McRae 2 - Dying Light

by Stuart MacBride

  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. 'All right, all right, I'm coming.' He walks down the hall, pausing to check his reflection in the mirror, putting on his migraine face, just in case it's someone from work, come to see if he needs anything. They're good that way. But when he opens the door - squinting painfully into the afternoon light like his head is splitting open - there's a man he doesn't

  know standing outside, dressed in a dark grey suit that would benefit from professional cleaning. A man he's sure he's seen somewhere before . . . 'Mr Dunbar?' says the man, with a cold smile, holding up some sort of ID card, 'DS McRae. Mind if we come in?'

  I

  37

  They found the body in the boot of a spanking-new BMW, in Michael Dunbar's garage. It was a woman, naked, wrapped in clear plastic sheeting, her limbs stiff and cold. Her body battered and bruised. Her head wrapped in a blue plastic freezer bag. 'Christ,' said Rennie, reaching into the open car boot with a gloved hand, prodding the cold, pale skin through the clear plastic. 'She's rock solid Logan turned and stared at the muted figure of Michael Dunbar. He was an unassuming-looking man, late twenties to early thirties, in tan chinos and a denim shirt, both ironed to razor-creased perfection. Tidy haircut sitting above a slightly rectangular, clean-shaven face. Killer. 'Well, Mr Dunbar,' said Logan trying to keep the anger out of his voice. 'Care to explain why you've got a naked woman's corpse in the boot of your car?' Dunbar bit his lip and shook his head. 'I see,' said Logan. 'Well, guess what? Doesn't matter if you want to tell us or not. We've caught you red handed. Soon as we've finished searching the premises, we're all going down to the station. And you're going to get fingerprinted and DNA-sampled and then the forensic

  boys are going to tie you to the two other women you've killed.' 'You . . .' Dunbar's dinner-plate eyes slid from Logan's face across to the open boot of the car and its cold? dead contents. 'I... I don't want to go. I want to speak to a lawyer.' I'll bet you bloody do.' Logan turned round to see DC Rennie, still staring into the car boot, with his mouth hanging open. 'Rennie, get on the phone - I want a duty doctor, pathologist and the PF over here, and I want them here now.' Rennie dragged his eyes
from the woman's battered corpse and his mobile from his pocket as Logan marched their suspect out into the hall, where the noisy sounds of a search in progress rattled down from the upstairs rooms. Four uniformed officers from FHQ, turning the place upside down. A banging at the front door, and a familiar dirty-grey moustache and its owner struggled into the hallway, carrying a large box of equipment. 'Where d'you want us?' Logan told him to start with the body in the garage, then pretended not to notice the line of white-boiler-suited technicians whistling Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho, It's Off To Work We Go as they trooped through the hall. When the last grey box had been manhandled out of sight, Logan took a look around the bottom floor, dragging Michael Dunbar with him. Large lounge: festooned with photographs of Dunbar, a woman, and three children - two boys, one girl; spotless carpet and ornament-free mantelpiece. The kitchen was similarly immaculate, big enough to accommodate a breakfast bar and a dining table. Utility room off the kitchen: upright freezer full of ready meals, dishwasher, sink, cupboards. There was one more door leading off the hall, but when Logan tried the handle it was locked. 'Where's this lead?' Dunbar wouldn't meet his eyes. Logan poked him in the chest. 'Give me your keys.'

  'You . . . you can't do this! I want a lawyer. You can't come in here and do this. This is my home!' 'Yes I can: I have a warrant.' Rachael Tulloch had rushed it through in record-breaking time. 'Now give me your keys.' 1... I don't feel well, I need to lie down 'Give me the bloody keys!' With trembling hands, Dunbar pulled out a gleaming bunch of keys. Logan snatched them, trying one after another in the sturdy Yale lock until the thing went 'click' and the door swung open. A flight of wooden steps disappeared down into the darkness. Logan flicked the light switch and a dim glow filled the area at the bottom of the stairs. 'Rennie!' he shouted back into the garage and the constable came trotting out, still clutching his mobile phone to his ear, telling whoever it was on the other end that they needed the pathologist now, not next week. Logan pushed Dunbar at the constable. 'What you want me to do with him?' 'Buy him dinner and take him dancing. What the hell do you think I want you to do with him? Hold on to him!' Logan turned and headed down the steps, already feeling guilty about snapping at the constable. He stopped, apologized and told Rennie he could come too, just as long as he kept hold of Dunbar and didn't let him accidentally fall down the stairs. The basement steps were enclosed on either side with plasterboard and rough lengths of timber, thick ribbons of grey wire looping across the ceiling between the exposed joists. And then Logan stepped out into the cellar proper, plastic sheeting scrunching beneath his shoes, and saw what was down there. 'Oh shit.' Rennie: 'What? What is it?' Dunbar: 'I really don't feel well! I have to go lie down Clear plastic sheeting covered the floor, sparkling in the

  light from the bare bulb like ripples on the surface of a dark lake. It was all the way up the far wall as well, held in place by reams and reams of silver duct tape. Ensuring the crumpled, naked woman - lying on her back with her legs spread at twenty past six, pale skin covered in purple-yellow bruises, face unrecognizably swollen and bloody, arms tied together above her head, fixed to the wall with a six-inch bolt - left no stains. She wasn't moving. A scuffling sound behind him and sudden intake of breath - that would be Rennie - then Dunbar said again, 'I... I'm really not feeling well. . .' Logan grabbed him by the collar and rushed him backwards, crashing the man against the bare brick wall. 'You sick, twisted piece of shit!' Dunbar's eyes went wide, fear sparking from the edges, and Logan froze. He let go of the man's shirt and backed away. Dunbar wasn't worth it. He wasn't worth it... But Logan seriously wanted to beat the living hell out of him. Trembling with the effort, he turned and inched his way across the plastic sheeting, feeling it shift and slither beneath his feet as he picked his way carefully to the battered body, trying not to stand in any evidence. As First Attending Officer it was his responsibility to make sure the victim wasn't in need of medical assistance, even though it was bloody obvious she was dead. Christ, she looked as if she'd been run over by a combine harvester. There wasn't an inch of her that wasn't covered with a bruise or contusion. Maybe it was time for Michael Dunbar to fall down the stairs after all. Grimacing, Logan snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves and squatted down beside the body, peering at the ruined face, trying to match the battered mess with any of the women he'd seen prowling the red light district, offering a good time in exchange for cold hard cash. Instead of which she'd got a cold hard death at the hands of--

  1

  A bubble of blood swelled and popped between her swollen lips. She was still alive!

  Interview room four had an unwashed smell about it that seemed to make Michael Dunbar very uncomfortable. He sat on the edge of his seat, obviously trying not to fidget, while Logan made DC Rennie do the tapes and introduction bit. They'd dragged Dunbar back to the station, processed him and got him into an interview room without having to talk to DI Steel: according to Big Gary she was still going at it with Clair Pirie and didn't want to be disturbed. This was followed by a leering, 'if you know what I mean . . .' Which meant that technically Logan was still in charge. 'So, Michael, or can I call you Mikey?' said Logan, settling back in his seat. 'Michael. Please. Michael. Not Mikey.' 'OK, Michael it is then.' Logan smiled at him. 'Why don't you tell us all about the two women we found in your house today? You can start with the one who's still alive if you like?' 'I have no idea what you're talking about,' said Dunbar, staring dully at the tape recorder, watching the spindles go round and round behind the glass. 'Don't be stupid, Michael: we found them in your house! You were there remember?' He took a long, shuddering breath. 'I really don't feel well.' 'Yeah? Well the duty doctor says there's nothing wrong with you. Not like the poor cow we pulled out of your basement - fractured skull, broken arms, legs, ribs, fingers, internal bleeding . . . feel free to jump in any time.' 'She was having an affair.' The words came out in a flat monotone. 'She . . .' He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it in, then letting it out in a long,

  shivering breath. 'His name was Kevin and he was a chartered accountant. I ... I come home one evening and they're SCREWING in our bed, while the kids are downstairs watching Sponge Bob Square Pants . . . Didn't even know I was there.' A bitter laugh that ended in a tear being wiped away. 'So I got my revenge: went out, picked up some ugly tart down the docks and fucked her. Then I went home and fucked Tracy. Just like he'd fucked her . . .' 'But she found out, dMn't she?' Another bitter laugh. 'Three days later my dick starts weeping yellow pus and I'm pissing barbed wire. Course she caught it too. And so did darling Kevin.' This time the laugh was more genuine. 'That'll teach the cheating bastard!' Dunbar paused, watching the tape go round in silence. 'She left me. Took the kids and all her stuff and walked out the door . . .' Logan pulled out a sheaf of photographs, propping one up against the tape recorder directly in front of Dunbar: a naked woman, lying on her back in the middle of a dark alley. 'Tell me about Rosie Williams.' Dunbar moved so he wouldn't have to look at the battered body any more, but Logan stuck another picture in front of him. A naked woman lying on her side on the damp forest floor. 'No? How about Michelle Wood?' Another photograph: wrapped in clear plastic in the boot of a car. 'Or Holly McEwan? No? How about this one?' A battered face, covered in blood, the photograph taken an hour ago while they'd waited for the ambulance to turn up. The final picture was a mugshot from the station's collection: Skanky Agnes Walker, full face and side on. Dunbar stiffened. Logan tapped the print with his finger. 'She was the first wasn't she?' 'Dirty bitch . . .' they were barely words.

  A long silent pause, only broken by the dull whir of the lape machine and someone's shoes squeaking on the linoleum in the corridor outside. 'Tiffany. The one in the cellar. She said her name was Tiffany. Picked her up last night in a shiny new car and took her out to Balmedie beach.' A small smile played around his lips as he relived the memory. 'Paid her to suck my cock and when she was finished - smacked her over the back of the head with a hammer. Bundled her into the boot. Took her home. Dragged her down to the
basement and tied her up. Couldn't have timed it better, 'cos you know what?' He leant forward and whispered the words. The last one was dead.' Something cold settled in the pit of Logan's stomach. 'The last one was dead?' 'Dead. Three whole days she lasted for. You see, after I got away with the first couple I thought: what the hell? Why rush it? Why not just take her home: really make her pay for giving me her filthy fucking disease? Take my time. Make her pay for leaving me Rennie's face went white. 'Christ on a stick.' There was more. Now that the floodgates were open, Michael Dunbar wanted to tell them everything. Every last sordid detail of how he beat them, then raped them, then beat them some more. Stamping on their ribs, snapping their arms and legs, making them pay for what they'd done to his marriage and his family and his children and his life. Stripping them naked so there wouldn't be any evidence. Dumping their bodies when they got too cold to play with any more . . . Out in the corridor afterwards, Logan slouched against the wall, feeling nauseous, while DC Rennie carted Dunbar downstairs to the holding cells. The Shore Lane Stalker was due to appear in court at nine o'clock tomorrow

  I

  morning, where he'd be refused bail and sent up to Craiginches until it was time to stand trial. And given his full confession and all the forensic evidence, there was no chance of anything other than a guilty verdict. And all done by the book. With a deep sigh, Logan heaved himself upright, just in time to see DI Steel come thundering down the corridor, her face pinched and furious. 'Where the hell is he?' she demanded, stomping to a halt. 'Who?' She scowled. 'You bloody well know "who". The bastard you hauled in here without even consulting me!' 'You were busy interviewing the Pirie woman--' fl 'Don't give me that CRAP! You know fine well I would've suspended the fucking interview!' She stabbed him in the chest with a rock-hard, bony finger. 'You interviewed Ritchie without my approval. How bloody dare you!' Logan squared up to her, drawing himself up to his full height. 'He confessed, OK? Four murders and two attempted. 7 interviewed him because you didn't want to be disturbed, and he confessed.' 'What the hell's that got to do with anything? You went behind my back, you--' 'I did my bloody job!' 'Your job is to do whatever I tell you to do, you backstabbing, glory-grabbing--' The?' Logan couldn't believe his ears. 'What about you? Remember this morning's P&J? "DI Steel solves one of the most baffling cases in Scottish--"' 'I don't write the press releases, and you know it!' They'd been getting steadily louder, but now her voice dropped to an icy whisper as she dug an envelope out of her jacket pocket and tore it open. 'Know what this is?' she asked, pulling out a sheet of paper. 'It's the letter of commendation