Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

It was twenty past four before anyone else turned up, and by then Doc Wilson was long gone. The sun was already on its way, the sky a soft lemon stain wisped with grey, but Shore Lane remained shrouded in shadow.

The Identification Bureau’s filthy white Transit Van reversed up the alley from the dual carriageway, a lone IB technician in white SOC coveralls guiding it in. Both rear doors opened and the ritual fight with the crime scene tent began: wrestling metal poles and blue plastic sheeting up over Rosie Williams’s body. A generator roared into life, chugging blue smoke out into the early morning — diesel fumes fighting with the stench of rotting rat — setting a pair of arc lights crackling. The Procurator Fiscal appeared not long after, parking at the far end of the alley where it emptied out onto Regent Quay. She was an attractive blonde in her early forties, looking almost as tired as Logan felt, smelling faintly of smoke. A serious-looking younger woman trailed along behind her: all frizzy hair, wide eyes and clipboard. Logan brought them up to speed as they struggled into a matching set of white paper over suits, then had to go through the whole thing again when the pathologist turned up. Dr Isobel MacAlister: tired, irritable and more than happy to take it out on Logan. Nothing like an ex-girlfriend to take all the fun out of a crime scene. And there was still no sign of DI McPherson. Which meant Logan was still responsible if anything went wrong. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about. The only upside was that it wouldn’t be his problem for long: there was no way they’d leave him in charge of a murder enquiry. Not with his recent track record. Not after he’d almost got PC Maitland killed in a botched raid. No, this case would go to someone who wouldn’t screw it up. He checked his watch. Almost five. Still another two hours to go before his day shift was supposed to start and he’d already been at it for half the night.

With a tired sigh, Logan stepped from the cold light of dawn into the SOC tent. It was going to be a long day.

Grampian Police Force Headquarters was a seven-storey concrete-and-glass tower block in broad bands of black and grey, hidden down a small road off the east end of Union Street. Topped with a thorny crown of communications antennae and emergency sirens, FHQ wasn’t exactly Aberdeen’s crowning architectural achievement, but it was home.

Logan grabbed a cup of coffee from the machine and pilfered a bourbon biscuit from the media office. There was no sign of DI McPherson. Not in his office, not in his incident room, not in the canteen, nowhere. Logan tried the dispatch office, but they’d not heard from McPherson since he’d called in from the hospital at quarter to six that morning. Broken leg, fractured wrist and concussion. He’d fallen down two flights of stairs. Logan swore. ‘Why didn’t someone tell me? I’ve been waiting on him since half two this morning!’ But the dispatcher just shrugged. Wasn’t his job to act as a secretary. If Logan was looking for someone to hand the case over to, DI Insch was probably the best bet. Even if he did have that arson attack to look after.

DI Insch’s morning briefing was a sombre affair. The inspector perched at the front of the room, dressed in a smart grey suit, his considerable bulk straining its seams. The man just seemed to get larger every year, his round features and shiny bald head making him look like an angry pink egg. There was silence as he told the crowded room that PC Maitland’s condition hadn’t improved — they’d managed to remove the bullet, but he still hadn’t regained consciousness. There was going to be a whip-round for the family.

Next up was a spate of drug-related violence. Some new pushers had moved in, kicking off a mini turf war. Nothing fatal yet, but it was likely to get worse.

Then Logan had to give a five-minute rundown on Rosie Williams’s battered body before Insch took over again to talk about the previous night’s fire, his voice booming out in the crowded incident room. It had started in one of the older buildings off Kettlebray Crescent: a run-down, boarded-up street of council housing deemed too scabby for human habitation. Number fourteen had been used as a squat for the last couple of months, three men, two women and a nine-month-old baby girl, all of whom had been at home on the night of the fire. Which explained the unmistakable burnt-pork smell when the fire brigade finally managed to break down the door. There were no survivors.

The inspector shifted, making the desk groan as he ferreted about in his trouser pockets. ‘I want one team going door-to-door two streets either side of the scene: anything you can get on the squatters, particularly names. I want to know who they were. Team two is going to pick through the surrounding buildings, gardens and waste ground. You,’ he said in a merry sing-song, children’s-television voice, ‘are looking for clues . Who was the chef at last night’s indoor barbecue? Get me something.’

As the teams filed out of the room, Logan stayed put, trying not to look as tired and hacked-off as he felt.

‘Well,’ said Insch when the room was emptied, ‘what time you off to see Dracula?’

Logan sagged even further into his chair. ‘Half eleven.’

Insch swore and shifted his attention to his jacket pockets. ‘What kind of a bloody time is that? Why couldn’t he drag you in at seven if he was going to chew a strip out your arse? Waste of a bloody morning...’ A grunt of satisfaction as he finally found what he was looking for: a packet of fizzy dinosaurs. He stuffed one in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘He tell you to bring a Federation rep with you?’

Logan shook his head.

‘Well, probably not going to sack you then.’ He levered his bulk down from the desk. ‘If you’ve not got the Spanish Inquisition till half eleven, you can go pay your last respects to Rosie Williams. Post mortem’s at eight. I’ve got to do a press conference on this bloody fire. With bastard McPherson off on the sick, again , I’ve got more than enough on my plate without watching the Ice Queen hack up some murdered tart as well. I’m sure you can hold the fort without me. Go on.’ He made little shooing gestures. ‘You’re making the place look untidy.’

Rosie was already washed by the time Logan slumped his way out across the rear car park and down the stairs to the morgue. It was a collection of odd-sized rooms, buried away in the basement of FHQ, not quite part of the building proper. The cutting room was spacious: clean white tiles and stainless steel tables sparkling in the overhead lighting, disinfectant and room freshener fighting a losing battle against the reek of burnt meat. A row of six trolleys sat against the far wall, their occupants sealed in white plastic body-bags. Locking in the freshness.

Logan was only five minutes early, but he was still the only living person there. He let loose a huge yawn and tried to stretch the knots out of his shoulders. No sleep, followed by six hours in a cold, stinking alleyway was beginning to take its toll. Grunting, he slouched over to Rosie’s naked body. She lay on one of the glittering cutting tables, beneath the massive extractor hood, ready to give her all one last time. Rosie’s skin was even paler than it had been in the alley. Her blood had succumbed to gravity’s embrace, slipping slowly through the tissue to pool along her back and the underside of her arms and legs, making her porcelain flesh dark purple and bruised where it touched the table. Poor old Rosie. Her death hadn’t even merited front-page treatment, just a sidebar in this morning’s Press and Journal . ‘SIX MURDERED IN ARSON ATTACK!’ was the main story.

There was a strange protrusion bumping the skin over her ribcage and Logan was leaning in for a closer look when the door burst open and the pathologist swept in.