Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

They parked the CID pool car in the usual position down at the docks. Only this time Rennie was stuck behind the wheel while Logan slouched in the passenger seat. If there was any sleeping to be done — and Logan was determined there would be — he’d be the one doing it. Privilege of rank as DI Steel liked to say. They hadn’t been in position for long before the world started to come and go in slow-motion flashes. His eyelids stayed down for longer each time until his chin sank towards his chest.

The night passed in a blur, people came and went, but Logan didn’t recognize any of them. The car was cold and uncomfortable and Rennie wouldn’t shut up about his top ten best episodes of Coronation Street . When Logan finally got back to the flat, it was all he could do to take off his clothes and fall into the empty bed. ‘Sleep, sleep, sleep...’ Darkness. Then a soft hand on his shoulder and the warmth of a naked body against his. Gentle lips caressing the side of his neck, a hand making lazy circles amongst the scars on his stomach. Then lower, the kissing becoming more intense. And then she was on top, her long hair spiralling down across his face and chest, grunting and moaning as Jackie sat up in bed next to him and asked what all the noise was about. Click and the bedside light came on, exposing Rachael Tulloch in all her naked glory, straddling him. ‘Oh,’ said Jackie, ‘that’s all right then. I thought it was mice.’ Logan tried to explain, but she just rolled over and went back to sleep while Rachael buried his face in her pale breasts. And then the door opened and his mother was standing there holding a frying pan, dressed like Henry the Eighth. ‘Sir!’ Her voice was hissing and urgent. ‘I think they’ve found something.’

‘Hmmmmmphf?’ Logan sat bolt upright in the passenger seat, banging his head off the car roof. DC Rennie was looking at him with concern on his face.

‘You OK?’

Logan scrubbed a hand across his eyes, slumped back in his seat and swore. ‘First bloody dream in ages that doesn’t feature dead bodies and you wake me up! Bastard!’

‘Sorry, sir, but I thought you’d want to know — Caldwell says she’s got a lead on a missing prostitute.’

Logan shook his head, trying to banish the last remnants of the dream, the smell of Rachael’s naked body still fresh in his nostrils. This was all DI Steel’s fault! If she hadn’t said anything about him screwing around he wouldn’t be having dirty dreams featuring the Deputy Procurator Fiscal. He’d have been having his usual nightmares about rotting children, battered women and charred corpses. At least he wouldn’t have this weird sense of guilt. ‘What do you mean they’ve got a lead?’ And the smell of Rachael was gone.

‘Her name’s Joanna,’ said WPC Caldwell, jerking her thumb over her shoulder at a girl who couldn’t have been much more than sixteen and was having difficulty standing upright. ‘Says she usually meets up with this older woman before the start of their shift. You know, drink strong cider and cheap vodka. Get nice and numb.’ The WPC sniffed and glanced back at the staggering prostitute, probably thinking she was old enough to be the girl’s mother. ‘Only “Holly” didn’t turn up for work tonight. Or last night either.’

Logan nodded. It was a long shot. Holly had probably taken a couple of days off, or was up in the infirmary getting a dose seen to, but you never knew. Joanna had the sunken cheeks and lazy eyes of someone on more than just alcohol. A plague of purple love bites infected either side of her neck, her breasts wobbling at the top of a grubby, petrol-blue basque, the left nipple poking through a hole in the lace. Black miniskirt and high-heeled ankle boots. She’d thrown a threadbare maroon coat over the top of the ensemble. Very stylish: if you were into authentic diseased-junkie chic. ‘Joanna?’

She looked up at him and smiled, hungrily. ‘You looking for a good time?’

‘No. No I’m not.’ And even if he was there was no way in hell he’d be looking for it with her. ‘I want to speak to you about your friend Holly.’

Joanna screwed up her face and spat a glob onto the cobbled street. ‘Cow hasn’t showed up for days! Owes me a pack of fags.’ The shifty look was back. ‘And fifty quid as well.’

‘When did you last see her?’

She shrugged, and dug her hands into her overcoat pockets. ‘Dunno... What day is it today?’ Logan told her it was Friday and she counted backwards on her fingers, taking two attempts to come to the conclusion, ‘Tuesday night. That’s when she begged the fags off me.’ Tuesday night: four days after Michelle Wood was killed. Joanna leaned forward, exposing more of her chest than Logan wanted to see. ‘She’s no’ been back since. No sign of her! Supposed to meet up for a wee drink before... you know, before we go out.’ A car slowed down, then the driver caught sight of all the people hanging about beneath the streetlight and speeded up again. ‘Aw, fuck !’ Joanna stomped a high-heeled foot and stared after the departing car. ‘He was totally going to stop! You bastards have to piss off and leave me alone, or I’ll never make any money!’

‘Soon as you give us a last name for Holly, and an address too.’

Joanna gazed down the empty street, where the car’s tail-lights were just disappearing from view. She licked her lips, then looked back at Logan, that hungry glint in her eyes again. ‘It’ll cost you.’

In the end Logan had to cover Holly’s alleged debt: fifty quid and a packet of fags. The address was for a council flat in Froghall, an area of Aberdeen with a less than spotless reputation. There was no guarantee that Holly from Froghall was actually missing, but it wasn’t worth taking the risk. He called FHQ and asked them to send a squad car round to the address. If she opened the door dressed in a rubber nun’s outfit then at least they’d know she wasn’t dead. He settled back into the passenger seat of the CID car to wait for the report, drifting in and out of sleep while Rennie kept watch on WPC Menzies down the far end of Shore Lane.

He surfaced just after one, stiff and sore from sleeping in the car. According to Rennie, the streets had been pretty quiet. Business wasn’t exactly booming in Aberdeen’s red light district. Logan yawned; thank God he finally had a day off tomorrow — there was no way he could keep this up much longer. He tried to work the crick out of his neck, before radioing round to check in with the rest of the team. Rennie had been right, it’d been a quiet night to begin with, but now it was completely dead.

Control called in at half past one: Alpha Two Zero had been to the address in Froghall but no one was home. Provided nothing more important came up, they were going to try again later, but Logan wasn’t to hold his breath. Operation Cinderella was taking a big bite out of the night-shift as it was. There was a whole city out there that needed patrolling.

By two o’clock in the morning, Davidson and Menzies were playing Eye Spy over their concealed radios, while the rest of the team played If-You-Had-To-Or-Die, picking names like Saddam Hussein, the Queen, Ann Widdecombe, Homer Simpson, Oprah Winfrey, and in one instance, DI Insch. Not surprisingly, more people were prepared to die rather than sleep with him. Finally Logan called the operation to a halt and sent everyone back to FHQ.

He left DC Rennie to park the car and headed up to Steel’s incident room. No sign of her, she was still interviewing Chib and his friend. Logan checked his watch; they had less than an hour and a bit before the pair of them would have to be formally charged, or released. A bored-looking constable was slouched against the wall outside interview room number three, reading a copy of the Evening Express and muttering under his breath. ‘Mornin’, sir,’ he said when he saw Logan coming up the corridor. ‘You lookin’ for the inspector?’