Dying Light. Stuart MacBride
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like last time? No bloody thanks.’
‘Look, I’m sorry about that, OK? He told me the place was full of stolen property…’ There was a small pause. ‘Listen, you workin’ on that big fire?’ Logan said no, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested – after all, a lead on Insch’s arson case might help speed his way out of the Screw-Up Squad. ‘Perfect, how does eight sound?’
A rattle of keys in the lock and the front door opened. It was Jackie, back from work and carrying a pizza box from the place up the road, using her plaster cast as a tray. She saw him, and held up a bottle of Shiraz.
‘Hold on a minute,’ he said, slapping a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Colin Miller wants to come over for tea.’
Jackie snorted. ‘Not a bloody chance. Pizza, wine and bed. Maybe all at the same time.’ She put the pizza box down on the coffee table and started stripping off her trousers.
Logan smiled. ‘Erm … Sorry, Colin, something’s come up. Got to go.’
‘Eh? What? What’s come up?’
Logan put the phone down.
Yawning, Logan strolled up Marischal Street, making for Force Headquarters. Nine forty-five and the sun was beginning to think about going home for the night. The day’s heat slowly leached out of the granite buildings, keeping the temperature up as the evening drifted away. There was a lot to be said for a naked WPC Watson, wine and pizza. And he didn’t even have to get all togged up in his work suit either. Tonight was a strictly plainclothes operation.
Force Headquarters was busier than Logan had been expecting; groups of uniformed officers bustling about the place. Big Gary – looking like an overstuffed sofa in an ill-fitting uniform, clutching a Tunnocks Tasty Caramel Wafer in one oversized paw – sat behind the desk taking notes. ‘Evenin’, Lazarus,’ he said, dropping little flakes of chocolate onto the duty roster.
‘Evening, Gary, what’s with all the rush and scurry?’
‘You know there’s been all these drugs comin’ in? Well, big bust tonight: huge! Half the shift’s off to play cops and robbers.’ He frowned for a moment and flicked through the chocolate-coated roster. ‘How come you’re in? Supposed to be on days…’
The happy smile slid from Logan’s face. ‘Night shift today and tomorrow. But I’m only on till two tonight, because I was in most of the day.’
‘Bastard…’ Big Gary scribbled away at the roster with a biro. ‘How come no one ever tells me anything? Who decided this?’
‘DI Steel.’
Big Gary grunted and ripped a bite out of his wafer. ‘Bloody typical.’ He shook his head. ‘Ever since that Cleaver trial got fucked up…’ The phone went and so did Big Gary.
After signing in, Logan turned round and went back out the way he’d come in, strolling down Marischal Street, over the bridge and straight past his own front door. The harbour lights were flickering on, picking out a handful of supply vessels, their huge bright-orange hulls glowing as the sun slowly set. The water was already a deep shade of violet, reflecting back the darkening sky. At the bottom of the hill Logan took a left, popping his head around the corner of Shore Lane, seeing if anyone was open for business. It was empty.
Hands in his pockets, he strolled down the quay, visiting every alley, street and parking lot along the way. Most of the working girls he spoke to were helpful enough, once he’d sworn on his mother’s grave that he wouldn’t arrest them. They knew Rosie, they were in the same line of business, they were sorry she was dead. But not one of them had seen anything.
He was on his second circuit when his phone exploded in a cacophony of bleeps and whistles. Colin Miller again. ‘Just a wee call to say you’ve blown it, man. Press office says the torso’s no’ human. Just a dog. So yer bargainin’ position for info’s shot to shite.’
Logan swore quietly, so much for his ticket out of the Fuck-Up Factory.
‘Laz? You still there, man?’
‘Yeah, just thinking.’ There had to be something he could give Miller … and then it dawned on him: he told Miller about his pre-murder theory. ‘Bastard, we’ve gone to sodding press with it as a fuckin’ sidebar.’
‘So come on then – spill the beans on the fire.’
‘The name “Graham Kennedy” mean anythin’ to you? Does a bit of dealin’ on the side in Bridge of Don, blow mostly, but harder stuff when he gets his hands on it?’ Logan had never heard of him. ‘He’s one of yer crispy-baked squatters.’ Perfect: rumour had it DI Insch still hadn’t identified the bodies. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Logan thanked him and hung up. Today was turning out to be not so bad after all.
By the time he’d worked his way back to Shore Lane it was getting on for half eleven. There’d been no improvement in the streetlight situation since the night before last: the darkness barely punctuated with pools of wan yellow light. At the far end, where the cars would turn off the dual carriageway, a single figure plied her trade. Hands in his pockets, Logan stepped into the alleyway and the heady aroma of decomposing rat; thankfully it wasn’t nearly as bad as rotting Labrador. The girl touting for business outside the Shore Porters’ warehouse couldn’t have been much more than sixteen. If that. She was dressed in a short black skirt, low-cut top, fishnets and black patent-leather high heels. Very classy. Her hair was up in a 1980s-style rock-star perm, her face layered with enough make-up to coat the Forth Bridge. She turned at the sound of Logan’s footsteps, watching him warily.
‘Evening,’ he said, voice nice and neutral. ‘You new?’
She looked him up and down. ‘What it to you?’ Not a local. Her accent was somewhere between Edinburgh and the Ukraine. The words slightly fuzzy round the edges, as if she was on something.
‘You here Monday?’ he asked. She backed away a couple of steps. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, holding up his hands, ‘I just want to talk.’
Her eyes went wide. Left, right, then she ran for it. Logan grabbed her arm and pulled her to a halt.
‘You hurting me!’ she whined, struggling.
‘I just want to ask you a few questions. It’s OK—’
A shape stepped out of the shadows. ‘No it fuckin’ isn’t.’ Big bloke, dressed in leathers and jeans. Shaved head, goatee beard, fists. ‘Let the bitch go, or I’m goin’ tae break your fuckin’ head open!’
Logan smiled at him. ‘No need to get physical. Just a couple of questions and then I’m on my way. You here Monday night as well?’
The man cracked his knuckles and advanced. ‘You fuckin’ deaf? I told you: let the bitch go!’
Sighing, Logan dug out his wallet and flipped it open, exposing his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Logan McRae. Still want to break my head open?’ The man froze, looked from Logan’s ID to Logan to the struggling girl and back at Logan again. Then legged it.
Logan and the girl watched him disappear – for a big man he moved pretty fast. She stood open-mouthed, forgetting to struggle, before hurling a string of foreign-language abuse after her scarpering pimp. Logan had no idea what the words meant, but the general gist was clear enough. ‘Well,’ he said, when she’d run out of breath and inspiration, ‘it’s OK: I’m not going to arrest you. I really do just want to talk.’
She looked him up and down again. ‘I talk very good dirty. You want talk dirty?’
‘Not that kind of talking. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.’
The Regents Arms was a little bar on Regent Quay with a three am licence. Not the smartest place in Aberdeen: it was dark, dirty, missing an apostrophe, and smelled of spilt beer and old cigarettes. Popular with the kind of people that hung around the docks after sundown. Logan took one look at the clientele and spotted at least three he’d arrested before – bit of aggravated assault, bit of prostitution, bit of breaking