Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

Miller sighed. ‘You know the bloody answer to that.’ He glanced back at the bulky, grey P&J building as it slowly disappeared from sight. ‘Everythin’s fucked.’ He shook his head. ‘I was on tae a nice wee gig here, know what I mean? All the front page stories I wanted, nice car, good woman...’ He trailed off as he remembered he was talking to Isobel’s ex-lover. ‘Aye, well... you know. Now these fuckers are screwin’ it all up.’

‘I saw your piece on McLennan Homes.’

‘Piece of shite, that was. Can you believe I had tae beg tae get that on the front page?’ He gave a bitter smile. ‘Everyone thinks I’ve lost it, Laz.’

‘What they do, threaten you?’

Miller looked up at him, brow furrowed. ‘What, Malkie’s lads? Oh, just your basic how hard would it be to type with no fingers? Tellin’ me whit a lovely home I have and how pretty Isobel is, what a shame it’d be if somethin’ happened to her face... So I published, and now I’m damned: stuck doin’ shitey wee pieces on fairs and bloody bake sales.’

‘If it makes you feel any better, last night they broke a guy’s fingers in hospital. Smacked him around a bit. Probably forced him to hide a couple of condoms of coke up his arse. So he probably had a worse day than you.’ Miller almost smiled; it was the first time in ages Logan had seen him without a scowl on his face. ‘Look, you need these guys to go away — I can do that if you help me. I’ll keep you out of it. I just need to know who they are, where they’re staying, anything you’ve got.’

They walked along in silence for a while, heading back towards the newspaper building. Up above, the pure blue of the sky was beginning to fade, a long, low purple band of cloud coming in off the sea. ‘Brendan Sutherland,’ said Miller at last, ‘known as “Chib” to his pals, on account of him stabbin’ folk, like.’

‘“Chib”? What is he, west-coast mafia?’

Miller laughed, short and sharp. ‘Naw, he’s a wannabe Weegie. An Edinburgh tosspot with delusions of grandeur. Only trouble is, as you know, he’s a fuckin’ huge tosspot. When he turned up first time, I did me some diggin’. Wee shite’s got himself a big reputation. Doesn’t play in the shallow end of the cesspit. Malk the Knife likes tae keep Chib for breakin’ in new territories. Fixin’ stuff. Gettin’ rid of people Malkie doesn’t want anyone to find.’

Logan wasn’t surprised Miller had been bricking it in the pub the other morning. ‘What about the other one, his driver?’

Miller shook his head. ‘No idea. Soon as I saw Chib’s résumé I stopped askin’ questions. Someone slaps my knob in a blender, I’m no’ playin’ with the buttons.’

‘Does Isobel know?’

The reporter blushed. ‘I... er... You’re no’ to tell her, OK? I don’t want her upset. No’ now.’

‘If this Chib bloke’s threatening both of you, she’s got a right to know!’

‘You don’t fuckin’ tell her! Promise me! I’ll sort it out.’

‘How? How the hell can you sort this out? If Chib’s here to carve up Aberdeen for Malk the Knife, he’s not leaving any time soon!’

A crafty light glimmered in Miller’s eye. ‘Unless something happens to him...’

‘Don’t even start. What you going to do? Hit him over the head and bury the body in your back garden?’

Miller grinned. ‘I’ve got a mate with a pig farm up by Fyvie. They’d love a bite of prime Edinburgh bampot...’ He thought about it for a minute then shrugged. ‘Give us a day. I’ll get you an address. But for Christ’s sake don’t let him find out where you got it, OK?’

‘OK.’ They walked back to the P&J offices, Miller promising to phone as soon as he found out anything. And while they were on the subject, Logan asked for a little favour. ‘I want you to lay off DI Steel.’

‘Bollocks to that. I’m no’ taking shite like that from a manky wee bitch—’

‘If you screw her over in the paper, Professional Standards will have my arse. I don’t know why, but they’ve got a thing for her. She goes down, I do too. And if I go down, I can’t help you.’

Miller swore. ‘OK, OK: hands off the saggyfaced old cow. I get it. I don’t shaft her and you don’t tell Isobel about these Edinburgh bastards. Deal?’ They shook on it, then the reporter shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking as if he was gearing himself up for something. ‘Er... Laz, you know I’m stuck doin’ this shitey bake-sale crap? Well, any chance of... you know... You got anything I can use? Somethin’ about them dead prostitutes, like? Or anything else? I’m fuckin’ dyin’ here!’

Logan was about to say he’d see what he could do when his phone rang. It was Steel; telling him to get over to the hospital. Jamie McKinnon had just failed his rectal exam.

Aberdeen Royal Infirmary wasn’t far, just over the lights at Anderson Drive and down the hill a bit, so Logan made his excuses and walked. By the time he got there the thin band of cloud had grown until it covered half the sky, battleship grey and ominous purple. He ducked into the hospital’s lobby as the first tentative specks of rain stuttered against the automatic doors.

The ARI front lobby was an open-plan space with pictures and comfortable seating that always made his skin crawl. He hurried across the infirmary’s coat of arms and made his way to Jamie McKinnon’s ward. Only Jamie wasn’t there any more. A knackered nurse in a bloodstained uniform told Logan he’d been moved to a private room on the third floor. It didn’t take him long to find it.

DI Steel was already there, along with a tall bloke from the Drugs Squad. Logan was introduced and got as far as shaking the man’s hand before remembering where it had just been. It was a huge hand, engulfing Logan’s own, and he had a sudden pang of sympathy for Jamie McKinnon — who was now lying curled up on the bed like a spanked child, face to the wall. That must have hurt! Councillor Marshall would have been delighted.

‘Go on,’ said Steel to her large friend. ‘Show him what you found.’

The man gave a cold smile and held up a stainless steel kidney dish with two slimy, lumpy packages in it, each one no more than four inches long, looking like a pair of small mealie puddings. ‘Rough guess, I’d say you’re looking at about a quarter-kilo of crack,’ he said. ‘No way this much cocaine is for personal use: this is for dealing. Don’t see that much of it up here. Your boy must be looking to start a trend.’

Steel sank down on the bed, next to Jamie’s foetal form, patting him on the thigh. ‘So, Jamie, you want to tell us all about your mates from down south now, or shall I just go ahead and add “possession with intent to supply” to your list of charges?’ But Jamie had had enough of the long arm of the law for one day. He kept his face to the wall, curled up in a ball, silent.

Half past four. Ailsa Cruickshank picked up the phone and called Gavin’s office. It was Norman who answered, far too young to be an account manager and a terrible flirt. Blushing, Ailsa asked him if she could talk to her husband. There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the phone, as if Norman was thinking about something. And then, ‘ Ailsa, what does a fine, hot babe like you want to be speaking to an old fart like that for? ’

‘I need him to pick up some things for tea,’ she said, embarrassed and thrilled to be called a ‘hot babe’.

‘ Hold on a minute, OK, sexy? ’ There was muffled conversation at the other end. ‘ Sorry, Ailsa, my kitten, I’m afraid the old stinker’s out with a customer. Probably won’t be back till late. Sorry, love, you know how it goes here: customer comes first and all that. But if you’re lonely, I could always come over and keep you warm? ’ Smiling, she told him it was OK and hung up. Norman was simply dreadful! Full of compliments and naughty suggestions, just like Gavin had been, before all the tests had taken the spark out of things. Four years of trying for children. Four years of medical evaluations and ovulation cycles... Anyway, it didn’t matter. Things would be back to normal soon. Life had a way of working things out. It always did.