Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

They clambered up a small hill, the ground slippery beneath their feet. Just past the summit was one of those wooden post things, with a Perspex notice incorporated into it. She flipped it out, reading about how some woman called Matthews had sculpted a group of European bison resting in the primeval forest, out of chicken-wire, moss, wool, and bits of old metal. The usual heritage-slash-council-slash-art-grant-crap. WPC Buchan let the sign fall back into the post and stared into the woods where a barely visible track wound its way into the trees. ‘Buying sun...’ Without saying another word, WPC Buchan stepped off the muddy path and followed the track into the mist.

She could hear PC Steve babbling away to himself, his voice gradually trailing off as she moved away and the fog swallowed him whole.

The ground rose beneath her feet as the track gave way to forest loam. It was like twilight here, shadows of skeletal trees lurking in the mist. Quiet as a shallow grave. And then she heard it: a faint sobbing. WPC Buchan stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Hello?’ She clambered to the crest of a small rise and stepped out onto an area of flat ground. ‘Can you hear me?’

Still nothing.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake...’ She pulled out her torch, even though she knew it probably wasn’t going to do her the slightest bit of good. The fog would just bounce the light back, but the torch’s weight felt comforting in her hand. The sort of thing you could crack someone’s skull open with. Forward into the fog and WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT? They loomed out of the mist, cadaverous beasts, partially rotted. Grazing on the scrub-grass between the fog-shrouded trees.

It was the sculptures: bison resting in the primeval forest. WPC Buchan might not know much about art, but she knew what gave her the fucking willies, and these things took the hairy biscuit. The sobbing was louder now, coming from somewhere near the biggest mouldering animal, the fog clearly visible through holes in its carcass. ‘Hello?’ She clicked on the torch and suddenly the world went white. Two unnatural green eyes flashed in the opaque mass and a low growl split the silence like a rusty knife. ‘Aw shite...’ The eyes came closer and she moved her free hand very slowly to the bulky utility belt at her waist, easing the tiny canister of pepper spray out of its pouch. ‘Nice doggy?’ A face full of that stuff would have anything rolling over and playing dead.

The thing that stalked out of the fog was a spaniel, but without any of the usual happy-go-lucky exuberance. The dog’s lips were curled back, exposing teeth like daggers, its muzzle smothered in gore. She pointed the canister at it, prayed, and sprayed. Suddenly the growling stopped. There was a moment of silence, then yelping exploded from the animal as it staggered around, trying to get away from the searing pain. WPC Buchan didn’t resist the urge to give the dog a good kick in the ribs as she picked her way past.

The sobbing was coming from behind the rotting bison. It was a woman — mid twenties from the look of her clothes — face, hands and knees sticky with plum-coloured blood. Silly cow wasn’t dead after all. It was just another stupid hoax call. WPC Buchan slipped the pepper spray back into its holster. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked. The woman didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead she extended a grubby, bloodstained hand and pointed to one of the sculpturally rotting bison. It lay slumped on the ground, as if it had been trying to get up when death came to call. WPC Buchan turned her torch on it, illuminating the statue in all its decomposing glory. There was something white sprawled alongside it, blending into the fog.

‘Oh fuck...’ Grabbing the radio off her shoulder, she called Control. They’d found the second body.

DI Steel turned up on Logan’s doorstep in a suit that looked almost new. She’d even threatened her hair with a brush: it hadn’t made much difference, but it was the thought that counted. ‘Mr Police Hero,’ she said, picking a fresh cigarette from an almost empty packet, not seeming to care that one was already smouldering away between her lined lips. ‘Got some good news for you! They’ve found another dead tart!’ Soon they were roaring out of Aberdeen on the Inverurie road, past the airport and up the hill to the Tyrebagger Woods. It wasn’t far, less than fifteen minutes from the centre of town the way the inspector drove.

Logan sat in the passenger seat of Steel’s little sports car, trying to stay calm as they hurtled through the rolling fog. ‘So tell me again how this is good news...’

‘Two dead prostitutes, both stripped naked and battered to death. This isn’t just a murder enquiry any more: we’ve got ourselves a bona fide serial killer!’

Logan risked a peek: a huge grin split the inspector’s face, a half-inch of cigarette butt making the car’s interior almost as foggy as the world outside. She winked at him. ‘Think about it, Laz: this is our ticket out of the Fuck-Up Factory! We’ve already got Jamie McKinnon in custody, all we need to do is tie him to both bodies and we’re laughing. No more crappy cases no one else wants, no more getting lumbered with every halfwit and reject in the force. You and me: back doing real police work!’ They almost missed the turning in the fog, a twisting ribbon of tarmac that snaked away into the shrouded forest. Steel followed it until the slow-motion blue strobe of a patrol car’s lights marked the entrance to the car park. She pulled up between the filthy hulk of the Identification Bureau’s Transit and a flashy Mercedes. That would be Isobel’s. Logan groaned. Just what he needed. All around them the forest was dense and silent, wrapped in a thick blanket of white. There wasn’t a breath of wind as DI Steel popped the boot, swapping her surprisingly clean shoes for a tatty old pair of Wellingtons. And then they headed up the path.

‘What do we know about the victim?’ asked Logan as the inspector wheezed up the hill beside him.

‘Bugger all.’ She stopped and lit the last fag in her packet from the smouldering remains of the one in her mouth, before flicking the tiny butt off into the mist. ‘Dispatch said, “naked and beaten”; I said, “mine!”’

‘Then how do you know she was a prostitute?’

‘Handbag full of condoms. No ID, but loads and loads of condoms. Could have been an erotic balloon modeller I suppose, but my money’s on tart.’

‘What if it’s not?’

‘What if it’s not what?’

‘A serial killer. What if this wasn’t McKinnon? What if it’s a copycat?’

DI Steel shrugged. ‘We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.’

The crime scene wasn’t hard to find, even in the smothering fog. The clack-flash-whine of the IB photographer’s camera lit up the area like sheathed lightning. An enthusiastic cordon of blue Police tape was wound between the trees and they ducked under it, making for the noise and lights. Suddenly, out of the mist, loomed the shapes of decaying animal carcasses. Off to one side, the Identification Bureau had abandoned the traditional SOC tent — it was too big to fit between the trees, so they’d rigged up a bivouac by draping the blue plastic sheeting over the branches and a web of POLICE tape.

Logan and Steel struggled into a set of white paper coveralls, complete with booties. The IB had erected a walkway of tea-tray-sized rectangles with short metal legs, which wound its way across the clearing towards a cluster of people, preventing the attending personnel from treading all over the crime scene. Steel and Logan clanged their way along it, three inches off the ground, making for the body. An IB photographer hovered on the periphery, camera flashing away as the Chief Pathologist peered and prodded at the remains of a young woman. The victim was lying on her side, one arm stretched up over her head, her legs like open scissors on the damp, black forest floor. As Logan watched, one of the Identification Bureau technicians asked Isobel if it was OK for him to bag the hands. She nodded and he wrapped clear evidence pouches over the bloodstained fingers, just in case there was any trace evidence under the victim’s nails. Logan was surprised to see they’d done the same thing to her head... and then he realized it was a large, blue freezer bag. That would be an original crime scene feature. Her whole body was covered with weals and bashes, but the skin was like porcelain, a thick line of dark purple marking low tide along the length of her body where the blood had pooled after death.