Dying Light

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Where the hell are they?’ Logan stopped pacing and stood looking down at Jackie – curled up in the passenger seat of an empty patrol car, mouth open, snoring softly. She was filthy, her face black with soot, smears of Steve’s blood on her cheeks, more on her uniform, an egg-sized lump above her left eye where she’d banged her head on the wall. Logan sighed: there wasn’t anything else they could do tonight. The roadblocks would either catch Chib and his mate or they wouldn’t. And if they made it as far as Edinburgh, Lothian and Borders Police would pick the pair of them up and return them to Aberdeen for questioning and trial. Chib had screwed up big time: he’d been involved in the shooting of a police officer and left witnesses. Not even Malk the Knife could make that disappear.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ Chib was shouting, gripping the steering wheel in both hands, trembling with rage. ‘I give you one simple fucking task…’ He let go of the wheel and slapped the cowering figure in the passenger seat who squealed in pain. ‘Where the fuck did the police come from?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know!’ Greg wrapped his arms around his head, crying, but Chib hit him again anyway, knowing he’d feel bad about it afterwards. He always did. Swearing, he dragged the van into a quiet-looking cul-de-sac and killed the engine, sitting in furious silence as it pinged and clunked. He’d really loved that Mercedes, but by now it was little more than a burning hulk, abandoned and torched on a dirt track on the South Deeside Road.

  Gritting his teeth, Chib took a deep, deep breath and counted to ten. This wasn’t Greg’s fault… ‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘I’m sorry I hit you. That was wrong of me. I was upset, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’ He reached over and patted his passenger on the arm. ‘Now, can you tell me what happened?’

  Greg shifted in his seat, wiping his runny nose on the back of his sleeve. ‘I was… I was in the house and everything was going great: I did the old woman’s front door with the screws and I poured in the petrol and I heard something on the stairs! There was two of them and they shouted at me and I tried to get away, but one of them hit me in the knee and it really hurt and she was all over me and hitting and kicking and biting and I kicked her back and ran away and set fire to the stairs and ran outside and called you…’

  Chib patted him on the knee. ‘You did good, Greg, you did good.’ And Greg’s whole face lit up, happy that Chib wasn’t angry at him any more. ‘How did they know you were there? Did they follow you to the building?’

  ‘I looked! I did! But there wasn’t anyone I could see.’

  Chib scowled. It was that bastard DS McRae again – he’d recognized him jumping out of the car, just before that grubby bitch broke the Merc’s windscreen. Bloody DS McRae. A small smile fluttered across his lips. The police would expect him to go south: get out of Aberdeen and back to his home turf as quickly as possible. But instead they were going to head north, go up round Inverness then down the west coast, past Oban, through Glasgow and back to Edinburgh. If he put his foot down they could be back home before the pubs shut tomorrow. But there was something he wanted to do first.

  Get even.

  43

  DI Insch turned up looking like someone had dragged him out of bed at half two in the morning. He listened in silence as Logan took him through everything from the time Jackie called the fire in, to the current status of the roadblocks. Insch popped a Liquorice Allsort in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, the IB spotlights shining off his huge, bald head. ‘Right,’ he said at last. ‘Bugger off home out of it.’ He pointed at Jackie snoozing away in the front of the patrol car. ‘And take Rip Van Winkle with you. We’ll meet again at twelve hundred hours tomorrow. There’ll need to be an enquiry into the shooting.’ Another Allsort disappeared. ‘They’re going to want to know what you were all doing out here.’

  Logan blushed. ‘Ah, yes, well, you see—’

  Insch stopped him with a hand, face cold and impassive. ‘No. I don’t want to know. But you’d better pray all your stories fit together. Maitland was shot in the line of duty: but if this was some half-arsed unofficial operation, you’re screwed.’

  A patrol car dropped them off in Union Grove so they could take the pool car Jackie had been driving back to the station. There wasn’t much left of Grandma Kennedy’s building: the top two floors were a write-off, just a hollow shell of granite and blackened timbers, the roof partially collapsed. Getting arrested for drug dealing was probably the luckiest break the old lady ever had, otherwise she’d be dead by now.

  Logan clambered in behind the steering wheel, but Jackie told him to shift his backside over. He wasn’t getting to drive. ‘But it was ages ago, I—’

  ‘I don’t care. Last thing we need is you getting done for drink driving. We’re in enough trouble as it is.’ She started the car and struggled into her seatbelt, wincing as she twisted to clip the buckle into place. ‘Did Insch know you’d been on the piss?’

  ‘Don’t think so… Least, he didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Good.’ She pulled out into the road, heading back towards the flat. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Everything… Well, everything except for Colin’s fingers and the fact we were staking out Chib’s house without any sort of official sanction. Didn’t think that would go down too well.’

  Jackie groaned and swung the car onto Holburn Street. ‘Why the hell did we let you talk us into this?’

  Logan sank down in his seat. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘I don’t actually feel bad enough already.’ He clicked on the police radio, looking to pick up any news from the roadblocks, or an update on Steve. Nothing. He pulled out his phone and called A&E. Constable Jacobs was in surgery and his condition was critical. They’d know more in a few hours.

  Logan let his head rest against the cool glass of the passenger-side window. What a great day: in the morning he’d gone to the funeral of someone he’d got shot; in the afternoon he’d caught a serial killer; in the evening someone else had taken all the credit for it; and now he’d presided over yet another shooting. What a great, great, great, great, day. Not to mention finding out he’d been responsible for a friend getting their fingers hacked off. No wonder he was part of DI Steel’s Screw-Up Squad: it was where he belonged. Speaking of which, he might as well get it over with… He pulled out his phone and called up DI Steel’s messages, feeling more and more depressed as they played. ‘Logan, where the hell are you? Press conference in half an hour – be there!’ Beeeeeeep. ‘It’s me again – what, are you sulking? Come on, get your arse in gear, the CC wants you to give a speech, or some fuckin’ thing.’ Beeeeeeep. ‘Ten minutes – where are you? Look, I forgive you, OK? Now get back here!’ Beeeeeeep. ‘Jesus, Logan: why do you have to be so high fucking maintenance? Come on!’ Beeeeeeep. And on and on. The last one was a curt ‘You’d better have a bloody good excuse for not turning up!’ Far from stealing all the glory, she’d actually been trying to give him his moment in the spotlight. ‘Wonderful.’ He deleted all the messages. It was too late now anyway, he’d screwed that up, just like he’d screwed up everything else.

  He still had no idea what to do about Miller. With Chib on the run Isobel would be on Logan’s back the whole time: nipping his head about how he was supposed to have done something, and why had no one caught them yet, and what if they came back, and… Logan screwed up his face and swore and swore and swore. ‘Turn the car round!’

  ‘What?’ Jackie pointed at the junction in front of them. ‘We’re nearly home.’

  ‘Turn it round!’

  She gave a theatrical sigh and hauled the car around, doing a U-turn on Union Street. ‘Where to, o great and wise master?’

  ‘What if Chib’s not on his way south? What if he’s got unfinished business?’

  Now it was Jackie’s turn to swear. ‘Colin Miller’s fingers.’

  ‘Exactly. Chib knows we’re on to him, he’s going to think it’s Miller’s fault.’

  She floored the accelerator, tearing down Union Street, ignoring the red l
ights on Union Terrace and the amber outside the Music Hall, deserted streets and shops flashing by on either side. ‘You going to call for backup or what?’

  Logan braced himself as Jackie bounced the car through the Y-junction at the top of Holburn Street, following the road round onto Albyn Place. ‘What if I’m wrong?’

  ‘Then you look like an arse. What if you’re right?’

  ‘Miller doesn’t want anyone to know about his fingers, he—’

  ‘Tough shit. Steve doesn’t want to be lying in hospital with a bullet in him! That Weegie bastard held his hands up earlier we’d have Chib in custody days ago, instead of getting our arses shot off!’

  She was right. Logan pulled out his phone and made the call – closing his eyes as Jackie rallied the car around the Queen Victoria roundabout – only to be told no one was available: everyone they had spare was manning roadblocks. Logan swore, hung up and dialled DI Insch’s mobile. ‘You do know he’s going to fire me for this, don’t you?’ he asked while the phone rang. ‘Inspector? It’s Logan – I need some backup.’

  ‘Backup? What the hell do you need backup for?’ Logan told him about Miller’s fingers and Chib’s threat to return if he was caught talking to the police again. ‘You think he’s daft enough to go back there? You mad? He’ll be scooting it down the road with his tail between his legs!’

  ‘What if he’s not?’

  Grumbling, Insch said he’d see what he could do and hung up. Jackie slowed the car to a more normal speed and turned off onto Forest Road, the entrance to Aberdeen’s moneyed district. ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe? What sort of answer is that?’

  ‘The one I got, OK?’ He pointed at the entrance to Rubislaw Den North. ‘You want to go left here then on round the corner.’

  The street was silent. Little flecks of light danced across the pavements, sodium-yellow streetlight dappled through the swaying leaves of huge, mature beech trees. The house was up ahead, as dark and silent as the rest of the street. Logan tapped on the passenger window. ‘Pull in here.’

  Jackie squeezed the car in between a grubby blue Transit Van and a soft-top Porsche. ‘Right,’ she said, creaking on the handbrake, ‘what’s the plan?’

  ‘Sneak up, have a look about. If nothing’s happening we come back and wait in the car.’

  ‘Great. Just what I need: more hours cooped up in this bloody heap.’

  They stepped out into the night, picking their way past the filthy van. Logan stopped, turned, frowned and asked Jackie if it looked familiar to her. ‘You kidding?’ she said, turning her back on it. ‘Looks like every other crappy Transit in the whole city. I thought we were in a hurry?’

  Logan marched up the path to Isobel’s house, cupping his hands against the drawing-room window and peering through into the darkened room. Nothing. The lounge was the same. There was no way to get around to the back of the house.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Jackie.

  ‘Could always try the bell I suppose.’ Logan pressed the button and the familiar biiiiiing-bonnnnnnnng rang out from deep inside. They settled back to wait, and wait and – Logan tried the bell again. Both cars were in the drive: they had to be in, it was half past three in the morning!

  Jackie peered through the letterbox. ‘Like a graveyard in there.’

  ‘Is it just me,’ said Logan, ‘or are you starting to get a bad feeling about this?’

  ‘Maybe they’ve both passed out? You said Doc MacAlister was getting laid into the whisky when you were here – Miller’ll be on painkillers…’

  Logan stood back, gazing up at the dark house. ‘What’s the worst that can happen if we go in there and nothing’s wrong?’

  ‘You get your bollocks chewed off for breaking and entering.’

  ‘Not if we’ve got a key…’ He tipped up the small pot of pansies growing beside the door and rummaged about in the shadows beneath it, coming up with nothing but dirt and a worm. He tried the other side. Nothing. ‘Damn, she used to keep a spare key out here.’

  ‘Under a flowerpot by the door? Why not just put a big sign in the front garden saying, I’m stupid: please rob me?’

  ‘You got a torch on you?’ Jackie did; after all she was still wearing her uniform, drenched in sweat and blood, the faint, lingering whiff of petrol just discernible under the smoky stench of burning building. She was in the middle of handing it over when a light blossomed in the hall, glowing through the glass panes surrounding the door.

  ‘’Bout bloody time,’ said Jackie under her breath as the deadbolt clicked back, the chain rattled and the door opened wide.

  Isobel peered out at them. She looked a mess, hair flat on one side and sticking up all over the place on the other. Bloodshot eyes, a fresh graze on her left cheek. She was wearing baby-blue pyjamas with penguins on them – very appropriate. ‘What do you want?’ The words wreathed in whisky fumes.

  Logan stepped up to the door. ‘Isobel, are you OK? What happened to your cheek?’

  A hand fluttered up to the graze and she tried for a smile; it didn’t work. ‘I may have… fallen over on the way to be sick.’ She stepped back and then held out a hand to him. ‘Come in, come in, you and your lovely wife Daphne.’ She swung a finger round to point at WPC Watson. ‘I’ve got some Pernod somewhere, I know you both love that.’

  Logan opened his mouth to say, ‘You know I hate Pernod!’ but she was already weaving her way back up the hall.

  ‘Daphne?’ hissed Jackie. Logan shrugged, Isobel must be more plastered than he’d thought. But then she’d never been much of a drinker. They followed her into the house and through to the kitchen at the rear. All the lights were on and there, in front of the breakfast bar, naked and strapped to a kitchen chair, was Colin, a bondage gag stretching his jaws wide, blood running freely from his chest, marking the place where his left nipple used to be.

  A noise behind them in the hall; Logan spun around and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. It was the Gimp, one side of his face covered in dried blood. He motioned Logan through the door and into the kitchen proper.

  ‘DS McRae,’ said a familiar Edinburgh accent as the door was closed behind them. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

  44

  Chib sauntered over to stand beside Colin Miller. The reporter was pale and sweaty, shivering and moaning behind the gag. Chib pulled out a pair of bull-nosed pliers, the rubber grips dark against his latex surgical gloves. ‘Now then,’ he said, all pleasant smiles as Colin started to cry, ‘DS McRae, I’d like you and… I’m sorry, darling, but I don’t know your name.’ Jackie just gazed in horror at the gun in the Gimp’s hands. ‘No? Cat got your tongue? Doesn’t matter: I’d like you both to sit down, nice and quietly, and we’ll have a chat about what’s going to happen next. OK?’

  The Gimp pointed to an empty chair at the kitchen table and Logan sank reluctantly down into it, trying not to flinch as the gun was jabbed into his ear and Isobel was told to secure his hands to the seat with some of the cable ties on the breakfast bar. She put them on nice and loose, leaving Logan plenty of room to escape. But the Gimp grabbed the end and yanked on the plastic, pulling the catches so tight that Logan hissed in pain.

  Jackie staggered back into the corner by the wine rack, hands up to her mouth, tears in her eyes, whimpering ‘Oh, God no. Oh, God no. Oh, God no’ over and over again.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ said Chib, dragging Colin’s left arm up, twisting it and forcing the wrist back so it was locked in place. The bandages on Colin’s hands were missing, exposing raw lumps of flesh stitched together over the swollen, bruise-covered stumps. The joins where two segments of finger had been reattached were clearly visible, the stitches puckering the inflamed skin. Chib levered open the pliers and clamped them around one of the restored joints. ‘Just so we all know we’re not playing games here…’ He grunted and twisted, yanking the length of finger away from Colin’s hand, ripping the stitches free. Fresh blood welled up in the ragged ho
le and, behind the gag, Colin screamed. Smiling, Chib crossed the kitchen to the pedal bin, stepped on the lever, and dropped the chunk of finger in amongst the eggshells. ‘These are the easy ones, it gets a lot more messy when we have to go in with the shears.’

  Isobel sat at the kitchen table next to Logan, eyes glazed, face pale as marble, tears running down her cheeks as the Gimp fixed her hands to the seat, just like Logan’s.

  ‘Now, that was just one little bit of finger. Colin still has oh, four whole fingers, two thumbs, all those stumps…’ Chib’s lips moved as he did the arithmetic. ‘Twenty-three bits left! God, we could be here for hours, couldn’t we?’

  Logan tried to keep his voice calm and even, almost managing it. ‘This isn’t going to achieve anything, Chib, why d—’

  ‘No: it’s Brendan, not “Chib”: BRENDAN.’ Chib nodded and something hard clattered into the side of Logan’s head, pain slicing across his scalp as blood oozed down the side of his face. ‘“Chib” is such a childish nickname, don’t you think?’ He straightened his tie and put on his calm smile again. ‘Contrary to popular belief, torture and senseless violence do achieve things. You see, once we’re done here, they’ll discover what’s left of your bodies and know not to fuck with us. It’ll keep the junkies and pushers and whores in line. Fear is a great motivator.’