Dying Light. Stuart MacBride
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they didn’t have to pussyfoot about with the evidence. Grunting, the doctor dragged the suitcase free from its prison of roots and dumped it on the forest floor, the foul-smelling liquid slopping out onto the fallen needles.
Coughing and spluttering against the stink, Doc Wilson prodded at the hairy torso, turning it over in the suitcase. The underside was saturated with liquid decay. The head, legs and tail had all been cut away, leaving dark purple, swollen flesh behind. ‘I’m no pathologist, mind,’ he said, ‘but it looks like these cuts have been made by some sort of very sharp, medium-length blade. Could be a kitchen knife? Cuts are fairly solid, not a lot of hacking going on. So whoever it was knew what they were doing: slice around the joint then separate the limb from the socket. Very economical.’ He turned the body over onto its back again. ‘Cut marks around the head are a bit more muddled. No’ an easy thing to do, get a head off a body. Tail’s just been chopped off…’ Doc Wilson frowned.
‘What?’
He pointed at the base of the torso, where the fur was a mess of fluid and flies. Gingerly, he poked and prodded at the rotting carcass. ‘Genital area: multiple stab wounds. Poor little sod’s had his bollocks hacked to pieces.’ And that was when Logan knew.
Standing back upright, he told the IB team to get going with the bagging and tagging. This was to be treated as a murder scene, even if it was just a dead dog. Puzzled, the bloke with the moustache started to argue, but Logan was having none of it. Everything was to be taken seriously: trace fibres, fingerprints, tissue samples, post mortem, the whole nine yards.
‘What’s the point?’ demanded the moustache. ‘It’s just a bloody Labrador!’
Logan looked down at the dismembered torso, stuffed in a suitcase, hidden in the woods. ‘No,’ he said, getting that old familiar sinking feeling. ‘It’s not just a Labrador. It’s a dress-rehearsal.’
DI Steel had Rennie drop Logan off on the way back to the station, so he could get a few hours’ sleep before reporting for duty at ten that evening. As they drove off up Marischal Street, Logan cursed his way in through the communal front door and up the stairs to his flat. Neither Steel nor the Procurator Fiscal had been happy to hear his theory about the torso, but they had to agree it looked a hell of a lot like a pre-murder. Someone testing the waters before diving in. So the PF had authorized a full post mortem; Isobel was going to love that, hack up a dirty, rotting Labrador in her nice clean morgue? She’d throw a fit. And then she’d blame him. Grumbling, Logan climbed into the shower, trying to wash off the stench of decaying dog, and half an hour later he was sitting in the lounge, tin of beer in one hand, cheese toastie in the other, watching daytime television, trying to bore himself to sleep.
Jackie had made a big difference to Logan’s flat when she moved in – it wasn’t half as tidy as it used to be. The woman was chaos with boobs. Nothing in the kitchen made sense any more. Whenever she used anything, it went back in a completely different place to where she’d found it: it had taken him ten minutes just to find the toastie machine. Magazines spilled over the side of the coffee table, newspapers were heaped on the floor, unopened letters mixed with takeaway menus and assorted scraps of paper. Her collection of pigs had also taken up residence: porcelain pigs, pottery pigs, little pink cuddly pigs. They festooned the lounge, gathering dust. But Logan wouldn’t have changed it for the world.
Soon he was well into his second tin of beer, the sunlight spilling in through the lounge window, making the room soft and warm. He was actually starting to drift off: sleep washing in and out, like the approaching tide, bringing dismembered corpses with it…
Logan sat bolt upright on the couch, eyes bleary and wide, heart hammering in his ears, trying to figure out where he was. The phone went again and he swung round, cursing, grabbing the handset as the dream rotted away. ‘Hello?’
A Glaswegian voice boomed happily into Logan’s ear. ‘Laz, my man. How you doin’?’ Colin Miller, golden-boy reporter on the Press and Journal, Aberdeen’s main daily newspaper.
‘Sleeping. What do you want?’
‘Sleepin’? At this time of the day. Been up to a bit of the old afternoon delight with the lovely WPC Watson, eh?’ Logan didn’t dignify that with an answer. ‘Anyway, listen, I got a call from some woman says she found a body in the woods today.’ Christ, thought Logan, that Mrs Hendry didn’t waste any time, did she? ‘Come on, man, spill the beans! Who is it?’
Logan frowned. ‘You’ve not spoken to Isobel yet, have you?’
An embarrassed pause and then, ‘Aye, well, she’s no’ answerin’ her mobile, and her office phone’s on voicemail only.’ In addition to being a golden-boy reporter, Miller was also Isobel’s bit of rough, the one who’d taken her fancy when she was finished with Logan. It should have been more than enough reason for him to dislike the pushy wee shite, but for some bizarre reason it wasn’t. ‘Come on, Laz, spill the beans! Bloody media office’s givin’ the usual “no comment” bollocks. You was there wasn’t you?’
Sighing, Logan slumped back to his chair. ‘All I can say is that we found some remains in Garlogie Woods today. You want more details, you’re going to have to go through the media office. Or wait for Isobel to get home.’
‘Shite… C’mon, Laz, give me somethin’ to work with here! I’ve been a good boy, no’ printed a thing she’s told me without goin’ through you first – give us a break, eh?’
Logan couldn’t help smiling, it was nice to have the upper hand for a change. If Miller printed a word of what his pathologist girlfriend told him between the sheets without getting the OK from Logan, she was finished. Logan would go straight to Professional Standards and tell them all about Isobel’s former “indiscretions” with the media. Her career would be over.
‘Tell you what, I’ll bring round somethin’ tasty for tea and you and me can have a chat. Maybe I’ve got something you need to know. We could do a swap, like.’
‘What, 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,