Dying Light

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Hmm? Oh. It’s possible, but we’ve not got anything linking them yet, it’s all just supposition really. Thanks for getting these together so quickly, Ms Tulloch, I really appreciate it.’

  She smiled. ‘Not a problem. And it’s “Miss Tulloch”, not “Ms”. You can call me Rachael.’

  Logan smiled back. ‘In that case, I’m Logan.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Rachael.’ Outside someone leaned on a car horn, the loud braying breeeeeeeeep, clearly audible through the building’s doors. ‘That’ll be the inspector. Gotta dash. Thanks again.’ And he was back outside, just in time to be consumed in a cloud of blue diesel smoke from a passing bus.

  Steel was hanging out the car window, cigarette jammed between her lips, puffing away for all she was worth. ‘Come on! We haven’t got all bloody day.’ The inspector cut across town, avoiding the traffic on Union Street, sticking to residential back streets, the pale granite buildings rouged with orange and gold as the sun began its slow, downward slip into twilight.

  ‘Did you know,’ said Logan as the inspector finally pulled the car to a halt, across the road and three houses down from where Chib and his mate were supposed to be staying, ‘that we murder more people, per million head of population, in Aberdeen than the whole of England and Wales combined?’

  Steel cranked on the handbrake, and looked at him as if he’d written the words KNOB END across his forehead with indelible marker. ‘Don’t be daft: they kill more people in bloody Manchester in a month than we do all sodding year! Who the hell told you that rubbish?’

  ‘Rachael, and it’s not that daft if you think about it, it’s averaged over the—’

  ‘Who the hell is “Rachael”?’ She cracked open the driver-side window and fumbled in her pockets for the ubiquitous pack of crumpled cigarettes.

  ‘The new deputy fiscal, she—’

  ‘Thought you were knobbing WPC Watson, in-between prostitutes that is.’ She snorted and lit up, letting the smoke ooze out into the evening air. ‘Better watch that, or she’ll have your bollocks for earrings. Watson can be a right vindictive cow when she puts her mind to it.’

  ‘What? No!’ Logan stared at the inspector in horror. ‘Nothing’s going on! Who said anything was going on?’

  Steel held up her hands, head wreathed in smoke. ‘I’m just saying: watch your step, OK? I mean, I like you and all that – for a man you’re less of a fuckwit than most of your species – but still…’ She stared out the window. ‘Look, there are some things in this life you can’t take for granted. Trust me on this – it’s way too easy to put the job first, forget what’s really important.’ Steel sighed. ‘Just don’t screw it up, OK?’ For once Logan got the feeling she wasn’t being sarcastic, which was ironic as she was the one dragging him into work the whole time, pissing Jackie off.

  They sat in silence for a minute. Then the radio crackled into life – DC Rennie saying the van was in position. Logan watched as it pulled up outside the house, blocking the large, silver Mercedes in the driveway. ‘About bloody time,’ the inspector muttered, then grabbed the handset and shouted into it, ‘What the hell took you so long?’

  ‘Well… er… We had to make a toilet break…’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake.’ She slumped in her seat, took the fag out of the corner of her mouth and boinged her head off the steering wheel.

  ‘Inspector?’

  ‘Rennie, I swear to God, I’d come over there and ram my boot up your backside if your shoulders weren’t in the bloody way. Now get going!’ The sound of muffled conversation crackled out of the speakers and Logan saw the rear doors of the van pop open. Two black-clad officers in full bulletproof get-up, with chunky black helmets, Heckler and Koch MP5 machine pistols, and the lower half of their faces obscured with black scarves, scurried up the garden path. They skidded to a halt, either side of the front door, and made clenched fist gestures back at the van. Another pair of armed officers leapt from the vehicle and sprinted across to join them, guns at the ready. All very Hollywood. They were followed by a big-boned WPC with a battering ram and a pronounced limp. There was no sign of movement from the house.

  ‘Echo three sixer, we are in position.’

  Steel frowned and picked up the radio handset. ‘What the hell is “Echo three sixer” when it’s at home?’

  ‘Er… it’s PCs Littlejohn, MacInnes, Clarkson, and WPC Caldwell. We’re round the back.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you bloody well say so? Right, listen up you lot: I want this done nice and cleanly. No shots fired if we don’t have to – Rennie, I mean you – if no one gets hurt, first round’s on me, OK?’ She took her thumb off the transmit button and grinned at Logan. ‘I love this bit.’ Click. ‘GO GO GO!’

  The battering ram smashed the front door off its hinges and the large WPC jumped to the side as her colleagues charged past, guns at the ready.

  Steel watched them disappear into the house and smiled. That was it. There was nothing to do now but wait for the team to go through every room in the house and give the all clear. She dug the cigarette packet back out again and shoogled it in Logan’s direction. He politely declined the offer. ‘No? You sure? Ah well, takes all sorts,’ she said, lighting up. ‘While we’ve got a minute, I wanted to speak to you about a little visit I had today from an old mate.’ A couple of folded sheets of A4 appeared from the inspector’s inside pocket. She handed them over. ‘You’ve had papers served on you.’

  Logan’s heart sank. Professional Standards strikes again. Even though he’d been expecting this all afternoon, it still came as a kick in the testicles. ‘I see…’

  ‘Sandy the Snake!’ Steel shook her head. ‘What, you forgot to pack your brain this morning? Like you’re no’ in enough fuckin’ trouble?’

  ‘I… he grabbed me. I just wanted…’ He didn’t really know what he wanted. ‘I was pissed off, and he was being an arrogant bastard and I was trying to deal with a misper… I was this close to popping him one.’

  Steel nodded sagely. ‘I see. Well, I can understand that. You remember when he got his nose broken last year? I’ve still got that on video – Insch made me a copy.’ She smiled. ‘He’s got it as a screen-saver on his computer at home. Bang, right on the nose…’ The inspector drifted off into happy reminiscence, before sighing her way back to the present. ‘Anyway, the really great thing about that was he couldn’t touch any of us for it. We got to watch and enjoy, and no one got hurt – other than Hissing Sid. No one got fired, or demoted.’ Logan nodded gloomily and Steel reached out to pat him on the arm. ‘You’ve done a very stupid thing, Sergeant. But I’ll see what I can do.’

  25

  Not one shot was fired. According to DC Rennie, Chib Sutherland and his hairy friend had been sitting calmly at the dining-room table, finishing off their microwaved ready meals. They didn’t shout, or fight back, or do anything, just calmly assumed the position – legs spread, hands flat on the tabletop. Rennie and his colleagues had searched the rest of the house, but there were no signs of any weapons, drugs, stolen goods, or anything else that would justify smashing their front door in with a battering ram.

  ‘So,’ said the inspector, stepping through into the lounge, where Chib and his mate were lying facedown on the carpet, a pair of armed officers standing over them with Glock 9mm pistols trained on the backs of their heads. ‘They give you any trouble?’

  Chib raised his head from the blue tufted Wilton, his face perfectly calm and impassive. ‘My friend and I have done nothing wrong. We are cooperating with the police.’

  ‘Aye? I thought you two was supposed to be hard men? What happened to you’ll-never-take-me-alive-copper?’

  ‘My friend and I have no reason to cause trouble. We have done nothing wrong.’ There was no sign of menace in his voice, not like when he’d told Logan to fuck off in the pub.

  ‘Whatever. Rennie, get these two back to the station. Separate cars. I want them processed and in different interview rooms by the time I get there. OK?’ Rennie sn
apped off a salute and dragged Chib to his feet. The man was a good three inches taller than Rennie, but he allowed himself to be led from the room without any hint of a struggle. Just before he reached the door his eyes met Logan’s and there was a momentary flash of recognition, swiftly replaced by a calm poker face.

  The big WPC who’d hefted the battering ram followed suit with Chib’s mate. In addition to the large moustache, the man now had a beautiful black eye. The WPC led him out to one of the waiting patrol cars, leaving Logan and Steel alone in the lounge. The inspector treated her armpit to a thoughtful scratch. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go have a poke about. See if we can’t find something Rennie and his idiots missed.’ The bedrooms looked as if they’d been caught in a tornado, all the drawers yanked out, beds stripped, wardrobes emptied. It was the same in the bathroom, and up in the attic the team had taken up the fibre-glass insulation, leaving the plasterboard visible between the rough timber joists. They’d even taken the top off the cold-water tank. Logan and Steel finished their tour of the premises in the garage, where a large chest freezer was stuck against the far wall. ‘Aha!’ The inspector strode across to it and wrenched the lid open. It was nearly empty, just a couple of packets of fish fingers and some bags of frozen peas. None of the usual mass of unidentifiable random meat that filled every other chest freezer Logan had ever seen. With a triumphant gleam in her eye, Steel pulled out a packet boasting: PURE COD FILLET WRAPPED IN CRISPY BREADCRUMBS!, opened the flap at the end and tipped out a half-dozen pasty-orange blocks of processed fish onto the palm of her hand. ‘Shite,’ she said, peering into the now empty packet. She stuffed the fish fingers back in the box and tried the same trick with the remaining cartons. All contained exactly what they claimed to. Swearing, DI Steel wiped her hands clean on the trousers of her off-grey suit, leaving two smears of defrosting orange breadcrumbs.

  ‘Not fond of fish fingers then?’ asked Logan innocently.

  ‘Don’t take the piss. I once found a whole freezer full of cannabis resin, all done up as packets of Weight Watchers chicken vindaloo.’ She scowled, poked about in the frozen peas, then slammed the lid shut. ‘Get onto the Drugs Squad. Tell them to take the damn place apart if they have to, but I want some sodding evidence!’

  Logan made the call, but he was pretty sure they wouldn’t find anything. Chib and his quiet buddy had been way too damn calm for there to be anything incriminating on the premises. They left a uniformed officer to guard the house and drove back to FHQ via the Burger King on Union Street. The clock on the dashboard said five past three, so Logan checked his own watch: nine seventeen. Chib and his mate had been in custody for nearly half an hour. ‘We’re going to have to get a shift on,’ he said. ‘Only got another five and a bit hours before we have to charge them or let them go.’

  ‘Let them go my arse, those two are guilty as … bloody hell, mayonnaise…’ She wiped at the front of her blouse, smearing the glob of shiny white into the black material. ‘Look like fuckin’ Monica Lewinski… Anyway, we’ve got them on camera at the hospital. Jamie’ll cop to them forcing that crack up his bum, or we’ll do him for dealing.’ She rubbed at her blouse again. ‘You got any napkins?’

  Up in interview room number five there was a disturbingly calm and relaxed atmosphere. Brendan ‘Chib’ Sutherland sat on the other side of the interview table, wearing a white paper boiler suit while his own clothes were being examined for forensic evidence. He’d been photographed, DNA sampled and had his fingerprints taken by the LiveScan AFR machine. Right now the national computer database was being scanned for a match. Even though they already knew who he was. ‘So then,’ said Steel, settling a plastic cup of nasty coffee in front of Chib. ‘How come you’re no’ bleating for a lawyer?’

  Chib smiled at her, picked up the coffee, sniffed it, and put it back on the chipped tabletop, untouched. ‘Would it do any good?’

  ‘No.’ She turned to look at Logan, who was still fighting with the cellophane wrapping on a pair of blank videotapes. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘it bugs the tits off me when they ask for a lawyer all the time, but when somebody doesn’t it’s kinda disappointing.’

  Logan grunted, clunked the switch to set the audio and visual records running, and read out the standard pre-interview data. Then they settled down in silence for a minute, each side weighing up the other. And then Steel started in with the questions: where did Chib get the crack from? Why did they choose Jamie as their mule?

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Chib put on a puzzled expression. ‘Has this McKenzie made a complaint of some kind?’

  ‘Not McKenzie, McKinnon, as well you know, you arrogant wee shite. You attacked him while he was lying in a hospital bed, broke four of his fingers and stuffed condoms filled with crack cocaine up his arse.’

  Chib chuckled in a good-natured sort of way. ‘No, I’m sorry, you must be mistaking me for someone else.’

  ‘We got you on the hospital security tapes, doing it.’ Steel settled back in her seat and grinned. ‘Now you can face the charges on your own, take the fall, play the big man… But you’d be going down for a long, long time.’

  The big man shook his head sadly. ‘Inspector, I have never forced anything up anyone’s backside against their will.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘And we both know that there isn’t a tape of this horrible crime being committed by me, because I’m not guilty of anything.’

  Steel snorted. ‘Don’t come it, Sunshine; you’re guilty as sin. Your mate the child molester’s being interviewed as we speak—’

  ‘He’s not a child molester.’ Chib’s voice took on the same ominous timbre it had in the pub.

  ‘No?’ Steel sniffed and paused for a bit of a chew. ‘Long hair, moustache: looks like a child molester to me. Anyway, you think he isn’t going to roll over on you? He’ll spill his guts and you’ll take the fall for the whole lot: drug trafficking, assault, resisting arrest—’

  ‘I did no such thing!’ He leant forward in his seat, hands on the tabletop, still secured together with the cuffs. ‘As soon as the police officers identified themselves my companion and I complied fully with their instructions.’

  Steel puckered her lips, making her face look even more pointy. ‘You and your mate can comply with my sharny arse—’ There was a knock on the interview-room door and DC Rennie stuck his head round and asked if he could speak to the inspector for a moment. ‘Aye,’ said Steel, picking herself up from the squeaky plastic seat, ‘hud on a minute. Interview suspended at… what is it, nine thirty-seven?’

  Silence settled back into the room as the inspector stepped outside with DC Rennie. Chib sat back in his chair, relaxing. ‘You know,’ he said to Logan once the tapes were stopped. ‘You really look dreadful. But then I suppose that’s what happens when one gets into the habit of drinking before lunchtime.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you remember? We met in that pub last week? You barged into me and then called me “mate” about seven hundred times. Wanted to buy me a drink…’ He settled further back into his chair and treated Logan to his best smile. ‘I was really rather flattered. Constable…?’

  ‘McRae. Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘McRae, eh? McRae, McRae, McRae, McRae.’ A frown. ‘Not Lazarus McRae? The one in all the papers last year? Caught that kiddie fiddler?’ Logan admitted that it was. Chib smiled in admiration. ‘Well, well, well, as I live and breathe, a real life police hero. If there’s one thing I simply can’t stand, it’s paedophiles. Prison’s too good for them. But I know I’m preaching to the choir on that one, eh?’ He winked.

  Logan scowled. ‘It was an accident.’

  The large man from Edinburgh nodded sagely. ‘Right, an accident. I get you. Mum’s the word.’ There then followed a very uncomfortable silence.

  ‘So,’ said Logan eventually, ‘heard from Kylie lately?’

  The smile froze on Chib’s face. ‘Who?’

  ‘You know: Lithuanian, thirteen, bad perm, selling herself on street corners? Ring any b
ells?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you must remember Kylie: you used her to get that planning permission for Malk the Knife’s new houses?’

  Chib frowned, making a big show of thinking about it. ‘You know, I think I would remember doing something like that. Must be another case of mistaken identity.’

  ‘What did you do? Sell her on to “Steve” when you were finished with her? Or is he working for you too? All part of one big, happy criminal family?’

  The thug cocked his head to one side and smiled at Logan. ‘You do have a very active imagination, Sergeant. I would almost say—’ The door clattered open and DI Steel hooked a thumb in Logan’s direction, wanting him to join her in the corridor.

  ‘It’s that bloody prostitute-watch of yours,’ she said, prodding him in the stomach with a nicotine-stained finger, ignoring the resulting grimace. ‘The whole bloody team’s sitting about like spare pricks, waiting for someone to brief them.’ Logan groaned; he could see what was coming. ‘I,’ said Steel, ‘am too busy with Twinkle Toes in there and his mate, to pish about all night on the off chance some dozy bastard’s going to play Grab-A-Prozzie. Operation Cinderella was your idea: you deal with it.’ She pointed an imperious finger down the corridor towards the stairs. ‘And if you do catch the Shore Lane Stalker, make sure you don’t arrest him till I turn up. I need the brownie points.’ She turned her back on him and headed back into the interview room, closing the door behind her.

  Operation Cinderella had been running long enough for the novelty to wear off. The top brass didn’t bother turning up to the briefings any more, and neither did middle management, so it was just DS Logan McRae and a roomful of bored police men and women. This was the second-last night they’d have a full contingent of officers, after tomorrow their five-day sanction would be up. The operation wouldn’t be cancelled – there was too much danger of another woman going missing, turning this into a public relations nightmare – but the manpower would be severely restricted from Sunday night on. Just enough to keep the thing ticking over for appearance’s sake, with as little impact on the overtime bill as possible.