Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

DC Rennie cornered him as the briefing broke up and everyone headed off to their assigned positions. ‘I’ve got that bloke you were looking for.’ Logan obviously looked puzzled, because Rennie felt obliged to explain. ‘The one who’s patrolling the docks at the moment? You wanted me to track him down?’

‘Right, right. Where is he?’

‘Comes in at ten: PC Robert Taylor. Been doing tom patrol for about two years. I left a message with Control that you wanted to speak to him.’ Rennie smiled, as if he was waiting for a sweetie. Logan didn’t give him one.

‘What about the e-fit pictures?’

‘No one recognized the girl but a couple of CID thought the bloke might be called Duncan or Richard or something.’

Logan frowned. The Lithuanian girl had said her pimp was called Steve. ‘No last name?’

‘Nada.’

‘Shite.’

‘Aye.’

The operation started at nine pm on the dot, much to Logan’s surprise. He and the inspector were sat in a rusty old Vauxhall, just inside the gates at the bottom of Marischal Street leading out onto the docks at Regent Quay. They’d parked far enough back not to arouse suspicion if spotted from the street, but with a direct line of sight — through the high fence of grey, cast-iron spikes that enclosed the docks — all the way down Shore Lane, to where WPC Menzies was trolling for business. The inspector even had the good sense to keep one hand cupped over the end of her cigarette so the glowing orange tip wouldn’t give them away. One by one the other teams checked in, and last but not least, the bait. Or the Ugly Sisters as DI Steel insisted on calling them. Not surprisingly she’d named it ‘Operation Cinderella’. Logan was amazed she didn’t get punched on the nose more often.

‘Are you sure this is going to work?’ he asked as WPC Menzies finished complaining that the wind was whistlin’ right up her arse in this bloody short skirt.

‘No,’ said Steel, puffing away, the smoke oozing out through the car’s windows. ‘But it’s all we’ve got right now. If we don’t put a watch on the docks and some other poor tart goes missing we’ll be crucified. And anyway, it’s your bloody plan, so don’t start, OK?’

‘But what if someone goes missing while we’re here?’

Steel shuddered. ‘Don’t even fucking think about that!’

‘But all we’re doing is watching two WPCs done up as pros. What if one of the real tarts gets in our man’s car? How’re we going to know? He could be anybody!’

‘I know, I know.’ She pulled the last gasp from her cigarette and chucked the tiny glowing nub out the window. ‘It’s a shite plan, but what else can we do? Rosie Williams got herself killed Monday last, Michelle Wood got it on Friday. Four days.’ She counted them off on her fingers. ‘Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. That’s tonight. If he sticks to his pattern another one’s going missing today or tomorrow.’

‘If he hasn’t already got one and we just don’t know about it yet.’

Steel scowled at him. ‘Am I missing something, Sergeant? Are you making helpful suggestions here, or just bumping your bloody gums?’ Logan kept his mouth shut. ‘Aye,’ said the inspector, ‘thought as much.’ An uncomfortable silence.

Logan sat staring out at the street, thinking. ‘Had an interesting chat with Inspector Napier this morning,’ he said at last.

‘Oh aye?’ Suspicious.

‘Yeah. He said you have to come out of this case smelling of roses or I’m for the chop.’

‘“The chop?” That doesn’t sound like Napier. Thought he was more of a “De blood is de life, hah, hah, haaah!” kind of guy,’ she said in a dreadful Transylvanian accent.

‘Well he dressed it up in an allegorical story about a farmer, a fox and a chicken, but that was what he meant.’

‘Which one were you?’

‘The chicken.’

‘Nice.’ She was grinning.

‘How come you’ve got him looking out for you?’

The grin didn’t falter as the inspector dug out another cigarette and lit it. ‘Let’s just say that Napier and I have an understanding, and leave it at that.’ Of course Logan didn’t want to leave it at that, but Steel had no intention of telling him anything more, so they sat in silence again.

After what felt like hours, WPC Menzies’ voice crackled out of the speaker, ‘ Car comin’! ’ A set of headlights sparked at the far end of Shore Lane. Static and rustling from the radio, and Logan pulled out the night-vision goggles, struggling with the focus until he had a good, close-up view of the entrance to the one-way alley. WPC Menzies with her hands on her hips, chest out, leaned forward to peer in the driver-side window. ‘ Hey, darlin ’,’ she said suggestively, ‘ lookin’ for a good time? ’ Logan couldn’t get a good look at the man behind the wheel: Menzies had picked one of the few working streetlights to stand under, and the reflection bounced right off the windshield, hiding the driver’s face. Some muffled conversation, too distorted to make out — she seemed to have got the tiny microphone caught up in the lace of her bra and every time she moved it scratched against the pickup, overwhelming everything with a grating hiss. ‘ How about you an’ me... AYA BASTARD! ’ Steel sat bolt upright in her seat. The suspect’s car roared into life. Through the night-vision goggles Logan could see WPC Menzies clutching at her left breast. She bent down, disappearing from sight as DI Steel grabbed up the radio and shouted ‘Go-go-go!’ And then Menzies was back up again, hurling something at the departing car. A loud bang and the car screeched to a halt on the cobbles. The driver had his door open in a flash and was out, staring at the smashed rear windscreen. He was too busy storming back up the alley to notice the two unmarked CID pool cars skidding to a halt at each end of Shore Lane, blocking it off.

Logan could hear the man shouting at WPC Menzies, the words picked up loud and clear, even over the bra-crackling. ‘ You filthy bitch! ’ He drew back a fist, but Menzies didn’t give him time to use it. Instead she floored him with a single, roundhouse kick. She wasn’t on the division’s kick-boxing team for nothing. By the time Logan and Steel arrived he was cuffed, lying prostrate on the filthy cobbled street in a pool of darkness, screaming blue murder and demanding a lawyer while Menzies held him down.

‘Ah, Jesus... Stitch...’ The inspector, bent double from the effort of running the three hundred yards from where they’d parked the car, clutched at her side and grimaced. ‘Menzies,’ she asked through gritted teeth, ‘you OK?’

The WPC growled at the handcuffed, swearing figure. ‘Bastard grabbed my fucking nipple: nearly tore the damn thing off!’ She peeled down the top of her indomitable bra to show the inspector, but Steel told her it was OK, she had two of her own and didn’t need to see anyone else’s right now. As soon as there was any threat of WPC Menzies getting her breasts out, Logan made himself scarce, choosing to examine the man’s car instead. It was a dowdy MPV thing, lots of seats and boot-space, with a sticker saying ‘MUM’S TAXI’ in what was left of the back window. There was a lump of rust-crusted metal sitting in the middle of a dog’s bed, surrounded by tiny cubes of broken safety glass. Logan dug out his mobile phone and called Force Headquarters for a PNC check on the vehicle’s registration.

Somehow DI Steel thought a cigarette would help her get her breath back. Coughing and spluttering, she dragged Logan away from the car and told Menzies to get the suspect on his feet. In the darkness of the alley it was difficult to make out his face; the fact that he was filthy from being pinned to the alley floor didn’t help. ‘Name,’ demanded the inspector, taking the cigarette from her mouth so she could spit something dark and nasty out onto the cobbles.