Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

Logan hoped so. Christ knew he didn’t want a repeat of this weekend. Not wanting to spoil the mood he kept his thoughts to himself and dished out the curry.

There wasn’t time for a quickie afterwards.

The Monday morning edition of the Press and Journal was waiting on Logan’s doormat when he finally surfaced sometime after nine. He carried the paper through to the kitchen so he could cover it in toast-crumbs and coffee-circles, getting as far as bite one before glancing at the front page. ‘Dirty bastard...’ The headline explained Colin Miller’s private little meeting in the pub on Friday. EDINBURGH DEVELOPER DELIVERS JOBS WINDFALL! Much of the front page was devoted to Miller’s gushing praise of the new development: three hundred homes on green belt between Aberdeen and Kingswells. ‘ McLennan Homes are proud to announce a new development on the outskirts of the small commuter town, bringing jobs and improved amenities to the people of Kingswells! ’ Logan snorted: they’d heard that one before. Miller went on to wax rhapsodic about the great things McLennan Homes in general — and its founder in particular — had done in Edinburgh, where the developer had been building ‘ quality family homes for over a decade! ’ Surprisingly enough there was no mention of Malcolm McLennan, AKA Malk the Knife’s other business ventures: drugs, prostitution, protection rackets, loan sharking, gun running, and every other variety of criminal enterprise he could get his grubby little paws on.

Logan settled back in his seat and read the article again. No wonder Colin Miller had been so jumpy when he’d seen him in the pub. The reporter had been thrown off the Scottish Sun for refusing to complete a series of exposés on Malk the Knife’s drug smuggling activities, because two of Malkie’s boys had made it quite clear that if he didn’t drop the story like the proverbial radioactive tattie, they’d hack off his fingers. And just last Christmas, Malk the Knife had tried, and failed, to bribe his way through the planning regulations and into a lucrative property development deal. Looked like his luck was better second time around.

But the main story of the day wasn’t in the Press and Journal . It’d be all over the evening news.

Sounds were muffled. The mist, thicker here in the forest than out on the road, clung to the trees and bracken, making everything alien and strange. The rain had given up the ghost sometime after midnight, fading to a misty drizzle. Then came the haar, rolling in off the North Sea, smothering the world. The ground beneath her feet was cold and wet as she squelched along the path, the vague outlines of Scots pine, oak, beech and spruce lurking to either side. Dripping. The Tyrebagger Woods were a damn sight creepier today than they’d been yesterday. Anyone could be lurking in the bushes, just around the next bend. Waiting for her... Just as well she had Benji to protect her — or would have if the rotten little sod hadn’t charged off into the fog at the first opportunity.

‘Benji!.. Bennnnnji?’ Something snapped in the forest and she froze. A twig? ‘Benji?’ Silence. She did a slow pirouette, watching the white-and-grey landscape swim around her. It was deathly quiet. Just like it went in films before something really horrible happened to the blonde bimbo with the big boobs. She smiled at herself. Not that she had any worries on that front, being a flat-chested brunette with a Master’s Degree in molecular biology. She was just a bit twitchy because of the job interview. ‘Benji! Where are you, you hairy wee shite?’ The fog swallowed her calls, not even giving her an echo in return. And yet she was sure there was something...

She shook her head and carried on up the track, going the wrong way round the Tyrebagger sculpture trail. A huge disembodied stag’s head loomed out of the mist, hanging between the trees like a cross between the more sinister bits of Watership Down , Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, and the dismembered corpse of a bright-yellow Ford Escort. Whenever she saw the thing she couldn’t help smiling. But not this time. This time there was something primitive about it. Something pagan. Something predatory. Shivering, she hurried past, calling out for Benji again. Why the hell did he have to pick today to go AWOL? It wasn’t as if she could spend all morning looking for him! Her interview was at half eleven. This was just supposed to be a little walk in the woods to calm her nerves. Not tramp about like a bastard in the fog looking for a stupid bloody spaniel. ‘BENJI!’

That cracking sound again. She froze. ‘Hello?’ Silence. ‘Is...’ She was going to hate herself for saying it: ‘Is anybody there?’ Might as well pop on a pair of stiletto heels and a push-up bra then sit back and wait for the axe murderer.

Silence.

Not so much as a whisper. The only sound was the pounding of her heart. This was ridiculous; just because some woman was beaten to death last week didn’t mean there was someone lurking in the woods... Waiting for her...

Crack! The breath caught in her throat. There was someone out there! Fight or flight, fight or flight? FLIGHT: sprinting hell-for-leather up the barely visible path, splashing through puddles and mud. Just wanting to get back to the car park alive. Trees whipped past on either side of the track, their trunks and branches distorted by the mist into wild-killer shapes. Someone was coming after her: she could hear him, crashing through the bushes behind her, getting closer.

Past the poetry trees at a sprint, up the hill, the wet ground treacherous beneath her feet. One foot caught on a tree root and she went sprawling on the gritty mud, fire lancing across her palms and knees as the skin broke. She cried out in pain, but the bastard chasing her didn’t care. There was just time to scream before a dark shape launched itself out of the mist. And slavered all over her with a huge, wet tongue.

‘Benji!’ She pulled herself to her knees and swore and swore and swore while Benji danced and skittered around her, hunkering down on his forelegs and wiggling his ridiculous stumpy tail in the air. And then he stopped, stood stock-still and charged off into the woods again. ‘Bastard fucking dog!’ Both her palms dripped with neon-red blood, the scrapes peppered with little black flecks of dirt. Her trousers were ripped open, exposing a similar story about the knees. And her head hurt like hell. With trembling fingers she reached up and gingerly touched a tender spot above her left eyebrow, wincing. More blood. ‘That’s just fucking marvellous!’ So much for making a good impression. She’d have to cancel, or turn up at the job interview looking like she’d been beaten up. ‘You BASTARD dog!’

Benji was barking from somewhere up the track. Bloody animal had probably found something filthy to roll in. Limping, she followed the sound into the fog-shrouded woods, all thoughts of a sinister attacker forgotten.

The lights of Alpha Two Zero cut solid blue bars through the fog. It sat in one of the Tyrebagger car parks, empty, the radio chattering away schiz-ophrenically to itself, as WPC Buchan and PC Steve picked their way into the woods. Looking for the body.

They’d got the call about twenty minutes ago: young woman’s body found battered to death, stripped naked in the woods. According to the dispatcher, the person who called it in wasn’t that coherent, just kept yammering on about death and the mist and trees. And something about buying sun? WPC Buchan wasn’t in the mood for this. Not after yet another fight with Robert, coming home stinking of cheap perfume and stale sweat — what was she, stupid? She stomped along the muddy path, hands in her pockets and a scowl on her face as PC Steve played Earnest Police Officer Number One, keeping up a running commentary as he swept the foggy undergrowth with a huge torch. She trailed along behind, watching him roam from bush to bush on either side of the path. He had a nice arse, even if he was a bit of a mummy’s boy. She could... A faint smile drifted across her face as she thought about all the things she could do to PC Steve Jacobs. God knew it would be a damn sight more fun than the crap she’d have to go home to tonight.