Dying Light. Stuart MacBride
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Vice she’s currently involved with one Jamie McKinnon,’ said the family liaison officer. ‘Conflicting reports on whether he’s her boyfriend or pimp. Maybe a little of both.’
‘Oh aye? Wee Jamie McKinnon? Would’ve thought “toy boy” was closer to the mark; she’s got to be twice his age!’ Steel gave a big, snorting sniff, and chewed thoughtfully for a while. ‘Come on then,’ she said at last. ‘Job’s not going to do itself.’
They left DC Rennie watching the car, trying not to look like a plainclothes police officer and failing miserably. Rosie’s flat was on the middle floor. There was a window set into the stairwell, but it was covered over with a flattened cardboard box parcel-taped into place, shrouding the hallway in gloom. The door was featureless grey with a rusty brass spyhole set into it, a faint glimmer of light shining through from the flat into the murky hall. Taking a deep breath, DI Steel knocked.
No response.
She tried again, harder this time, and Logan could have sworn he heard something being dragged against the other side of the door. The inspector knocked again. And the light in the spy hole went out. ‘Come on, Jamie, we know you’re in there. Let us in, eh?’
There was a small pause, and then a high-pitched voice said, ‘Fuck off. We’re no’ wantin’ any police bastards today, thanks.’
DI Steel squinted at the spy hole. ‘Jamie? Come on, stop buggering about. We need to talk to you about Rosie. It’s important.’
Another pause. ‘What about her?’
‘Come on, Jamie, open the door.’
‘No. Fuck off.’
The inspector ran a tired hand across her forehead. ‘She’s dead, Jamie. I’m sorry. Rosie’s dead. We need you to come down and identify her.’
This time the silence stretched out far longer than before. And then the sound of something being dragged away from the door, a chain being undone, a deadbolt being drawn back, and the door being unlocked. It opened to reveal an ugly child wearing an out-of-date Aberdeen Football Club top, tatty jeans and huge sneakers, laced up gangsta-stylie. The haircut was pudding bowl on top and shaved up the sides. Behind him was a tatty dining-room chair. He couldn’t have been much more than seven.
‘What do you mean, “she’s dead”?’ Suspicion was written all over his blunt features.
Steel looked down at the kid. ‘Is your daddy home?’
The child sneered. ‘Jamie’s no’ my dad, he’s just some fuckin’ waster Mum’s shaggin’. She kicked his arse oot weeks ago. Fuck knows who my “daddy” is, ’cos Mum hasn’t got a fuckin’ clue…’ He stopped and examined the visitors on his doorstep. ‘She really dead?’
Steel nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Son, you shouldn’t have found out like this…’
The kid took a deep breath, bit his bottom lip, and then said, ‘Aye, well. Shit happens.’ He went to slam the door in their faces, but Steel had her foot wedged firmly against the hinges. In one of the other rooms they could hear a baby start to cry.
The family liaison officer dropped down to the kid’s eye level and said, ‘Hello, my name’s Alison. Who’s looking after you while your mummy’s away?’
The kid looked at her, then at Steel, and then back again. ‘How fuckin’ stupit are you? “Mummy’s” no’ away. “Mummy’s” dead.’ But the defiant edge to his voice was starting to crumble. ‘Understand you stupit cow? She’s dead!’ In the back room the baby bawled louder and the kid turned and roared a tirade of abuse in its direction, telling it what was going to happen, if it didn’t shut up right now! By the time he’d finished there were tears in his eyes.
They left the family liaison officer to call Social Work and have the children taken into care.
Logan was on a serious low by the time they got back to Force Headquarters. Telling the kid that he and his baby sister were off to the children’s home had just put the perfect cap on the day. The kicking, the swearing, spitting, threats…
At least now they had a suspect. Jamie McKinnon: Rosie Williams’s pimp and ex-toy boy. He had prior for assault, possession with intent, breaking and entering, shoplifting, stealing motors. You name it, Jamie had tried it. According to the kid, Rosie had kicked Jamie out for beating her up so badly she couldn’t work for a week. DI Steel had Control radio every patrol car in the city. She wanted Jamie brought in, on a voly if possible, in cuffs if not.
‘Well,’ she said when the call had gone out, ‘anything else I should know about?’ Logan told her about the new deputy fiscal and her desire to collect used condoms. Steel laughed so hard Logan thought she was going to bring up a lung. ‘Rather you than me, Sunshine!’ she said, wiping a tear from her eye.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You telling the search team to go hunting for nearly-new prophylactics! They’ll have a fit!’
‘How come I have to tell them? You’re the one in charge!’
Steel grinned broadly at him, cigarette smoke oozing out between her teeth. ‘Delegation, Mr Police Hero. I delegate, you do.’ She pointed him at the door. ‘Off you go.’ Only remembering at the last minute: ‘Oh, and while you’re at it, you can phone your new condom-loving friend and get an apprehension warrant for Jamie.’
Logan stomped off to the lifts. This was so like DI Steel. He did all the work; she smoked fags and took the credit. Grumbling, he called Rachael Tulloch and told her about Jamie McKinnon. She promised to set up a warrant ASAP. Then Logan called Control and got them to patch him through to the team searching the alley. They weren’t happy when he said they had to start collecting every condom they could find. Not happy at all. But by then Logan was past caring. It was nearly five o’clock and he’d been on duty for fourteen and a half hours. The day shift was over. It was time to go home.
5
There was something nasty sitting on Logan’s desk when he turned up for work on Wednesday morning. The search team had done as he’d asked, bagging and tagging each and every single used condom they could find in Shore Lane. And there were a hell of a lot of them; little slimy latex tubes oozing their contents out into individual evidence bags, all piled up in his in-tray. Grimacing, Logan scooped them all into a cardboard box, trying not to think about what was making the little bags so cold and clammy.
DI Steel didn’t turn up for the morning briefing, so the Screw-Up Squad just sat around their tables, drinking coffee and talking. Today’s topic was ‘Harry Potter: seminal moment in world cinema, or a load of old wank? Discuss.’ Logan left them to it, taking his box of used condoms down to the morgue where they could be frozen for future analysis. Procurators Fiscal: go figure.
He pushed through the large double doors, onto the sparkling clean tiled floor of the cutting room. There was no sign of yesterday’s rancid-barbecue reek. Instead everything smelled of formalin and pine disinfectant. Standing with her back to the doors was a familiar figure, prodding away at something in a bucket on the dissecting table. Logan’s heart sank even further.
‘Morning,’ he said and she turned to look at him.
Dr Isobel MacAlister, the Ice Queen, Chief Pathologist, ex-girlfriend, fellow victim. Looking a lot better than she had yesterday morning: her neatly bobbed hair held prisoner beneath a green surgical cap, the perfect bow of her lips hidden behind a green surgical mask. She blushed. As usual she was dressed like she’d just stepped off a catwalk: cream linen suit, silk blouse and tan leather boots, with an open white lab coat over the top. Golden jewellery trapped beneath the latex gloves. Obviously not getting ready to hack some poor sod up. ‘Good morning,’ awkward pause. ‘How are you?’
Logan shrugged. ‘Same old. You feeling any better?’
For a split second she looked puzzled, and then it clicked. ‘Oh, this morning…’ It was her turn to shrug. ‘Just a stomach bug.’
‘What, two days on the trot?’ he asked. ‘No pun intended.’
That