Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

Logan smiled. ‘Just a quick question, Councillor: does the name “Kylie” mean anything to you?’ There was silence on the other end of the phone. ‘No? Young Lithuanian prostitute, claims to have been sexually intimate with you and a friend of yours last month. At the same time.’

A bit of stammering, and then, ‘ Sexually intimate? ’

‘Well, the exact term she used was “spit roast”. I believe you took the back end?’

‘I... I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘We’ve got her in custody: she identified your picture. Did you know she was only fourteen?’

‘ Oh God... ’ There was a long pause. ‘ What do you want? Money? That’s it isn’t it — it’s what you people always want! Why can’t you all just leave me alone? ’

Logan smiled. He’d always suspected DI Steel was on the take. ‘So someone’s already blackmailing you for having anal sex with a fourteen-year-old girl?’

‘ Oh God this is a nightmare... I never knew she was fourteen till he told me afterwards! I swear! I wouldn’t have touched her if I’d known! ’ He was starting to panic.

The smile froze on Logan’s face. ‘Till he told you? Who’s he ?’

‘ It... I... I don’t know his name. I just got a letter and a photo of me... of the three of us... together. I didn’t know she was fourteen! ’ He was getting louder and louder, and Logan wondered if Marshall had been bright enough to close his office door, otherwise the whole council would know about his little ‘indiscretion’ by lunchtime.

‘I want your friend’s name, Councillor, the one on the other end of your underaged rotisserie.’

A pause, then another gulp. ‘ He... You’re going to blackmail him as well, aren’t you? ’

‘I want his name.’

It was John Nicholas, the council’s Chief Greenbelt Development Planner. Feeling pretty pleased with himself, Logan hung up. An underaged Lithuanian prostitute up from Edinburgh has sex with the guy responsible for deciding what can and can’t be built outside the city, photos are taken, threats are made, and all of a sudden Malk the Knife’s property development company has permission to put up a stack of new homes on greenbelt? If it was a coincidence it was a bloody unlikely one. And as Brendan ‘Chib’ Sutherland was Malkie’s fixer, he was probably responsible for McLennan Homes’ sudden turn of good luck. Something else to ask him about, presuming Colin Miller ever managed to dig up an address.

It didn’t take long for the news of PC Maitland’s death to get out — the first call from the media came at nine on the dot, putting an end to Logan’s good mood. The press office issued a statement that was much the same as Napier’s: PC Maitland was a fine officer and would be missed by his colleagues, blah, blah, blah. By the time PC Steve stuck his head around the incident-room door and asked if Logan had a minute, almost every news organization in the country had been on the phone.

‘Been another fire,’ said PC Steve, holding up a copy of the P&J.

‘I know, Napier showed me this morning.’

PC Steve raised an eyebrow. ‘You seen Dracula? How come...’ and then he ground to a halt as he remembered. Maitland’s death was all over the station. Coming into work this morning had been like walking into a silent movie; all conversation stopped as soon as Logan entered a room. ‘Aye, well,’ said the constable, blushing slightly. ‘Inspector Insch wants you to join him up at the scene. Says you’re to come do your morbid bit.’

Logan didn’t bother clearing it with Steel first.

The scene of the fire wasn’t hard to spot amongst the restrained bucolic splendour of Inchgarth Road. The rain had drifted away, leaving the trees and bushes a verdant green, glowing in the warm, golden light of a hazy sun. Down here, the city fought an awkward battle with the countryside, allotments and farmland mingling with council housing estates and expensive private homes. Gritty, soot-coloured dirt made a slick across the road surface, clogging the drain and leaving a shallow lake on the tarmac. What was left of the house hulked at the end of a short gravel drive, one end wall caved in, spilling bricks and mortar across the debris. A dirty white Transit Van was parked next to a scorched rose bush, along with a grimy police pod, people in white paper boiler suits drifting back and forth, taking samples and photographs. It was cramped in the pod, but there was just enough room for Logan and Steve to change into their scene-of-crime outfits while someone boiled the kettle for a brunch Pot Noodle. And then it was back out into the garden.

The firemen had battered the front door down, which can’t have been an easy task: the frame was peppered with three-inch wood screws, just like last time. That was all they needed, another serial nut job. The part-glazed door lay on its back in the middle of the hall, half buried under a pile of broken roof tiles and charcoaled timbers.

Inside, the upper floor was gone, just the occasional beam marking the level where a whole family had died. The remaining walls were blackened and scorched. Rubble filled the corridor along with the twisted remains of the staircase.

Insch was in what would have been the lounge, dressed in a straining white paper over suit, balancing on top of a mound of rubble while a man in grimy overalls and a fire brigade hard hat poked about with a long pole. Teetering over fallen bricks and lumps of charred wood, Logan joined the inspector. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

‘Did I?’ Insch frowned. ‘Oh, yes. Family of four: mother, father and two little girls. Fire investigators say petrol was poured in through the letterbox, followed by petrol bombs through the windows. Sound familiar? Whoever did it made four hoax calls from a stolen mobile phone, every one of them on the other side of the city. By the time the fire brigade got here it was all they could do to stop it spreading next door.’ He shook his head and picked his way down the mound of debris to the blasted remains of the front window. ‘Poor bastards didn’t have a chance. I was beginning to think the last fire — the squat — was drugs-related, but this feels more... I don’t know, personal, if that makes sense.’ He sighed and ran a hand across his round, red features. ‘I can’t get it to match up. That’s why I want you to take a look: fresh pair of eyes.’

Logan nodded. ‘They found the bodies?’

‘Bits of them... Seems the girls’ bedroom was above the kitchen. When the roof caved in, the whole lot collapsed. Best guess the mother and father were in there with them. We won’t know till we get the room emptied.’

Logan picked his way through the remains of the house, moving from room to room, taking in the devastation. There wasn’t much left he could recognize, everything had burnt or melted, the only thing even vaguely intact was the battered front door, still lying where it had fallen, the paintwork blistered and peeling, the glass panes cracked and nearly opaque with soot. He stood staring down at it — the only thing to survive a fire that claimed four lives. There was a little brass plaque on the door, just above the letterbox, and he squatted down, brushing away the dirt and debris until he could read it: ANDREW, WENDY, JOANNA & MOLLY LAWSON. The only thing missing was REST IN PEACE. He was just turning to leave, when he thought he saw something through the door’s fire-damaged glass. Heart hammering in his ears, he wrapped his hands round the edge of the door and pulled, the wood creaking and groaning as it came free of the debris, sending roof tiles clattering to the brick-strewn floor. Underneath, part buried in bits of ceiling, was a burnt human face, features gone, ochre teeth the only really identifiable feature, the skull flattened on one side by a chunk of fallen masonry. Logan’s hung-over stomach lurched.