everything changed. The Granite City sparkled and its inhabitants abandoned their anoraks, parkas and duffel coats in favour of jeans, T-shirts, and short summery dresses. But when a perky brunette tottered past in a tiny floral skirt and even tinier blouse, her bare stomach tanned a delicate shade of gold, DI Steel didn't even look. On the other side of the road a blonde, almost wearing a pair of low-slung jeans and a crop top, stopped to wave down

  a taxi, exposing more flesh in one go than the city had seen all year. Still no comment from the inspector. 'You OK?' asked Logan. Steel shrugged. 'Rough night. And before you ask: none of your business.' Fine, thought Logan, sod you then. Halfway up Union Street the wall of buildings was broken by Union Terrace Gardens, exposing a vista of vivid green all the way across to the glittering facade of His Majesty's Theatre. The gardens were a rectangle of precipice-sided parkland, sinking way below street level. Steep grassy banks on two sides with huge beech trees clinging on precariously. A small bandstand sat at the bottom, sparkling with a fresh coat of paint. And on the far side the floral clock offered its multicoloured blooms to the cloudless sky and warm August sun. Picture-postcard time. At the corner of Union Terrace a large white-marble statue of King Edward VII held court; his shoulders regally speckled with pigeon droppings. There was a row of benches in a semi-circle behind the king, there so his closest advisors could drink strong cider and lager, straight from the tin, at ten past nine on a Wednesday morning. They were a fairly mixed bunch: one or two genuine tramps in the regulation filthy suit-trousers, stained vests and crusted sores, others in jeans and tatty leathers, defying the blazing sunshine. Steel cast her eye across the assembled early morning drinkers and pointed at a young woman with pierced ears, nose and lips, heavy black-and-white make-up and lank, pink hair. She was swigging from a tin of Red Stripe. 'Morning, Suzie.' The inspector flicked the last half-inch of her cigarette over the railing. 'How's your wee brother keeping these days?' On closer inspection the girl wasn't as young as Logan had first thought. Thirty-five if she was a day. That thick layer

  of white make-up was hiding a multitude of sins, and spots as well. Her face had a rough texture to it, the black-lipped mouth lined like a chicken's bum. When she spoke her accent was broad Aberdonian. 'Havenae seen the manky sod fer weeks.' 'No?' Steel flopped down on the bench next to her, smiling. She draped her arm across the back of the bench so it encircled the woman's shoulders. Suzie shifted uncomfortably. 'You tryin' taste poof me up?' she asked. 'You should be so bloody lucky. No: I want your wee brother. Where is he?' 'How the fuck should I know?' Suzie took a long swig at her lager. 'Been shaggin' that old whore of his.' 'Funny you should mention that, Suzie, you see, that "old whore" turned up yesterday morning battered to death. And Jamie's no' exactly shy with his fists, is he?' The girl stiffened. 'Jamie didnae kill nobody.' What the hell was Steel playing at? Logan could see the shutters coming down: they weren't going to get anything out of her now! Steel should have played it cool, pretended it was nothing important, not gone charging in with both bloody feet! No wonder she was in charge of the Screw-Up Squad. 'Tell you what,' said Steel, handing over a dog-eared Grampian Police business card. 'You have a wee think about it and give me a call, OK?' She stood and lit another cigarette, coughing as the smoke worked its way into her lungs. Suzie told the inspector exactly what she could do with her business card, threw back the last of her lager, and stormed off. Logan waited until the girl was out of earshot. 'Why did you tell her Rosie was dead? She's never going to tell us where Jamie is now!' DI Steel's smile became predatory. 'That's where you're wrong, Mr Police Hero. She's going to tell us exactly where

  he is. She just doesn't know it yet.' The inspector stood up on her tiptoes, following Suzie McKinnon's progress up Union Street. 'Come on then, we don't want to lose her.' She marched straight across the street, narrowly missing getting squashed by a bus, with Logan in nervous pursuit. On the other side of the road she clambered into the passenger seat of an illegally parked Vauxhall. DC Rennie was behind the wheel, wearing a pair of trendy sunglasses, and as soon as Logan was ensconced in the back, they were off. They spotted Suzie easily enough - her black leather getup and pink hair stood out like a sore thumb amongst all the summer clothes - she crossed the road, just shy of the Music Hall's Doric columns, hurrying off down Crown Street. Rennie kept well back, trying not to look like a kerb crawler. Ten minutes later they were parked opposite a basement flat in Ferryhill. The street wasn't in the best of shapes, a collection of pothole pockmarks and different coloured patches of tarmac making it look like Frankenstein's monster with acne. A rusty old Ford Escort was dying at the kerbside, bleeding oil. A quick PNC check confirmed it belonged to one James Robert McKinnon. Steel smiled at Logan. 'Do you want me to say, "I told you so" now or later?' The door to the building wasn't locked, so Logan and DI Steel pushed straight through to the stairs leading down to the basement apartment. DC Rennie stayed out front, in case Jamie tried to do a runner. Down in the mildew-smelling corridor Steel was just about to knock when a thought occurred to her. 'Are you up to this?' she asked Logan. 'What with your Achilles stomach and all.' It was nearly two years ago!' he hissed. 'I'm fine.' Liar. The scars on his stomach still hurt when the weather changed, or he bent down too quickly. DI Steel knocked gently on the door, putting on a Fife

  accent to ask if Jamie had seen her cat. A key rattled in the lock and a stressed-looking man, wearing a rumpled Burger King uniform, opened the door. Spiky, bleached-blond hair, bloodshot eyes, slightly overweight, podgy nose, daft little beard thing clinging on to the end of his chin for dear life. 'I haven't seen any bloody . . .' His eyes went wide. 'Shite!' And the door was slammed shut. Or would have been if DI Steel didn't have her boot jammed into the gap. She swore as the wood mashed into her foot and Jamie McKinnon bolted back into the flat. 'Ayabastard!' Hopping in the corridor, Steel clutched her injured foot while Logan charged past, through into a grotty hallway. A door at one end of the hall led to the lounge Suzie was standing in the middle of the room, a fresh tin of Red Stripe in her hand and a shocked expression on her face. No sign of Jamie. Logan spun around to see the door to a filthy little bathroom lying open, and at the far end the door to the kitchen bouncing off the wall and swinging itself shut again. Cursing, he sprinted for the kitchen. Why couldn't Jamie have made a break for the front, where DC Rennie could have clobbered him one? He burst through the door just in time to see Jamie's backside disappearing through the open kitchen window. The back door was blocked by an ancient washing machine, so Logan had no choice but to clamber through the window after him, and up a small set of steps into the back garden. Jamie was hoofing it hell for leather across the yellowing grass, towards the six-foot-high back wall, where the
buildings backed onto the next row of tenements. Gritting his teeth, Lo gan chased after him. For once luck was on Logan's side; as Jamie got within lunging distance of the wall his feet tangled in the trailing end of a clothesline. He went down hard, banging his face on a huge, abandoned red plastic fire engine. Swearing, he clasped a hand over his nose - blood welling up between

  his fingers - and struggled to his feet. Just in time for Logan to tackle him and send them both sprawling to the scabby yellow grass again. The impact was enough to set the scar tissue screaming across Logan's stomach, leaving him hissing in pain while Jamie scrambled to his feet and jumped for the back wall. He had one leg over the top when Logan grabbed the other one and yanked him back into the garden. Jamie's chin caught the top of the wall, snapping his head back as he clattered straight down into the rosebush growing at the bottom, breaking the fall with his face, sending pink petals flying. Breathing hard, Logan jumped on him, twisted Jamie's arm up behind his back and snapped on the handcuffs. As the swearing started, Logan slumped against the wall and tried to convince himself that his stomach didn't hurt anywhere near as much as it really did. When the pain finally settled down, he hauled Jamie to his feet. Burger King weren't going to be too happy about the state of their uniform. Blood ran freely from Jamie's squashed nose and torn lip, his face a network of thin scratches that oozed red. He looked as if he'd done ten rounds with Mike Tyson's cat. Swearing, he spat a mouthful of blood out into the rosebush. 'You made me bite my fuckin' tongue!' 'Jesus, Logan,' said Steel when he finally dragged Jamie back into the basement flat. 'I told you to arrest him, not beat the crap out of him.' Something sly weaselled its way onto Jamie's face. 'Aye, he beat me up! Police brutality! I want my lawyer! I'm gonnae sue you bastards for all you're worth!' Steel told him to shut his mouth. Suzie was sat on the edge of a tatty settee, worrying at an ever-expanding hole in the cushion with her finger, exposing the plaque-yellow foam rubber. She wouldn't look at anyone. 'You silly bitch.' Jamie spat out another mouthful of blood onto the carpet. 'You led them straight here!'

  Suzie just kept on digging. 'Right then, Sunshine.' Steel pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes and lit one up, dribbling the smoke contentedly down her nose. 'You don't mind if we take a little peek round your place do you?' 'Yes I fuckin' well do mind!' Steel's smile got bigger. 'Well tough shite, 'cos I've got a warrant.' She flicked a little nub of grey ash from the end of her fag onto the coffee table. 'Anything you want to tell us before we go a-wandering?' Silence. 'No?' More silence. 'You sure?' Outside a truck rumbled past. 'OK, you're the boss.' Of course Steel didn't do any of the actual searching herself. Not when she had a detective sergeant and a detective constable to do it for her. They found two small wrappers of heroin, a half-empty box of disposable needles and a lump of cannabis resin the size of a Mars Bar. It was Logan who found the box full of uniforms in the bedroom cupboard. Back in the lounge he asked Jamie how his career in the fast-food industry was going. Jamie scowled back at him. The nosebleed was drying up, leaving a crust of reddish-brown across the lower half of his face, making his little goatee as spiky as his bleached hair. 'I'm going straight, OK?' he said. 'Keepin' out of trouble.' 'At Burger King?' 'Yes at fuckin' Burger King.' 'Well then,' said Logan, pulling the cardboard box out from behind his back. 'You must be a hardworking little bunny! Flipping all those burgers at Burger King.' He pulled out another uniform. 'McDonald's,' another uniform, 'the Tasty Tattie,' another uniform . . . There were work clothes from half a dozen fast-food places in Aberdeen, each one of them complete with 'Hi My Name Is' badges, none of which read 'James McKinnon'. DI Steel looked confused, so Logan spelt it out for her:

  'Jamie's the one been helping himself to tills all over town. Turns up in uniform, no one pays any attention to the new boy. After all: who puts on one of these things for fun? He cleans out the till after the lunchtime rush, and gets changed to do the next place.' DI Steel dropped her cigarette to the floor, grinding it out against the carpet. 'Aye, very good, Sherlock,' she said, sounding completely unimpressed. 'But we've got bigger fish to fry. James Robert McKinnon, I'm detaining you on suspicion of the murder of Rosie Williams.' Jamie started shouting that he hadn't killed anyone, but Steel wasn't listening. She just finished reciting his rights then told Rennie to frogmarch the suspect to the car. And all the time, Jamie's sister stared at the carpet, picking at the hole in the settee. 'And, Suzie, thanks for your help,' said Steel with a wink. 'Couldn't have done it without you.'

  Jamie was booked in at FHQ, given a once-over by the duty doctor and stuck in interview room number three. Where he announced, 'Jesus, it's like a fuckin' oven in here!' He wasn't kidding. Even with the sun cracking the cobbles outside, the radiator was belching out heat. But all the other interview rooms were taken, so they were stuck with it. Grumbling and sweating, Logan set up the interview tapes: audio and video, then did the introductions: date, time and attendees, and settled back to let DI Steel conduct the interview. Silence. Logan cast a glance in Steel's direction. She was looking at him with a puzzled expression. 'Well,' she told him at last, 'get on with it. It's too hot for buggering about.' Bloody typical. Once again he was going to have to do all the work. With a sigh, Logan pulled out a handful of Rosie's post mortem photographs. 'Tell us about Rosie Williams.' Jamie scowled at them. 'I'm no' sayin' anything till I've seen a lawyer.' Steel groaned. 'No' again! How many times do I have to say this? Under Scottish law you have no right to legal counsel

  until we've finished with you. No lawyers. Interview first, lawyer later. Comprende?' The scowl on Jamie's face didn't shift. 'You're lyin', I've seen the telly. I get a lawyer.' 'No you don't.' Steel peeled off her charcoal-grey jacket, exposing large patches of sweat beneath the arms of her red blouse. 'The telly lies to you. It shows you the English legal system. Not the same. Up here we do not fuck about waiting for some slimy bastard to help you with your lies. Now get your finger out and tell us why you killed Rosie Williams, so we can all get out of this bastard hothouse.' 'I didn't kill no one!' 'Stop fucking about, Jamie - I'm not in the mood.' He slumped back in his seat, chewing things over. 'I really don't get a lawyer?' 'No! Now tell us about Rosie Bloody Williams before I pull that stupid-looking chin-warmer off your face, one hair at a time!' Jamie held up his hands in self-defence. 'OK, OK! We're . . . you know ... I stayed with her for a bit. . .' 'You were her pimp.' 'We're having fun, you know . . .' 'Fun? Rosie was old enough to be your granny! She's out there shaggin' for cash, every night, while you're what? Staying home looking after the kids?' Jamie stared down at his hands. 'Isn't that old.'

  'Yes she fucking was! Ugly as hell too!' 'She is not!' Jamie's voice was getting louder with every word. 'She isn't ugly!' A sly smile blossomed on Steel's face. 'You loved her didn't you?' Jamie blushed and looked away. 'You did, didn't you? You loved her and she was out there every night, some stranger's dick in her mouth. Screwing them in doorways. Your precious Rosie, out there with--'

  44

  I

  'Shut up! Fuckin' shut up!' 'That's why you killed her, isn't it? You were jealous she wasn't all yours. Anyone could have her for the price of a burger.' 'Shut up . . .' Steel settled back in her chair, scratching vaguely at the damp patch under her left arm. She nodded in Logan's direction and he asked Jamie where he was between eleven o'clock Monday night and two o'clock Tuesday morning. 'I was at home. Asleep.' But there was something in his eyes. 'Suzie'll tell you. She was there.' DI Steel raised an eyebrow. 'No' in the same bed, I hope.' Jamie just scowled at her. 'We've got Forensics turning your flat upside down: they're going to find her blood, aren't they? You beat her so bad, you must've been clarted in it.' She leaned forwards in her seat, tapping the table with a nicotine-stained finger. 'Wouldn't be the first time you beat her up either, would it? She kicked you out 'cos of it.' 'I didn't mean to hurt her!' The tears were starting. Steel's smile turned into one of triumph. 'But you did, didn't you? You didn't mean to, but you hurt her really bad. Was it an accident? Come on, Jamie, you'll feel better if you te
ll us.' An hour later they still hadn't managed to get anything else out of him. And as Steel said, it was too hot in the interview room to bugger about any longer. So down to the cells went Jamie McKinnon and down to the canteen went Logan and DI Steel. Chilled tins of Irn-Bru all round. 'Christ, that's better she said, standing outside on the rear podium two minutes later, surrounded by the patrol a'nd pool cars, drink in one hand, cigarette smouldering away in the other. 'We'll get the PF in to look at the tape. "I never meant to hurt her," my arse, all we need is a couple of witnesses and we're laughing.' She smiled and knocked back a mouthful of Irn-Bru. 'Knew it was about time my luck changed.'

  Unfortunately Logan's hadn't. When DI Steel said, 'All we need is a couple of witnesses,' what she actually meant was that Logan had to change shifts and spend the next couple of nights wandering around the docks chatting up prostitutes. The first time in ages that his shift pattern was the same as Jackie's, and the inspector wanted it all changed again. Jackie was going to kill him. 'You're young,' Steel told him when he complained, 'you'll get over it. Better bugger off home after lunch. Get some kip. In the meantime, let's get the PF down here . . .'

  The Procurator Fiscal and her new deputy sat through the recording of Jamie McKinnon's interview in silence. The tape was a good start, but it wasn't enough to secure a conviction, for that they'd need some real, hard forensic evidence. 'Speaking of which,' said Rachael Tulloch, deputy PF to the stars, 'how did you get on with those contraceptives?' The Fiscal looked momentarily flustered as Logan explained about the two hundred and thirteen second-hand prophylactics sitting in the morgue's specimen freezers; it looked like this was the first she'd heard of her deputy's spectacular plan. At least Rachael had the decency to blush and admit it was a lot more condoms than she'd been anticipating, but now that they had a suspect under arrest, couldn't they match his DNA to them? Prove he was there? The Fiscal went quiet for a minute, considering it, and then agreed it probably couldn't hurt. Logan tried not to groan. Isobel was bound to blame him for all the work she was about to get. He consoled himself with the thought that she didn't like him much anyway. When he went down to the morgue to break the bad news, Isobel was hunched over her brain-in-a-bucket again. Her reaction to Logan's request for DNA testing was pretty much what he'd been expecting. Only with more swearing. 'Don't look at me,' he said when she paused for breath.