Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

‘Mmmmphhh...’ She chewed, forced a big wedge of sandwich into the side of her mouth and mumbled something about leaving him a note.

‘I got a possible address for our Edinburgh pushers.’

A predatory smile slunk its way onto the inspector’s face. ‘’Bout bloody time too,’ she said, washing down the last of her sandwich with a skoof of Irn-Bru. ‘Right, let’s get a search and apprehension warrant. I want to take the bastards tonight, before they have a chance to do someone else.’

‘What about Insch?’

Steel frowned. ‘What about him?’

‘Well, we think that maybe these guys might have something to do with Karl Pearson. You know, the man we found tortured to death with his throat cut?’

‘And?’

‘Don’t you think we should tell him about—’

‘Bugger that: this is our collar. Insch can have his turn when we’ve finished doing them for the drugs.’ She settled back in her seat and started digging between her rear molars with a fingernail. ‘This is our chance to shine, Lazarus. We tell Insch and he’ll take the whole thing over. If there’s any credit going on this one, I want it. Insch doesn’t need it.’ And that was it, end of discussion. She wouldn’t even let him tell the Drugs Squad.

It took the best part of an hour to organize the warrants, identify a team and get them together so the inspector could take them through the compulsory pre-operation briefing. Nine firearms-trained officers and a handful of uniform for backup. There was a good mixture of men and women, all of them straight-faced and deadly serious, listening intently as Steel filled them in on Chib Sutherland’s colourful background. Much to Logan’s surprise, DC Simon Rennie had turned out to be firearms qualified — personally he wouldn’t have trusted him with a water pistol, but according to the computer he’d passed with flying colours. He sat right at the front of the room, his usual not-so-plain-clothes replaced by the black SAS-style kit worn by the rest of the firearms team. As soon as the inspector had finished Rennie stuck his hand up. ‘You sure they’re going to be armed, ma’am?’

Steel shook her head. ‘Haven’t got a bloody clue, but I’m no’ taking any chances. No one is to go into that house without a gun and a bulletproof vest. Understand? I want everyone in the address accounted for, face-down in the lounge, with hands cuffed behind their backs before anyone unarmed goes in. OK? We clear on that?’ Sigh. ‘What is it, Rennie?’

‘Do we know how many of them there’s meant to be?’

‘We’re expecting at least two of them, maybe more. Possibly armed. That’s why I want the place turned upside down. I do not want some bugger jumping out the linen closet with a machete while we’re all having a cup of tea and scratching our arses!’ She stood, hands thrust into pockets. ‘What we need to... What?’ Rennie had his hand up again.

‘Do we know if they’ve got a dog?’

‘No we don’t know if they’ve got a bloody dog! If I knew they had a bloody dog, do you no’ think I would’ve told you?’ Rennie went red and apologized. ‘Right,’ said the inspector, dragging a bashed packet of cigarettes from her trouser pocket. ‘I want you all geared up and ready to roll in fifteen minutes.’

Twenty minutes later, Steel’s new firearms team was installed in the back of an unmarked van and heading off to Mannofield. ‘Operation High Noon’, as the inspector had tactfully named it, was underway. A pair of patrol cars took a more circuitous route to the target address, keeping a low profile so as not to attract too much attention. Logan and Steel followed in the inspector’s mid-life-crisis-mobile, detouring past Athol House in Guild Street so Logan could jump out and pick up the warrants while Steel loitered on the double yellows outside. The Procurator Fiscal’s office was on the fifth floor, but her deputy was waiting for him in reception, a buff folder in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other. Her frizzy hair was pulled back from her head in a ponytail that still managed to come down to her shoulder blades, her dark green suit wrinkled after a long day in the office. There were faint purple circles under her eyes. She gave him the folder, but kept the coffee. ‘Thanks,’ said Logan, riffling through the paperwork, making sure all the bits were signed where they were supposed to be.

‘Er... Sergeant McRae,’ she said, ‘I understand there’s a possibility your visitors from Edinburgh might be responsible for torturing Karl Pearson. That true?’

‘Hmm? Oh. It’s possible, but we’ve not got anything linking them yet, it’s all just supposition really. Thanks for getting these together so quickly, Ms Tulloch, I really appreciate it.’

She smiled. ‘Not a problem. And it’s “Miss Tulloch”, not “Ms”. You can call me Rachael.’

Logan smiled back. ‘In that case, I’m Logan.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Rachael.’ Outside someone leaned on a car horn, the loud braying breeeeeeeeep, clearly audible through the building’s doors. ‘That’ll be the inspector. Gotta dash. Thanks again.’ And he was back outside, just in time to be consumed in a cloud of blue diesel smoke from a passing bus.

Steel was hanging out the car window, cigarette jammed between her lips, puffing away for all she was worth. ‘Come on! We haven’t got all bloody day.’ The inspector cut across town, avoiding the traffic on Union Street, sticking to residential back streets, the pale granite buildings rouged with orange and gold as the sun began its slow, downward slip into twilight.

‘Did you know,’ said Logan as the inspector finally pulled the car to a halt, across the road and three houses down from where Chib and his mate were supposed to be staying, ‘that we murder more people, per million head of population, in Aberdeen than the whole of England and Wales combined?’

Steel cranked on the handbrake, and looked at him as if he’d written the words KNOB END across his forehead with indelible marker. ‘Don’t be daft: they kill more people in bloody Manchester in a month than we do all sodding year! Who the hell told you that rubbish?’

‘Rachael, and it’s not that daft if you think about it, it’s averaged over the—’

‘Who the hell is “Rachael”?’ She cracked open the driver-side window and fumbled in her pockets for the ubiquitous pack of crumpled cigarettes.

‘The new deputy fiscal, she—’

‘Thought you were knobbing WPC Watson, in-between prostitutes that is.’ She snorted and lit up, letting the smoke ooze out into the evening air. ‘Better watch that, or she’ll have your bollocks for earrings. Watson can be a right vindictive cow when she puts her mind to it.’

‘What? No!’ Logan stared at the inspector in horror. ‘Nothing’s going on! Who said anything was going on?’

Steel held up her hands, head wreathed in smoke. ‘I’m just saying: watch your step, OK? I mean, I like you and all that — for a man you’re less of a fuckwit than most of your species — but still...’ She stared out the window. ‘Look, there are some things in this life you can’t take for granted. Trust me on this — it’s way too easy to put the job first, forget what’s really important.’ Steel sighed. ‘Just don’t screw it up, OK?’ For once Logan got the feeling she wasn’t being sarcastic, which was ironic as she was the one dragging him into work the whole time, pissing Jackie off.

They sat in silence for a minute. Then the radio crackled into life — DC Rennie saying the van was in position. Logan watched as it pulled up outside the house, blocking the large, silver Mercedes in the driveway. ‘About bloody time,’ the inspector muttered, then grabbed the handset and shouted into it, ‘What the hell took you so long?’