Dying Light

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘In prison? How the hell did he manage that?’

  Rennie shrugged. ‘You know what it’s like these days, they want it bad enough, they’re going to get it.’

  ‘Didn’t bring it in from the hospital did he?’

  ‘No: I checked. After we found the drugs up his bum, he wasn’t even allowed to take a dump on his own. What a great job that would be, eh? Standing in the corner while some wee scroat has a crap, checking to make sure they don’t pick anything out of the bowl and stuff it back where it came from.’

  Logan pulled into the prison car park, between a patrol car and a familiar top-of-the-range Mercedes. ‘Oh Christ…’ he said, staring at Isobel’s car. Just what he needed, someone else to give him a hard time.

  They found her at the furthest corner of the exercise yard, dressed – like everyone else – in a flattering white paper romper suit, hunkered down over the twisted remains of Jamie McKinnon. Looking knackered. The IB had strung together a makeshift lean-to over the body, running lines from one twenty-foot-high wall to the other, draping the blue plastic sheeting over the top. Trying to keep the worst of the rain off Jamie McKinnon’s corpse.

  He was lying on his side, one arm twisted up behind his back, the other draped across his face. The bandages on his broken fingers were dirty and streaked with vomit. His left knee was up against his chest, right leg pointing due east. ‘Right,’ said Isobel to an IB technician with a huge digital camera. ‘I want everything photographed. Particularly the hands and soles of the feet.’ She looked up and saw Logan as he ducked in under the blue plastic lean-to, out of the rain. Scowled. ‘When you’ve done with the pictures, get him back to the morgue.’ The photographer got to work, the hard clack of the flash making the raindrops spark as it caught them on their way to the ground. She stood, picked up her bag and started marching for the exit, accompanied by a mountain of muscle in a prison officer’s uniform. Probably to ensure she didn’t get free and maul one of the inmates.

  ‘Isobel?’ said Logan as she tried to walk straight past him.

  ‘Yes?’ Staring straight ahead. She really did look terrible: puffy and tired, as if she hadn’t slept in a week.

  ‘I need to know what happened.’

  She scowled, looked at her watch and then back at Jamie McKinnon’s corpse. ‘He’s dead. Apparently from an overdose, but I’m not confirming that until I do the post mortem. You’ll have the preliminary report when it’s finished.’ Her voice was even more cold and clipped than usual. ‘Until then, if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.’ She didn’t wait for an answer, just marched off, the paper suit making zwip-zwop noises as she disappeared from the compound.

  ‘Aye, aye…’ said Rennie, ‘someone’s not gettin’ any.’ They grabbed a pair of spare SOC suits and clambered into them as the IB team finished off the photos and got ready to bag up the body.

  ‘You want we should hold on a bit?’ asked the head technician, water droplets sparkling on his dirt-grey moustache. ‘I can’t give you long though, all this rain’ll play havoc with any trace evidence.’ He tucked the body-bag under his armpit and huddled with his colleagues next to the prison wall, keeping out of the downpour.

  Logan hunkered down next to Jamie. The bruises from before had faded slightly, but new ones had taken their place. Whatever was going on in here, Jamie looked like he was on the receiving end of most of it. There was vomit in his hair and jumper, the acrid reek of bile slowly mingling with the stink of fresh urine. ‘So,’ said Rennie, copying Logan and dropping down next to the body, ‘what makes them think it was an overdose?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  Rennie looked up, puzzled. ‘What? Is it ’cos he’s got a history of drugs and…’ he trailed off into silence as he saw what Logan was pointing at: a small disposable syringe sticking out of the crook of Jamie’s left arm. ‘Jesus, that’s a bit grim!’

  ‘Er… Sergeant?’ it was Dirty Moustache again, clutching his empty body-bag as if it was a hot-water bottle. ‘We’re really going to have to get him back to the morgue now.’ Logan left them to it.

  Inside the prison, the social worker in charge of Jamie McKinnon’s case, along with God knew how many others, was slumped over a desk in the admin wing doodling furious skull-and-crossbones images on a to-do pad. She was the only person in there. If Logan thought the prison itself was dingy and depressing, it was nothing compared to the in-house social work offices, a converted paint shed with oppressive strip lighting, dirty yellow-grey ceiling tiles, peeling paintwork, and carpet tiles worn down to the fibres. Box files and trays of paperwork lined the walls, filling the space between the high, barred windows and the YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE MAD TO WORK HERE poster. Onto which someone had added the rider UNLESS YOU PLAN TO STAY in blue magic marker. The only concession to life was a cluster of sickly houseplants, their leaves slowly browning as they too succumbed to the atmosphere of doom and neglect. Logan settled down on the other side of the desk and asked her about Jamie McKinnon.

  The woman looked tired, bags under the eyes, the end of her long, straight nose tinted strawberry pink, as if she’d been blowing it for years. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it? Like I don’t have enough bloody paperwork to do!’ A sigh. Then she rubbed her face with her hands. ‘Sorry, we’re short staffed at the moment – as bloody usual – one on maternity leave, two off on the stress, one walked out four months ago and we’ve still not hired anyone to replace them!’ Logan counted the desks: there were only six.

  ‘So you’re pretty much on your own then.’

  ‘Me and sodding Margaret, and she’s useless at the best of times.’ A loud sniff, followed by fumbling about in a desk drawer for a man-sized paper tissue, and then a lot of wet snorking noises. ‘What you want to know?’

  ‘It looks like Jamie’s taken an overdose: think he might have done it on purpose?’

  Her whole face clouded over. ‘He was on suicide watch! OK? We’re short staffed. There’s only so much—’

  ‘I’m not looking to assign blame: I just want to know if you think it was an accident, or suicide.’

  She sighed, sounding tired and depressed. ‘He’s been having a rough time. Beaten up a lot – don’t know why, but a lot of the guys had it in for him. Then there’s being accused of murdering his lover, on top of having to deal with her death. And last time we spoke he’d just found out she was pregnant with his kid. He wouldn’t stop crying…’ Shrug. ‘So yeah, I think it’s likely. What’s he got to lose? The love of his life’s dead, so’s his unborn child, and all he’s got to look forward to is getting beaten up in prison every day for the next thirteen to twenty years.’

  Logan nodded gloomily. ‘What about witnesses? I mean, it’s the middle of the day and he’s out there in the exercise yard, surely someone must have seen him do it?’

  That produced a short, derisory laugh. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me! Witnesses? In this place? You’ll be lucky.’

  ‘Well, what about the security cameras then? They—’

  ‘Buggered. Someone was supposed to come fix them last Thursday, but so far: nothing. Only ones working are inside the building, and half of them are screwed.’ She shrugged. ‘You know what it’s like.’

  ‘Starting to.’ This was a dead end. Jamie had scored some dope and put himself out of his misery. ‘How did he get the drugs?’

  ‘You’d be surprised what you can buy inside. We do everything we can to keep it out, but they’re always finding new ways. It’s like a pharmacists’ cash and carry round here some days.’

  Logan sat back in his seat and stared at the ceiling, trying to think of anything else he should be asking. ‘Did he have any visitors since he got back from hospital?’ Like two large gentlemen from Edinburgh, for example. She didn’t know, but she could find out. One quick phone call later and the answer was yes – yesterday evening: Jamie’s girlfriend. That made no sense and Logan said so. ‘Girlfriend? How can he have a girlfriend? The love of his life’s just been beaten to death.’r />
  Luckily the visiting room was one of the few places in the prison where the CCTV cameras still worked. Logan and Rennie sat in the security office, staring at a flickering monitor, looking back in time to yesterday evening. The screen showed an empty room, tables arranged in straight lines, plastic chairs on either side. Logan prodded the fast-forward button, horizontal lines shuddering across the image as the tape whirred on. A prison officer appeared in the corner, as if by magic, and then the first inmate whooshed into view, followed by two more, each choosing a table as far away from the others as possible. The whirring stopped and the picture settled down into normal time. Jamie McKinnon was sitting at the back left, under the poster telling visitors what they weren’t allowed to pass across to the prisoners. And then the girlfriend arrived, limping into shot with her back to the camera. But Logan didn’t need to see her face to know who it was: black leather jacket, torn jeans, pink spiky hair. Logan stabbed the screen with his finger. ‘Suzie McKinnon, Jamie’s sister. How come they thought she was his girlfr—’ Suzie leaned across the table and slipped a big French kiss into her brother’s open mouth. ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘So,’ said Rennie, watching as the pair parted, both wiping their mouths on the backs of their sleeves. ‘She was slipping him more than just tongue.’ A small parcel of drugs, passed from mouth to mouth under the guise of a long, passionate kiss.

  Logan nodded. ‘Looks like it. Come on, we have to pay her a visit anyway; she’s next of kin.’

  Suzie McKinnon wasn’t in her usual drinking spot with the rest of King Edward’s advisors – the rain keeping even the most stalwart monarchist alcoholics indoors – so they tried the address in Ferryhill they’d followed her to last time. The lights were on in the basement flat, shining out into the gloomy afternoon. Suzie was home.

  ‘Right,’ said Logan, unfastening his seatbelt. ‘Here’s the plan: I go inside and knock. Rennie: you wait out front like last time, I don’t want her hopping out through the front window and buggering off into the monsoon.’ He turned to the family liaison officer they’d picked up during a quick detour back to headquarters, the same nervous young man assigned to Grandma Kennedy. ‘You take the garden out back.’ The communal door still wasn’t locked so Logan let himself in, picking his way down the dark stairs to the basement flat, the glass from a shattered light bulb scrunching underfoot. The McKinnons’ front door had taken a beating since he was here last – a large boot print next to the lock, the wood around it buckled and cracked. Logan knocked and it swung open beneath his hand, only stopping when the door chain reached full stretch, the wooden surround was splintered where the lock and deadbolt had been ripped free. A nervous face appeared at the opening, took one look at Logan, then ran for it. Suzie McKinnon. The lounge door slammed: she was going out the front window. He found her outside, struggling with DC Rennie, her pink hair plastered to her head, white makeup starting to run in the heavy rain, as if her face was melting. She sank her teeth into Rennie’s arm and he let out an ‘Ayabastard!’ losing his grip for a moment: just long enough for Suzie to wriggle free and slam a knee into his groin. Rennie went white, but didn’t let go, hissing curses between clenched teeth as she writhed and swore.

  Logan grabbed her arm before she could inflict any more damage and said, ‘Jamie’s dead, Suzie.’ She froze, staring at him in disbelief while the rain fell all around them. Up close he could see that her make-up had been hiding more than just spots. As it dissolved in the rain, bruises and scrapes were coming to the surface.

  Her mouth worked up and down, until the word ‘How?’ finally made it out.

  ‘Looks like an overdose. But we won’t know for sure until…’ He stopped, not wanting to go into detail about what Isobel would do to Jamie’s body. ‘Until later. We won’t know until later. Come on, let’s go inside.’

  The chain was still on the door, so they had to clamber in through the lounge window, treading wet footprints into the tatty settee on their way to the carpet. They stood there in silence for a moment, Suzie chewing on her black-painted fingernails while Rennie limped off to the kitchen under orders to make tea, grumbling non-stop about being kneed in the balls.

  ‘What happened to the front door?’

  She frowned, as if his words were coming from a long way off. ‘Door? Oh, it…’ she shrugged, wincing at the motion. ‘Ah forgot ma key.’ She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  ‘I expect you fell down the stairs too. What with it being dark out there and all.’

  Suzie closed her eyes and nodded, tears sparkling over her lashes and falling onto her bruised cheeks. Logan sighed. ‘You and I both know that’s bullshit. Someone kicked the door in, then did the same to you. And I’ll bet you all the tatties in Scotland I know who did it.’

  ‘Did… Did he really overdose?’

  ‘Far as we can tell. We’re not sure if he did it on purpose or not.’

  ‘Oh God.’ She buried her head in her hands, rocking back and forth with silent sobs. ‘I killed him!’

  Logan watched her cry for a moment. ‘Where did you get it from, Suzie?’

  But she wasn’t listening to him any more. ‘Oh God, Jamie…’ Tugging at her wet pink hair she mourned for her dead brother.

  It was ten minutes before anyone remembered the FLO was still standing in the back garden in the rain.

  32

  They headed back into town, DC Rennie behind the wheel, clutching at his groin every thirty seconds, making sure it was still there. Logan stared morosely out of the window, watching the people and traffic go by. At least the rain was letting up, blue sky breaking through the lowering clouds, the wet tarmac sparkling in the sunshine. Rennie pulled up behind a huge BMW four-by-four and waited for the lights to change. Another flashy motor with a personalized number plate – the city was rife with them, like some sort of disease. Logan frowned. Flashy motor, flashy motor… why did that sound familiar?

  The lights changed and the four-by-four rumbled away, taking a left onto Springbank Terrace, with Logan staring after it. When the answer wouldn’t come he pulled out his phone and checked his messages – just the one from Brian, Isobel’s assistant: Jamie McKinnon’s post mortem was being delayed until four. Dr MacAlister wasn’t feeling too well. Logan closed his phone, tapping the plastic casing against his chin as he frowned out the window. It wasn’t like Isobel to show any sort of weakness: she’d have to be half dead to postpone a post mortem. Four o’clock… It was just coming up on two now. ‘Right,’ he said, stuffing the phone back in his pocket and pulling out the wad of messages from Mrs Cruickshank. ‘We’ve got a couple of hours to kill before they fillet Jamie. I’ve got a treat for you: we’re off to Westhill.’

  Westhill was an ever-expanding suburb seven miles west of Aberdeen. It had started off as a collection of pig farms before the developers got their claws into it, and now it sprawled all the way from the main road up the hill, slowly encircling the golf course with pale brick arms. By the time Rennie had negotiated the roundabout by the business park and was heading into Westhill proper the rain was gone and everything shone in the warm sunshine. Half a dozen magpies leapt and chattered in the grass of Denman Park, strutting back and forth like barristers as they drove by. And then it was past a cramped shopping centre, up the hill, and left – making for Westfield Gardens: home to the adulterous Mr Gavin Cruickshank. The house sat three quarters of the way around the cul-de-sac, backing onto Westhill Academy. Out front the garden was pristine, laid out with circular rose beds, the yellow and pink blooms glittering with raindrops caught in the sun; built-in garage; red, part-glazed front door; twee wooden plaque with CRUICKSHANKS’ REPOSE carved into it. The lampposts all the way around the street were decorated with bright-yellow, laminated A4 posters: a picture of a huge Labrador, its features grainy and indistinct from the photocopying, and the words: MOPPET’S MISSING!!! The address given was for the house next to Cruickshanks’ Repose – an identical building, but not so well kept. The garden was a mess of dandelions and clover, th
e front door in need of a fresh coat of paint. The garage was lying open, revealing a rusty Fiat nestling amongst piles of old newspapers, paint tins, empty bottles and bits of bicycle. A large chest freezer was the only thing in the whole place that looked as if it still worked. ‘So what’s the story then?’ asked Rennie, locking the car.

  Logan pointed at Cruickshanks’ Repose. ‘Husband’s been missing since last Wednesday. Poor cow thinks the next-door neighbour’s got something to do with it. Doesn’t know darling Gavin’s been getting his leg over women all around town – including a pole-dancer with a habit of disappearing off on holiday at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘You think he’s just buggered off with her?’

  Logan dug the postcard from Secret Service out of his pocket and handed it over. ‘What do you think?’

  Rennie’s eyes roved across Hayley’s leather-bikinied body. ‘Phwoar, not bad! She can dance on my pole any time she—Hey!’ Logan had taken the picture back.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, as Rennie pouted, ‘we might as well go see the next-door neighbour before we tell the wife her husband’s a cheating bastard.’

  Pressing the doorbell produced a single, dry clunk, so they had to knock. Eventually a swearing silhouette appeared in the door’s rippled glass. ‘This better not be you fuckin’ bob-a-job bastards again…’ trailing off as the door opened. A crumpled woman in her dressing gown scowled at them. ‘Aw, fuck. What is it now?’ Her hair was lank with two inches of brown and grey roots showing, hanging around an oval face with puffy bags under the eyes, broken veins spidering across her cheeks and nose. ‘I told them at the station: the fuckin’ insurance is in the post.’

  ‘We’re not here about that, Mrs…?’

  Panic flickered across her eyes, swiftly followed by a defiant sneer. ‘What you want then?’

  ‘Last Tuesday you were involved in an altercation with Mr Cruickshank from next door.’