Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

‘Wednesday afternoon: why did you tell her Gavin was out with a client?’

‘Hmm? Oh,’ cos he was.’

‘Funny. Everyone else says he didn’t turn up for work that day.’

Pause. Fidget. And then the smile was back. ‘You got me, it’s a fair cop. He didn’t show up Wednesday morning.’

‘So why did you lie to her?’

‘Well, you see, it’s kinda like this: sometimes he doesn’t come in till later. Sometimes he doesn’t come into the office at all. Gav brings in a lot of business, so he can get away with murder round here.’

‘So how did you know he was with a client? Did you speak to him?’

‘Not as such, no. But he sent me a text message.’

‘When was this?’

‘Dunno, mid morning I think. Said he wouldn’t be in till later, didn’t say when.’

‘So you assumed he was with a client?’

‘Ah...’ The smile flickered on and off as he settled into the chair behind the messy desk and switched on one of the computers. ‘Not really, no. You see, Gav is what we call a “cheating bastard”. Here...’ He dug about in the piles of paper, coming out with a glossy photograph of a topless Gavin Cruickshank, surrounded by a gaggle of T-shirt-stretching blondes and brunettes bearing the legend HOOTERS. One of them was squeezing his tanned chest, her hand almost covering a black tattoo. They had Hooters emblazoned on their chests; he had AILSA on his. ‘Got that taken when we was in Houston for the last offshore technology conference. He knobbed three of them in four days. Not that his poor bloody wife has any idea. She still thinks he’s Mister Shiny.’ He shook his head. ‘Unbe-fucking-lievable isn’t it? I mean if you could go home and screw someone like Ailsa, why the hell would you need anyone else? But there you are: he’s an arsehole.’

‘So when he sent you a text saying he wouldn’t be in until later, you thought...’

‘That he was off getting his knob sucked by some lovely young thing? Yeah. Wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘Any idea who?’

‘Well, you met Janet on reception? He’s been poking her off and on for a bit. I think he’s been giving one of your lot’s wife a good seeing to. Detective Sergeant something or other. And he’s been seeing this pole-dancer at Secret Service, you know, the titty bar on Windmill Brae? Hayley...’ An envious grin. ‘’Cording to him she does some of the filthiest things with a carrot you ever seen! Criminal. Hey, maybe she’s got a pimp or something and he’s done for Gav? Or maybe they’ve just run off together. Silly bastard’s talked about it often enough...’ And the grin became a leer. ‘I could console his poor, sexy, abandoned wife! Give her a shoulder to cry on and a knob to bounce on. Jesus, that would be sweet.’

Back outside in the sunshine Logan stood in the car park, looking up at the building Mr Gavin Cruickshank ran his empire of extramarital sex from. Four women — how did he have the energy? Logan had enough trouble with one.

Logan’s phone started ringing pretty much the moment he switched it back on — a harsh cacophony of bings, squeaks and whistles that made his stomach clench. But it was only Colin Miller; the reporter had managed to track down an address for Brendan ‘Chib’ Sutherland. According to Miller’s sources, Chib and his mate with the long hair and ‘tache were staying in an exclusive little development on the western edge of Mannofield. Logan got the feeling there was something else, something the reporter wasn’t telling him, but no amount of prompting, cajoling or questioning would get him to spill the beans. So in the end Logan just had to thank Miller for the info. Whatever it was, he’d probably find out soon enough. ‘ So, Laz... you got anythin’ for me? You know, quid pro quo, like? ’ Logan thought about it. DI Steel wanted to let Councillor Marshall get away with abusing a fourteen-year-old, wanted everyone to look the other way, had told him in no uncertain terms to keep his nose out of it? No problem, he’d let the Press and Journal do it for him. So Logan told Miller all about Councillor Marshall, the Chief Greenbelt Development Planner, and the fourteen-year-old Lithuanian prostitute. Miller nearly exploded with delight. ‘ Holy shit, that’s fantastic! Talk about caught with your pants down !’ Pause. ‘ You sure can use this? ’ Logan told him to go ahead and knock himself out, then hung up. It was the first time in ages he’d actually agot some job satisfaction.

Logan turned the car back towards FHQ — he’d managed to spend a whole four and a quarter hours away from the office, but like it or not, he’d have to go back in to do something about Chib and his greasy-looking mate.

Sergeant Mitchell was having a sly fag on the back podium as Logan slid the pool car into one of the vacant parking spots. ‘What the hell you doing back here?’ he shouted, not bothering to take the cigarette from his mouth. ‘Thought I told you to make yourself scarce?’

‘I take it Napier’s been looking for me.’

‘Surprisingly enough, no.’ He oozed smoke out through his nose, where it became entangled in the hairs of his moustache, leaving it smouldering. ‘The lovely Count Nosferatu has been away with the Chief Constable all day, on what is being politely referred to as “a jolly”.’ Logan nodded gloomily. It just meant the bollocking was postponed until tomorrow. ‘But one of them Wildlife Crime Officers came past about your dog in a suitcase.’

‘Yeah?’ He’d forgotten all about handing the investigation over, what with the fires and all the dead prostitutes. ‘Any luck?’

‘How the hell should I know?’

‘Wonderful, thanks , Eric.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Sergeant Mitchell took a deep drag and tried for a smoke-ring, failing miserably. ‘By the way: Social Work’ve been round, that wee whore of yours is really only thirteen.’ He raised his cigarette in salute. ‘Fuckin’ proud moment for Aberdonians everywhere...’ and suddenly Eric looked all of his forty-one years. ‘Oh and DI Steel wants to see you as well. And before you ask : no idea. You’ll have to ask her yourself.’

DI Steel’s incident room was slowly fumbling its way back into chaos, as time and the inspector’s natural flair for entropy took hold. The back shift were manning the phones and pushing paper about; not that there was a lot going on at the moment. Dr Bushel’s profile for the prostitute killer — or ‘The Shore Lane Stalker’ as the papers were calling him — wasn’t being released to the media, but it was stuck up on the wall next to the post mortem photographs. There was no sign of Steel.

Three fresh yellow Post-it notes lurked in the middle of Logan’s desk along with yet another plastic bag of videotapes from Operation Cinderella. Logan stuffed them, unwatched, in the cupboard with all the others. The first Post-it was from Steel, telling him that the labs had finally got their finger out and come back with an analysis of the items retrieved from Jamie McKinnon’s bumhole: crack cocaine. No surprise there, but he was to call her. Note number two was from the Wildlife Crime Officer: he’d been through all the reports of missing black Labradors but none of them were likely candidates for the torso in the woods. And note number three was from an inspector whose name Logan didn’t recognize saying that he was to phone as soon as he got in. As long as it was before five. Which it wasn’t. So Logan went off to look for DI Steel instead. She was in the canteen, polishing off a ham and cheese sandwich.

‘You wanted to see me?’ said Logan, dropping himself into a seat on the other side of the table, eyeing Steel suspiciously.