Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

The sky was a dirty dove-grey as Logan stepped out of the front door. The white and orange of the patrol car had attracted the same audience as last time: a trio of small children, all watching the policemen with awe. It must be just like having the telly come to life, right outside your house. Who knew what sort of exciting things you could see...

Logan crossed the road and walked up the steps to the little cluster of kids, dropping down on his haunches so he wouldn’t tower over them. Two little boys, four or fiveish with snotty noses, wide blue eyes and bowl haircuts, and a little girl in a stroller. She couldn’t have been more than two and a bit: frizzy blonde hair done up in pigtails, teddy bear clutched in one hand, sucking her thumb and looking up at Logan like he was a hundred feet tall. ‘Hello,’ he said, in his best nonthreatening voice, ‘my name’s Logan. I’m a policeman.’ He pulled out his warrant card and let one of the bowl haircuts handle it with grubby fingers. ‘Were you here earlier?’

The little girl pulled her thumb out, a long trail of spittle stretching from lips to finger before falling onto teddy’s nose. ‘Man.’

‘Did you see a man?’

She pointed a dribble-covered finger at him. ‘Man.’ Then held the bear up, so he could see that she’d chewed most of the fur off one ear, and said ‘Man’ again. Logan’s smile began to falter. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

DI Insch sat behind the wheel of his filthy Range Rover, peering out through the windscreen as the first flecks of moisture gave way to a steady downpour. ‘So much for a sodding barbecue tonight,’ he said as Logan leapt into the passenger seat and out of the rain. ‘How’d you get on with the Grampian Police Fan Club?’

Logan sighed and tried to wipe sticky fingerprints off his warrant card. ‘Tom’s doggy did “big ones” in daddy’s slippers last night and had to sleep in the toilet. Other than that: bugger all.’ He glanced up at the building and saw Mrs Kennedy’s scared face staring down from the kitchen window. Probably terrified he was going to tell the inspector her dirty little secret. He turned to see the three children staring at him as well.

‘Do you think it’s odd the same kids are always hanging around?’

Now it was Insch’s turn to stare at him. ‘Ever occur to you that they might actually live here?’

‘OK, point taken.’ Logan pulled on his seatbelt. ‘So how come you dragged me over here to see this?’ he asked as the inspector did a three-point turn on Union Grove and headed back towards the Holburn Street junction. ‘Come to that: what are you doing here? Breaking and entering not a job for uniform?’

Insch shrugged and told Logan to look in the glove compartment, which revealed an old packet of sherbet lemons, the yellow lozenges gluey from sitting in the car for God knew how long. The inspector clutched the bag to the steering wheel with one hand while he dug about in the sticky packet with the other, eventually emerging with a lump of three or four, all welded together. He stuffed them in his mouth and sucked his fingers clean, before offering the bag to Logan, who politely declined. ‘I suppose,’ said Insch around a mouthful of boiled sweets as he forced his way into the stream of traffic, ‘I was thinking there might be a connection — you know, with her grandson dying in the fire. And we’ve still got bugger all to go on with Karl Pearson. Someone tortures the hell out of the ugly wee toe-rag and all we can do is cart him off to the morgue and carve him up some more.’ He sighed and Logan got the distinct impression that once again Grampian Police’s left hand didn’t know if the right one was scratching its elbow or picking its arse.

‘Did DI Steel not tell you about Brendan “Chib” Sutherland?’

Insch said that no, she hadn’t, so Logan filled him in on the way back to the station, including Colin Miller’s promise to find an address for the Edinburgh hoodlum.

‘How come we’ve got to rely on that Weegie shitebag? No, on second thoughts, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. But when you get that address, you tell me. I’m not leaving that daft old cow...’ He threw a swift glance at Logan and harrumphed. ‘I mean, DI Steel has enough on her plate right now. I wouldn’t want her to be distracted going after something that wasn’t directly related to her investigation.’

Logan grinned and kept his mouth shut.

That night’s stakeout operation was nearly cancelled. The rain had steadily built in tempo until it was chucking it down, bouncing off the pavements and swallowing the gutters. Faint light flickered overhead, followed by a pause: one, two, three, four — thunder boomed out across the blackened skies. ‘Four miles away,’ said the inspector, settling back in her seat with one of Councillor Marshall’s specialist insertion magazines.

Logan shook his head. ‘It’s less than a mile. Sound travels at seven hundred and fifty miles an hour, so that means...’ he trailed off into silence. Steel was glowering at him.

‘Four miles away!’ she said again and went back to looking at the dirty pictures by the light of the glove compartment. Occasionally saying things like, ‘Jesus, that’s not natural!’ and, ‘Ouch!’ and once or twice, ‘Hmmm...’ Logan scrunched down in the driver’s seat and peered out through the windscreen. WPC Menzies was swearing and grumbling down at the other end of Shore Lane, shifting from one stiletto-heeled foot to the other, trying to keep warm. In the interests of health and safety, she was wearing a long fur coat from the lost-and-found store over her whore outfit tonight. Clutching an umbrella.

Her voice crackled through the radio. ‘ This is ridiculous! Nae bastard’s going tae come oot here in this pishin’ weather! ’ Sounds of agreement immediately came through from WPC Davidson: it was nearly midnight and they’d not had a single bite. This was a waste of everyone’s time. Logan had to agree they had a point. But the inspector was not for turning, they’d been given sanction to keep this going for five nights and she was damned if they were giving up before then. In the end everyone settled back into unhappy perseverance. Steel snored, WPCs Menzies and Davidson whinged and moaned, Logan brooded. This was such a stupid idea — twenty-six police men and women, sitting in the dark, waiting for some sicko to abduct an unattractive WPC wouldn’t prove anything. He might as well strip down to his underpants and run around the docks in the rain for all the good it would do.

DI Steel had settled into a steady buzz-saw-in-a-washing-machine drone, one of Councillor Marshall’s dirty magazines open in her lap, spot-lit by the open glove compartment, exposing something Logan did not want to see. He leaned over the inspector and snapped the glove compartment shut.

‘Umn, scrrrrrrnch, emph?’ Steel cracked open an eye and peered blearily at him leaning across her. ‘Dirty wee shite. I’m no’ fuckin’...’ She drifted to a halt and yawned, the motion ending with a small burp. ‘What time is it?’

‘Half twelve,’ said Logan, rolling the window down, letting some fresh air into the car, bringing the steady roar of torrential rain with it. Steel gave another yawn, stretching and groaning in the passenger seat as Logan finally decided to take the plunge: ‘Why don’t you want Councillor Marshall prosecuted?’

‘Hmm?’ She peeled the plastic wrapper off a pack of twenty cigarettes, throwing it over her shoulder into the rubbish-tip back seat. ‘’Cos you can catch more flies with shite than vinegar. You look out there,’ she said, setting a lighter to the end of her cigarette, ‘and you see guilty or not guilty, yeah? Black or white. Well sometimes it’s no’ that clear cut—’