Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

‘ Well... er... We had to make a toilet break... ’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ She slumped in her seat, took the fag out of the corner of her mouth and boinged her head off the steering wheel.

‘ Inspector? ’

‘Rennie, I swear to God, I’d come over there and ram my boot up your backside if your shoulders weren’t in the bloody way. Now get going!’ The sound of muffled conversation crackled out of the speakers and Logan saw the rear doors of the van pop open. Two black-clad officers in full bullet-proof get-up, with chunky black helmets, Heckler and Koch MP5 machine pistols, and the lower half of their faces obscured with black scarves, scurried up the garden path. They skidded to a halt, either side of the front door, and made clenched fist gestures back at the van. Another pair of armed officers leapt from the vehicle and sprinted across to join them, guns at the ready. All very Hollywood. They were followed by a big-boned WPC with a battering ram and a pronounced limp. There was no sign of movement from the house.

‘ Echo three sixer, we are in position .’

Steel frowned and picked up the radio handset. ‘What the hell is “Echo three sixer” when it’s at home?’

‘ Er... it’s PCs Littlejohn, MacInnes, Clarkson, and WPC Caldwell. We’re round the back .’

‘Well, why didn’t you bloody well say so? Right, listen up you lot: I want this done nice and cleanly. No shots fired if we don’t have to — Rennie, I mean you — if no one gets hurt, first round’s on me, OK?’ She took her thumb off the transmit button and grinned at Logan. ‘I love this bit.’ Click. ‘GO GO GO!’

The battering ram smashed the front door off its hinges and the large WPC jumped to the side as her colleagues charged past, guns at the ready.

Steel watched them disappear into the house and smiled. That was it. There was nothing to do now but wait for the team to go through every room in the house and give the all clear. She dug the cigarette packet back out again and shoogled it in Logan’s direction. He politely declined the offer. ‘No? You sure? Ah well, takes all sorts,’ she said, lighting up. ‘While we’ve got a minute, I wanted to speak to you about a little visit I had today from an old mate.’ A couple of folded sheets of A4 appeared from the inspector’s inside pocket. She handed them over. ‘You’ve had papers served on you.’

Logan’s heart sank. Professional Standards strikes again. Even though he’d been expecting this all afternoon, it still came as a kick in the testicles. ‘I see...’

‘Sandy the Snake!’ Steel shook her head. ‘What, you forgot to pack your brain this morning? Like you’re no’ in enough fuckin’ trouble?’

‘I... he grabbed me. I just wanted...’ He didn’t really know what he wanted. ‘I was pissed off, and he was being an arrogant bastard and I was trying to deal with a misper... I was this close to popping him one.’

Steel nodded sagely. ‘I see. Well, I can understand that. You remember when he got his nose broken last year? I’ve still got that on video — Insch made me a copy.’ She smiled. ‘He’s got it as a screen-saver on his computer at home. Bang, right on the nose...’ The inspector drifted off into happy reminiscence, before sighing her way back to the present. ‘Anyway, the really great thing about that was he couldn’t touch any of us for it. We got to watch and enjoy, and no one got hurt — other than Hissing Sid. No one got fired, or demoted.’ Logan nodded gloomily and Steel reached out to pat him on the arm. ‘You’ve done a very stupid thing, Sergeant. But I’ll see what I can do.’

Not one shot was fired. According to DC Rennie, Chib Sutherland and his hairy friend had been sitting calmly at the dining-room table, finishing off their microwaved ready meals. They didn’t shout, or fight back, or do anything, just calmly assumed the position — legs spread, hands flat on the tabletop. Rennie and his colleagues had searched the rest of the house, but there were no signs of any weapons, drugs, stolen goods, or anything else that would justify smashing their front door in with a battering ram.

‘So,’ said the inspector, stepping through into the lounge, where Chib and his mate were lying facedown on the carpet, a pair of armed officers standing over them with Glock 9mm pistols trained on the backs of their heads. ‘They give you any trouble?’

Chib raised his head from the blue tufted Wilton, his face perfectly calm and impassive. ‘My friend and I have done nothing wrong. We are cooperating with the police.’

‘Aye? I thought you two was supposed to be hard men? What happened to you’ll-never-take-me-alive-copper?’

‘My friend and I have no reason to cause trouble. We have done nothing wrong.’ There was no sign of menace in his voice, not like when he’d told Logan to fuck off in the pub.

‘Whatever. Rennie, get these two back to the station. Separate cars. I want them processed and in different interview rooms by the time I get there. OK?’ Rennie snapped off a salute and dragged Chib to his feet. The man was a good three inches taller than Rennie, but he allowed himself to be led from the room without any hint of a struggle. Just before he reached the door his eyes met Logan’s and there was a momentary flash of recognition, swiftly replaced by a calm poker face.

The big WPC who’d hefted the battering ram followed suit with Chib’s mate. In addition to the large moustache, the man now had a beautiful black eye. The WPC led him out to one of the waiting patrol cars, leaving Logan and Steel alone in the lounge. The inspector treated her armpit to a thoughtful scratch. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go have a poke about. See if we can’t find something Rennie and his idiots missed.’ The bedrooms looked as if they’d been caught in a tornado, all the drawers yanked out, beds stripped, wardrobes emptied. It was the same in the bathroom, and up in the attic the team had taken up the fibre-glass insulation, leaving the plasterboard visible between the rough timber joists. They’d even taken the top off the cold-water tank. Logan and Steel finished their tour of the premises in the garage, where a large chest freezer was stuck against the far wall. ‘Aha!’ The inspector strode across to it and wrenched the lid open. It was nearly empty, just a couple of packets of fish fingers and some bags of frozen peas. None of the usual mass of unidentifiable random meat that filled every other chest freezer Logan had ever seen. With a triumphant gleam in her eye, Steel pulled out a packet boasting: PURE COD FILLET WRAPPED IN CRISPY BREADCRUMBS! opened the flap at the end and tipped out a half-dozen pasty-orange blocks of processed fish onto the palm of her hand. ‘Shite,’ she said, peering into the now empty packet. She stuffed the fish fingers back in the box and tried the same trick with the remaining cartons. All contained exactly what they claimed to. Swearing, DI Steel wiped her hands clean on the trousers of her off-grey suit, leaving two smears of defrosting orange breadcrumbs.

‘Not fond of fish fingers then?’ asked Logan innocently.

‘Don’t take the piss. I once found a whole freezer full of cannabis resin, all done up as packets of Weight Watchers chicken vindaloo.’ She scowled, poked about in the frozen peas, then slammed the lid shut. ‘Get onto the Drugs Squad. Tell them to take the damn place apart if they have to, but I want some sodding evidence!’

Logan made the call, but he was pretty sure they wouldn’t find anything. Chib and his quiet buddy had been way too damn calm for there to be anything incriminating on the premises. They left a uniformed officer to guard the house and drove back to FHQ via the Burger King on Union Street. The clock on the dashboard said five past three, so Logan checked his own watch: nine seventeen. Chib and his mate had been in custody for nearly half an hour. ‘We’re going to have to get a shift on,’ he said. ‘Only got another five and a bit hours before we have to charge them or let them go.’