Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

‘I kept meaning to go see him, but...’ Sigh. ‘You know what it’s like — something always came up.’ He scrubbed his tired face with tired hands, the latex gloves making squeaking noises on his skin. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t go to see him, even once.’

Insch laid a huge hand on Logan’s shoulder. ‘No point beating yourself up about it now. What’s done is done. He’s dead and you have to think about your career. You’re a good copper, Logan. Don’t let the bastards guilt-trip you into throwing it all away over this.’

PC Steve drove him back to Force Headquarters, trying to cover the uncomfortable silence with small talk. Logan clicked the radio on, but Steve didn’t take the hint, just went on and on about the weather and the last film he’d seen and wasn’t it great all the women were out in these skimpy tops? Something bland and poppy juddered to a halt, the song followed by a Northsound DJ Logan didn’t recognize, then a couple more songs, and then it was the news. ‘Dozens of Kingswells residents stormed the council chambers today, interrupting business in protest against the decision to grant McLennan Homes planning permission for three hundred new houses... ’

‘Bloody criminal, isn’t it?’ said PC Steve, abandoning his current topic: the alleged extra-curricular activities of Detective Sergeant Beattie’s wife. ‘They should all be shot, that planning department. My dad tried for planning permission for a single house, yeah? Just the one — and they turn him down. But up pops this McLennan Homes lot, wanting to put three hundred of the bastards on greenbelt and it’s all: “Yes sir, Mr McLennan sir, and can I polish your knob for you while you wait?” Makes you sick.’ Logan didn’t tell Steve his dad would have a much better chance of building his house if he took photos of the Chief Greenbelt Development Planner with his dick in a fourteen-year-old girl.

The next piece was on a new dress shop in Inverurie winning some sort of big fashion thing — PC Steve had nothing to add to that one — and then it was on to the main news story of the day: fatal fire kills four! But it was the last piece before the weather that made Logan’s heart sink. ‘ Today colleagues and friends paid tribute to Constable Trevor Maitland, the officer tragically shot during an operation to recover stolen property earlier this month .’ The announcer’s voice was replaced by a tearful woman telling the world how her Trevor was a wonderful husband and father. Then someone else saying, ‘ Unlike a lot o’ folk, Trev niver wanted ta be CID. Could’a done the job no bother, but he wanted ta stay in uniform, oot on the streets, like, helping people. That wis Trev all over .’ And finally, the voice of doom — at least as far as Grampian Police were concerned — Councillor Andrew I’m-A-Dirty-Dirty-Bastard Marshall. ‘ It is important at a time like this to remember all the good that Officer Maitland and his colleagues do every day on the streets of Aberdeen. I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say that we are all thinking of his family during this difficult time .’ And that was it. No accusations of incompetence or any of his usual anti-police rants. If Logan had been driving he would’ve crashed the car in shock.

‘Bloody hell,’ said PC Steve, staring aghast at the radio. ‘Did Councillor Slug-Face just say what I think he said? Did he just miss a chance to rub our noses in the shi—’

‘Watch where you’re going!’ Logan grabbed onto the dashboard as PC Steve slammed his foot on the brake and swerved back into his own lane.

It was a little after one when Steve dropped him off at FHQ — he still had time to get something to eat in the canteen before the afternoon collapsed in on him like a ton of bricks. He’d got as far as punching the first two digits of the entry code into the keypad that opened the internal door, when Sergeant Eric Mitchell appeared behind the big glass barrier that topped the reception desk, and called out, ‘Sergeant! Sergeant McRae, can you assist?’ Logan turned to see what was up, his heart sinking as he saw who was sitting in one of the nasty purple chairs set against the far wall: expensive suit, slim briefcase, a pair of half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and a superior expression on his face: Sandy Moir-Farquharson, AKA Sandy the Snake, AKA Hissing Sid, AKA Anything Else Derogatory They Could Think Of At The Time. This was all Logan needed; a perfect way to crown off the whole bloody month. Hell, the whole year. Sandy Moir-Farquharson: the nasty little shite who’d defended Angus Robertson, the Mastrick Monster. Who’d tried to convince the world that Robertson was the real victim here, rather than the fifteen women he’d raped and murdered. That it was Grampian Police in general, and Logan in particular, who were to blame. And he’d nearly succeeded.

Moir-Farquharson was halfway out of his chair before Eric pointed to the other bank of seats, the ones by the front window. An attractive woman sat snivelling beneath the plaque commemorating the force’s dead from World Wars I and II, wringing a handkerchief like she was trying to strangle the thing. Sandy the Snake got as far as, ‘I was here first,’ before Logan showed the woman into a small room off the reception area, closing the door in the lawyer’s face. She was pretty, even with the puffy eyes: long bleached-blonde hair, slightly upturned nose — with a drip hanging from the end of it — full lips concealing a slight overbite, and a figure that would have had DC Rennie dribbling. ‘Now, Miss...?’

‘Mrs. Mrs Cruickshank. It’s my husband Gavin, he’s not been home since Wednesday morning!’ She bit her lower lip, the tears welling up in her bloodshot green eyes. ‘I don’t... I don’t know what to do!’

‘Have you reported him missing?’

She nodded, handkerchief clasped over her scarlet nose, shuddering for breath. ‘They... they told me they couldn’t do anything !’ Mrs Cruickshank buried her head in her hands and cried and cried and cried. Logan gave her a couple of minutes to see if she’d pull herself together, before offering to fetch her a cup of tea and excusing himself, feeling like a shit for running out on her. As soon as Logan stepped out into the reception area, Sandy the Snake was on his feet again, this time making it all the way to, ‘DS McRae, I must insist that—’ Logan dismissed him with a gesture and asked Eric to see if he could dig out the missing person report on a Mr Gavin Cruickshank. And a cup of tea for Mrs Cruickshank as well. He turned from the reception desk to find Hissing Sid standing directly in front of him. At six foot two the lawyer was just tall enough to look down his squint nose at Logan. ‘I am here about my client, Mr James McKinnon. Sergeant , I insist that you allow me access!’

Arrogant fuck. Logan glowered up at the man, getting angrier by the second. Who the hell did he think he was, coming in here and throwing his bloody weight around? ‘You insist all you want: I am currently busy with a distraught member of the public. You want access to your client? Try the hospital — visiting hours are two thirty to five.’ He pushed past Mr Moir-Farquharson and started back towards the interview room. A firm hand grabbed his shoulder.

‘I insist you—’

Logan didn’t look round, scared that if he did he’d end up smacking the bastard. ‘Get your damn hand off me, before I break your bloody fingers.’ His voice low and clear, the words squeezed out between gritted teeth. Just begging for an excuse to vent some of the shite that had filled his every day for the last six months on this smarmy, stuck-up, sleazy lawyer bastard . Moir-Farquharson flinched back as if burnt, snatching his hand away.