Inside, the house was opulent. Expensive-looking Turkish rugs on polished hardwood floors, the pale cream walls festooned with vivid watercolours and photographs, the whole thing looking suspiciously like it had been professionally designed. There was a woman sitting in the spacious lounge reading a Val McDermid, a cup of what smelled like peppermint tea sitting on the Moorish coffee table beside her. She looked up and frowned as DC Rennie marched past her into the kitchen. 'Neil? Who is that man? Is there something wrong?' Neil stood, wringing his hands in front of the fireplace. 'It's some sort of dreadful mistake!' DI Steel sidled up and threw a chummy arm around him. 'That's right: just a mistake. I'm sure you didn't mean to pick
up those prostitutes, strip them naked and beat them to death. Now why don't we all have a nice cup of tea and you can tell us all about it.'
The woman was out of her seat in a flash. 'Prostitutes? Neil? What prostitutes? What the hell have you been up to?' She clutched her book to her chest, tears welling up in her eyes. 'You promised me! You promised you wouldn't do that again!' 'I... I didn't! I swear to you! I didn't do anything!' 'You know said Steel, patting the man on the shoulder, 'you'd be surprised how often we hear that in our line of work. Where were you last Wednesday morning at a quarter to three?' 'I... I was at home, asleep.' 'And Mrs Ritchie here can confirm that, can she?' He looked imploringly at his wife, but she collapsed back onto the sofa, staring at him in horror. 'Oh my God! I was away at my mother's all week! He's been here on his own! It's you isn't it? That man in the papers!' 'Suzanne - it's not what it looks like, I swear! I didn't do anything!' 'I see.' The inspector smiled. 'And tell me, Mr Ritchie, where's that nice new car of yours?' 'What? It's in the garage ... I didn't do anything!' 'Well, we'll let the forensic team decide that, eh? Now, how about you come down to the station voluntarily, and we can sort this whole thing out? How does that sound?' His eyes darted left and right, but Logan was blocking the doorway and there were policemen in the back garden. 'I ... I want to speak to my lawyer first.' Steel tutted and shook her head sadly. 'Sorry, that's not the way it works. You can come with us voluntarily, or in cuffs, but either way, you're coming with us.'
Back at the station, Mr Ritchie was stuck in interview room number five, with a nice cup of decaffeinated brown sludge
and a glowering PC. The IB team had found bleached-blonde hair on the passenger seat of Ritchie's new car that looked a lot like the samples they'd taken from Holly McEwan's flat. Down in the incident room, DI Steel was busy fidgeting with her bra strap while Logan pinned up everything they could find on Neil Ritchie: thirty-four; married - no children; working as a hydrocarbon accountant for one of the major oil companies. The only blemishes on his police record were two warnings for kerb crawling, both more than four years old. Other than that he was Mr Squeaky Clean. He'd even organized a 'teddy bear scramble' in aid of the Archie Foundation - a local charity that raised money for sick children. So the IB were going through his home computer, looking for internet kiddie porn. 'Right,' said the inspector when Logan was done. 'Let's go see what he has to say for himself. You can play good cop if you like?' 'What? No, I can't.' 'You want to be nasty? No offence, but you're not exactly--'
'No, I mean I can't do the interview.' This was the bit Logan had been dreading. It was already twenty past six an interview would take hours and Jackie had been quite explicit about what would happen if he wasn't back at the flat by seven. 'You're kidding me! We've got the bastard by the balls, and you don't want to be in at the kill?' 'I do. I do want to. But I can't. I have to get home.' 'Ahh.' Steel nodded sagely. 'You're on a promise and you think getting your leg over is more important. I understand. Fine . . .' She crossed her arms and stuck her nose in the air. I'll take DC Rennie in with me. Be good experience for him, breaking a case like this. You go get laid.' 'It's not like that, I--'
'By the way, did you speak to Complaints and Discipline this morning?'
'What?' Logan frowned, thrown by the sudden change of tack. Complaints and Discipline was what Professional Standards used to be called, before they'd changed their name to appear more cuddly and approachable. 'Er . . . yes. I did.' 'Going to let you off with a caution, are they?' 'Well, it was kinda weird, they were talking like it might even get thrown out. No charges.' All expression fell from the inspector's face. 'Aye, well don't say I never do anything nice for you.' She turned on her heel and stomped off. Logan almost made it as far as the front door before an out-of-breath PC Steve grabbed him, sounding like he'd just sprinted all the way from Dundee. 'Sorry, sir . . .' Puff, pant. 'But DI Insch wants to see you, right away!' Logan checked his watch: he still had thirty-five minutes, enough time to go home via a florist and pick up something for Jackie, so she'd know he appreciated the armistice. A few more minutes here probably wouldn't hurt. Up in the main incident room DI Insch had parked himself on a desk at the epicentre of organized chaos, one large buttock resting on the top, the other hanging over the edge as he listened to a report from the bearded detective sergeant he'd tormented earlier. DS Beattie, he of the porn-star wife. Insch glanced up from the report to stuff another cola bottle into his mouth, saw Logan walking in with PC Steve and told Beattie to go do something else for ten minutes. 'Sergeant,' he said, fixing Logan with a cool gaze. 'Join me in my office.' Detective Inspector Insch's office was bigger than Steel's: enough space to fit a large, tidy desk, a computer, three filing cabinets, a huge weeping fig, and a couple of comfy chairs. But Logan wasn't offered a seat - as soon as he was inside the door was slammed shut and Insch demanded to know what the blue fucking hell Logan thought he was playing at? 'Sir?' He took a step back, bumping into a wastepaper
basket overflowing with sweetie wrappers, sending an empty packet of Gummi Bears fluttering to the dirty carpet tiles. 'You had those bastards in here last night and you DIDN'T TELL ME!' Logan held up his hands. 'Who? Who did . . .' and then it dawned on him. 'What, Chib Sutherland and his mate?' Insch was getting redder and redder. 'You bloody well knew I wanted to speak to them, but did you call me and let me know you had them in custody? No: I had to hear it when I came in this afternoon. After they'd been released on bail!' 'They got bail?' Bloody typical, you could murder your granny with a tattie peeler these days and still not get remanded in custody. 'Of course they got bail!' The inspector's face had gone past red, heading into a dangerous shade of purple, spittle flying from his lips as he yelled. 'You tried to do them for a piddling little drugs charge! I wanted them for suspected murder. MURDER! Understand? Not just a couple of condoms of heroin!' 'It was crack cocaine . . .' He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Insch jabbed a sausage-like finger into Logan's chest. 'I don't care if they were filled with C-Four explosive and rammed up the Duke of Edinburgh's backside: I wanted to speak to them!' He took a deep breath then settled back onto his desk, crossing his huge arms and scowling. 'Come on then, let's hear it: your brilliant excuse.' 'DI Steel told me not to.' He might feel shitty for landing the inspector in it, but it was hardly his fault. He'd tried to get her to involve Insch at the outset. 'I told her you should be informed about the operation and she refused.' Insch's eyes narrowed, until they were little angry black pearls, glittering dangerously in his flushed, piggy face. 'Is that so . . .' He stood, flexing his shoulders, making his shirt
bulge alarmingly. If you'll excuse me, Sergeant, I have some business to attend to.'
The sky was low and grey above the opulent granite buildings of Rubislaw Den as Colin Miller heaved himself out of the car, dragged the laptop from behind the driver's seat and plipped on the alarm. It had been yet another shitty day. Not so long ago he'd been a proper journalist. Used to win awards. And now look at him; Reduced to writing crappy human interest stories, and all because of that lousy puff piece on Malk the Knife's bloody housing development. Bad enough Malkie sends his psychopaths up to lean on him to produce the thing in the first place, but now the paper didn't trust him to write about anything more challenging than bloody knitting fairs and sheep dogs. And the one
good story he had, the one that would save him from all this shite, was the one story he couldn't publish. Colin stood up straight and glowered at the looming clouds. He should quit: write a book. Something gory with lots of death, blood and sex in it. The paper could stick their humanbastard-interest stories. He'd be out there drinking champagne and eating fucking caviar! He didn't need the P&J, it needed him . . . He sighed, slumping slightly, feeling the weight of his new responsibilities. Who was he kidding, he couldn't afford to lose his job. Not now there was-- 'Well, well, well, if it isn't ace paperboy, Colin Miller.' Edinburgh accent, deep voice, right behind him. Colin spun around to see Brendan 'Chib' Sutherland leaning casually against a big silver Mercedes. Oh Christ, what now? 'Er . . . Mr Sutherland, nice to see you again . . . ?' Chib shook his head sadly. 'I don't think so, Colin. I don't think it's going to be very nice at all. Shall we go for a little ride? We can take my car.' 'I . . . er . . .' He took a couple of steps back, clutching the
laptop bag like a shield, and bumped into a solid mass. It was Chib's mate, standing right behind him. 'I can't, I have--'
Chib held up a finger. 'I insist.' A large pair of hands wrapped around Colin's upper arms and forced him into the back of the waiting car. Slithering over the leather seats to the far side, he scrabbled for the handle, but nothing happened - the child lock was on. He turned to see Chib slide onto the back seat with him, closing the door with a solid clunk. 'Now then,' said the man he'd called a wannabe Weegie, pulling a pair of poultry shears from his coat pocket. The curved blades glinted in the grey evening light. 'My associate is going to drive us somewhere nice and quiet, where we can be alone. I need to ask you some questions and you'll need to scream.'
Six forty and Logan was legging it away from HQ - Marks and Spencer for a bunch of scarlet roses, back along Union Street, stopping off at Oddbins for the second time that day: sparkling Chardonnay from the chiller cabinet. Then hell for leather round the corner and down Marischal Street, getting to the flat's communal front door with thirty seconds to spare. Puffing and wheezing, he let himself in, clambered up the stairs, and got into the flat just after the stroke of seven. Silence. Somehow he'd been expecting soft candlelight, romantic music, the smell of something nice simmering away on the stove. He did a quick tour of the flat, but it was cold and empty. 'Bastard.' He stuck the fizzy in the fridge, the roses in a dusty vase and the heating to On. It clunked, pinged and rattled as he stripped off and clambered into the shower. Running around like an idiot had left him pouring with sweat. He could hear the phone ringing while he fought with the shampoo bottle, but let the machine pick it up. Whatever it was, it could wait. And that's when the thought occurred to him that it might be DI Steel, calling to thank him for
landing her in it with Insch. Screwing her over. After all she'd done for him - which would have been laughable yesterday, but that was before Professional Standards had bent over backwards to play down the complaint from Sandy the Snake. Why couldn't he have come up with a nice convincing lie? Something that would have defused DI Insch, but kept Steel out of it. He groaned. She was going to kill him. By the time he'd climbed out of the shower and into some clean clothes the flat was warming up nicely, but there was still no sign of Jackie. She clattered in fifteen minutes later, swearing under her breath and struggling with half a dozen carrier bags. 'Ever tried shopping in town with your arm in a cast? Don't, it's a bastarding nightmare.' She froze, staring past him at the vase on the kitchen table. 'You bought flowers?' 'And champagne. Well, not champagne-champagne: it's Australian, but it's supposed to be good.'
Jackie smiled. 'You know, Mr McRae, sometimes you're not so bad.' She dumped all her bags on the carpet, wrapped her arms round his neck - accidentally bashing him one on the head with her plaster cast - and planted a big, soggy kiss on his lips. Logan worked his way through the buttons on her blouse, opening it wide to expose-- 'What the hell is this?' He took a step back and stared in horror at the huge, industrial lace construct that imprisoned Jackie's chest. 'I thought you were going to buy some new bras and pants: this thing looks like the Forth Rail Bridge!'
'This,' she said, snapping the bra strap with pride, 'is the Triumph Doreen: best-selling bra in the world. Get used to it.' Logan flinched. 'Are you seriously going to be wearing this?' 'Hey, I'm running after some scumbag: you want my boobs bouncing up and down like watermelons in a sock, getting all saggy? You want me to have saggy boobs? That what you want?' Logan had to admit that no, he didn't. Trying not to I
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lliink about the Bra From Hell, he pulled her close and kissed her. Jackie closed her eyes, leaning into him, enjoying the heat of their bodies pressed against each other, unaware that Logan's gaze had strayed to the little red light flashing away on the answering machine. The winking, baleful eye of a guilty conscience.
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The woods were deep and dark, the faint slivers of sky visible between the trees fading from tarnished silver to graveyard black in the dying light. A cough rattled feebly in the small clearing, a wet, sick sound that finished in a dribble of blood. With a small start, Colin Miller realized it was him. He'd been somewhere . . . somewhere dark and warm, but now he was back. Cramp in his legs, cramp in his shoulders, numb everywhere else. He'd stand up in a minute. Just as soon as the feeling died down. Just as soon as his shoulders and legs stopped hurting. Just as soon as ... darkness. Sparks of white and yellow exploded through his head, shoving him back, tipping the lawn chair over, sending him crashing backwards into the leaves, his arms and legs still strapped to the seat. Unable to move. And then the real pain starts, not the cramp - that's nothing, this is like fire! Like someone's taking a blowtorch to his hands. Burning his hands! He opened his mouth and screamed. 'Evening handsome. Nice to see you're awake.' A pause, filled with Colin Miller's screams, then, Tick him up, will you Greg? And see if you can't get him to shut up.' Large hands grabbed the front of Colin's shirt, dragging him up until the lawn chair was back on its feet. He screamed again,
but something hard smacked into his cheek and the taste of fresh blood filled his mouth. The cry faded to a whimper. A face loomed out of the growing darkness: cropped white hair, perfect teeth, eyes like holes carved in marble. 'There we go! That wasn't so bad now, was it?' Miller didn't answer and the bastard from Edinburgh just shrugged. 'OK Greg, you can untie his hands.' Oh God, his hands! Someone fumbled with the cable ties holding his wrists to the4back of the chair, and then they were free ... He pulled his hands round to see how badly they'd been burned. And screamed again as it all came flooding back. The searing pain of flesh parting, the noise of bones and cartilage snapping apart. 'Oh Christ, again with the bloody screaming?' This time Greg didn't need to be told, just balled up a fist and smashed it into Miller's face. He crashed sideways to the ground, still attached to the chair by his ankles, sprawling out on the forest floor, staring at his ruined hands. Sobbing. 'Now then, Colin, there's just two more items on the agenda before we're finished here. First one is this . . .' Chib dropped down and stuck a photo into Colin's face. Blocking his view of the stumps. It was from Miller's wallet: Isobel, standing on the balcony of a hotel in Spain. There was a smudge of blood in the top left corner, where Chib's latex glove had touched it. 'Good-looking woman. Now, Colin, if I even think you've been hanging about with the police again, I'm going to finish the job on you, and then I'm going to make her very, very ugly.' He took the photo back, kissed it and slipped it into his inside pocket. 'Item number two is just a wee matter of tidying things up.' Something hard and cold bounced off Colin's face, then another one, and another and another. Chunks of fingers, each a single bone long, raining down from the sky. 'I want you to eat them.' Miller stared, trembling, at the pale cylinders lying in the dirt. Four of them were just the tips - fingernail to first joint;
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three were the middle section; two were from the base - still trailing the tendon that was supposed to lie across the knuckle. Nine little bits of piggies go to market. 'I... I can't!' He sobbed. 'Oh pl
ease God, I can't. . .' Chib smiled down indulgently. 'Now now, let's have less of that. You eat them up like a good boy and we can all go home.' Colin reached out with fumbling hands. Trying to pick up the pieces of his own fingers, the remaining digits slick with blood. Feeling the bile rise again. 'Oh fuckin' God, my hands . . . my fuckin' hands 'I'm running out of patience, Colin. Either you eat them, or I snip off another joint and make you eat that as well.' He waggled the poultry shears in the reporter's face, the stainless steel darted with blood. 'The longer you mess me about, the less fingers you got.' Two bits: a tip and a middle section lying in the palm of his shaking, blood-clotted hand, their flesh cold and white. The ends dark red-black, bone and cartilage showing through. 'Oh God . . . They could . . . they could put them back on! They could stitch them back on!' A hand grabbed the hair on top of his head and pulled it round until he was looking up at Chib Sutherland's smiling face. 'You know what: maybe they could.' The smile grew wider. 'I'm a reasonable man. Why don't you pick three bits to keep? That's a whole finger's worth! Call it a gesture of good faith. Can't say fairer than that, can I?' Tears were streaming down Colin's face, making streaks in the dirt and blood. T can't. . .' Voice small and broken. Then a shriek as Chib grabbed his left hand by the wrist and pulled it up, opening the shears wide and clamping them around the top joint of the index finger. 'Now you choose your three bits, then you eat the rest of your fucking fingers. Understand?' Crying like a frightened child, Colin picked up the remains of his butchered hands and did as he was told.
McRae 2 - Dying Light Page 24