Dying Light. Stuart MacBride
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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 and entering – so there was no way he was going to risk using the toilets here. Wander into a small room with only one exit and a bar full of people who’d love to see a policeman with his brains leaking out onto the dirty floor? Might as well smash himself in the face with a claw hammer, save everyone the bother. But no one said anything as he sat the young girl down in a booth and bought her a bottle of Bud. If she was old enough to be selling her body on the streets, she was old enough for a beer.
‘So,’ he said, ‘who was your friend?’
She scowled and hurled another barrage of incomprehensible abuse at her absent protector. When Logan asked what language she was swearing in she told him: ‘Lithuanian.’ Her name was Kylie Smith – likely bloody story thought Logan – and she’d been in Scotland for almost eight months now. First Edinburgh then Aberdeen. She preferred Edinburgh, but what could she do? She had to go where she was sent. And no she wasn’t sixteen, she was nineteen. Logan didn’t buy that one either. The pub’s lighting was murky, but it was still better than the flickering yellow streetlights in Shore Lane. She was fourteen if she was a day. Like it or not, she’d have to go to the station after this. There was no way he could turn a child that age back out onto the streets. She should still be in school!
Her ‘friend’ had told her to call him Steve, but Logan wasn’t to cause trouble for him, because she had to stay with him, and he’d beat her. Logan just made noncommittal noises and asked Kylie where she’d been Monday night.
‘I go with man in suit, he want I do dirty thing, but he pay good. Then I go with other man, smell very bad of chips, skin is all grease. I go with—’
‘Sorry, that’s not what I meant.’ Logan tried not to think of oily fingers pawing away at the schoolgirl. ‘What I meant was: where were you getting picked up from?’
‘Oh, I understand. Same place today. All night. I make good money.’ She nodded. ‘Steve bring me breakfast, I do so good. Happy Meal.’
Last of the big spenders. ‘Did you know a girl was attacked?’
She nodded again. ‘I know.’
‘Did