Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

Sigh. ‘No. We were alone in the reception area.’

‘Really?’ The inspector sat forward in his chair. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson says that a member of the public was also present. A Mr...’ he flicked through his notes. ‘Mr Milne who’d come in to report a theft?’

‘Milne?’ Logan frowned. ‘What, Manky Milne? He turned up, ranting about having his script nicked, same as he does every Friday. Thinks if he reports his dihydrochloride stolen he can get more from the drugs rehabilitation scheme. But he’s just selling them on to buy heroin. Makes up the difference with a bit of housebreaking.’

‘I see... so not a reliable witness then.’

‘Last time he was in court the judge called him a barefaced liar with the morals of a plague rat. And anyway, he didn’t arrive till after.’

The inspector smiled. ‘Excellent. In that case it will be down to Mr Moir-Farquharson’s word against yours. Especially if this Milne character wasn’t even present at the time of the alleged incident... Excellent, excellent... Well, thank you for your time, Sergeant. I’m sure you have much more important things to be getting on with.’ And that was it: Logan was shown out of the office, given a handshake and sent on his way.

He stood on his own in the empty corridor, the sound of damp shoes squeaking on the drab, dirty-olive floor from somewhere round the corner. ‘What the hell was that all about?’ This just didn’t make any sense. It actually felt like the inspector was trying to help... Maybe he was having some good luck for a change? If so he’d better make use of it, before it disappeared again. Logan commandeered a couple of uniforms, an office, and three portable video units. They were going to go through the footage shot by Operation Cinderella on the night Holly McEwan went missing.

DI Steel squinted at the video monitor. ‘So what am I supposed to be looking at again?’ Logan hit rewind and the car that had been sweeping towards the camera went into reverse. He hit play and it swooped forward again. A brand-new Audi. The picture was a little ropey, but it was clear enough to make out the figure in the passenger seat. She was caught in the glow of a streetlight: frizzy bleached-blonde hair, squint nose, cleft chin, half a ton of make-up and a black beauty spot on the left cheek.

‘Holly McEwan,’ said Logan, tapping the screen. ‘This was taken by the video surveillance unit in the van. You can’t really make out all of the number plate, but if you look over here...’ He pointed at the next monitor, where a view along Regent Quay flickered and jiggled. He pressed play and the image settled down to show the same brand-new Audi stop at the junction before disappearing onto Virginia Street. He rewound the tape and hit pause again. This time the car’s number plate was clearly visible.

‘You sure this is the same car?’ asked Steel, pressing her nose against the glass.

‘Positive: the partial registration from the other tape matches this one and so does the time stamp. But just in case, I’ve asked the lab to see if they can’t get a better image of the first number plate.’

‘Ya wee beauty!’ Steel grinned, showing off a row of yellow teeth. ‘All we need to do now is—’ Logan held up a piece of paper. ‘Vehicle registration, name and address.’

‘Sergeant, if you were a woman: I’d kiss you.’

The Bridge of Don was a sprawl of housing developments on the north of the city, growing over the years like a Mandelbrot fractal of cul-de-sacs in tan brick. Neil Ritchie owned a four-bedroom, two-storey detached villa on the very edge of the development, its large back garden studded with mature trees marking the boundary between the city and fields of oilseed rape. Around the front of the property Logan and DI Steel sat in a reasonably clean CID car, with DC Rennie in the back. There was no brand-new Audi sitting on the driveway — just a little, dark blue Renault Clio and a huge motorbike — but there was a double garage sitting at the end of the lock-block drive. Steel pulled out her mobile and punched in Neil Ritchie’s phone number. There was a pause, and then DI Steel said in a broad Aberdonian accent, ‘Hullo, is iss Mistur Ritchie?... Fit?... Aye, aye, aye... Noo, I ken he wis askin’ fer a pucklie chuckies, but ah canna deliver em imarra... A pucklie chuckies... Chuckies... Aye, d’yis want tae pit im oan?’ She clasped one hand over the mouthpiece and smiled like a crocodile. ‘Bastard’s in. Let’s do it.’ She opened the car door and stepped out into the cloudy afternoon, closely followed by Logan and Rennie.

Logan spoke into a radio handset and told the other team it was all systems go as Steel strode up the drive to the front door. She gave the nod and Rennie leant on the doorbell. ‘Hullo?’ she said into the phone clamped to her ear. ‘Is iss Mistur Ritchie?’

From the other side of the door they could hear a man’s voice: ‘Damn, can you hold on a minute? That’s the front door...’ It opened revealing a man in his early thirties holding a cordless phone. He was all dressed up in a set of expensive biker’s leathers, a little heavy around the middle, with a face that no one would think to look twice at. Not ugly, just forgettable. Exactly the sort of face you’d want for picking up prostitutes and beating the life out of them. He smiled at Rennie and pointed at the phone. ‘Be with you in just a minute...’ He turned his attention back to the call. ‘Now, who did you say was calling?’

‘It’s the police,’ said Steel, ‘we’ve come to have a little chat.’

The man looked at the phone, then at the inspector, then said, ‘Sorry?’ into the mouthpiece.

Steel smiled at him and snapped her phone shut. ‘Mr Neil Ritchie? Want to let us in, or would you prefer us to drag you down to the station, kicking and screaming?’

‘What? I’m just on my way out, I—’

‘Not any more you’re not.’ She whipped out the warrant and pointed at Rennie. ‘Make sure there’s not a dead tart lying on the kitchen floor, there’s a good boy.’

Inside, the house was opulent. Expensive-looking Turkish rugs on polished hardwood floors, the pale cream walls festooned with vivid watercolours and photographs, the whole thing looking suspiciously like it had been professionally designed. There was a woman sitting in the spacious lounge reading a Val McDermid, a cup of what smelled like peppermint tea sitting on the Moorish coffee table beside her. She looked up and frowned as DC Rennie marched past her into the kitchen. ‘Neil? Who is that man? Is there something wrong?’

Neil stood, wringing his hands in front of the fireplace. ‘It’s some sort of dreadful mistake!’

DI Steel sidled up and threw a chummy arm around him. ‘That’s right: just a mistake. I’m sure you didn’t mean to pick up those prostitutes, strip them naked and beat them to death. Now why don’t we all have a nice cup of tea and you can tell us all about it.’

The woman was out of her seat in a flash. ‘ Prostitutes? Neil? What prostitutes? What the hell have you been up to?’ She clutched her book to her chest, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘You promised me! You promised you wouldn’t do that again!’

‘I... I didn’t! I swear to you! I didn’t do anything!’

‘You know,’ said Steel, patting the man on the shoulder, ‘you’d be surprised how often we hear that in our line of work. Where were you last Wednesday morning at a quarter to three?’

‘I... I was at home, asleep.’

‘And Mrs Ritchie here can confirm that, can she?’

He looked imploringly at his wife, but she collapsed back onto the sofa, staring at him in horror. ‘Oh my God! I was away at my mother’s all week! He’s been here on his own! It’s you isn’t it? That man in the papers!’