Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

Miller stared, trembling, at the pale cylinders lying in the dirt. Four of them were just the tips — fingernail to first joint; three were the middle section; two were from the base — still trailing the tendon that was supposed to lie across the knuckle. Nine little bits of piggies go to market. ‘I... I can’t!’ He sobbed. ‘Oh please God, I can’t...’

Chib smiled down indulgently. ‘Now now, let’s have less of that. You eat them up like a good boy and we can all go home.’

Colin reached out with fumbling hands. Trying to pick up the pieces of his own fingers, the remaining digits slick with blood. Feeling the bile rise again. ‘Oh fuckin’ God, my hands... my fuckin’ hands...’

‘I’m running out of patience, Colin. Either you eat them, or I snip off another joint and make you eat that as well.’ He waggled the poultry shears in the reporter’s face, the stainless steel clarted with blood. ‘The longer you mess me about, the less fingers you got.’

Two bits: a tip and a middle section lying in the palm of his shaking, blood-clotted hand, their flesh cold and white. The ends dark red-black, bone and cartilage showing through. ‘Oh God... They could... they could put them back on! They could stitch them back on!’ A hand grabbed the hair on top of his head and pulled it round until he was looking up at Chib Sutherland’s smiling face.

‘You know what: maybe they could.’ The smile grew wider. ‘I’m a reasonable man. Why don’t you pick three bits to keep? That’s a whole finger’s worth! Call it a gesture of good faith. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

Tears were streaming down Colin’s face, making streaks in the dirt and blood. ‘I can’t...’ Voice small and broken. Then a shriek as Chib grabbed his left hand by the wrist and pulled it up, opening the shears wide and clamping them around the top joint of the index finger.

‘Now you choose your three bits, then you eat the rest of your fucking fingers. Understand?’

Crying like a frightened child, Colin picked up the remains of his butchered hands and did as he was told.

‘You wee beauty!’ DI Steel stood by the window in her office, having a sly fag, reading the preliminary forensic report on the hair samples from Neil Ritchie’s brand-new Audi. They were a perfect match for the ones taken from a hairbrush in Holly McEwan’s flat. She turned and beamed at Logan as he entered the room, technically an hour and a half late for work, but as he’d worked the two days he was supposed to be off he didn’t think it would matter that much. And anyway, he wanted to put off seeing the inspector for as long as possible. That winking red light — when he’d finally plucked up the courage to find out what it was at half past four this morning — turned out to be a recorded voice telling him his phone number had won a Caribbean cruise, five thousand pounds cash, or a certificate as the world’s most gullible bumhole. He hadn’t called them back.

Steel waved him over and shot him a grin. ‘Lazarus, just the man I’ve been waiting for all my life...’ She paused and checked her watch. ‘Well, since seven am anyway. Still, never mind,’ she said. ‘You’re here now.’

Logan frowned. This wasn’t exactly the welcome he’d been expecting. Why hadn’t the inspector ripped a chunk out of his backside yet? ‘Er...’ Change the subject. ‘What did you charge Ritchie with?’ With no body it would be hard getting a conviction.

‘Nothing yet. Get this: he’s still on a voly! He’s no’ even been detained yet!’ Her face lit up like the Stonehaven Christmas lights. ‘How cool is that?’ The six-hours detainment rule wouldn’t start until Ritchie was formally detained. He was still here voluntarily; as it was, they could keep him as long as they liked. Or at least until he asked to leave. ‘Spent most of last night blubberin’ about how he hadn’t done nothing and it’s all some dreadful mistake.’ She grinned. ‘Had that pompous tosspot Bushel interview him, doing his criminal psychiatrist bit. Four-eyed git was so excited he nearly wet himself — Ritchie fits the profile to a tee: absent mother, domineering father who liked to shag prozzies, miserable childhood, blah, blah, blah, nobody loved him. The usual stuff.’

‘Wait a minute — the profile said he’s supposed to have a menial job; Ritchie’s a hydrocarbon accountant!’

‘So what? Profiling’s hardly an exact science, is it? Anyway, the forensic evidence ties him to Holly McEwan — the PF agrees, Ritchie’s our man.’

‘What about Michelle Wood and Rosie Williams?’

‘Don’t complicate things. We’ve still got Jamie McKinnon if we can’t do Ritchie for all three tarts. In the meantime...’ She rummaged about in the mess of paperwork that covered her desk, coming out with an address. ‘Ritchie claims he didn’t have his shiny new car when Holly went missing. Probably bollocks, but I want it checked out. And take Rennie with you: he’s getting right on my tits this morning.’

Wellington Executive Motors was a single-storey glass box, lined inside and out with top-of-the-range motorcars that cost more than Logan’s two-bedroom flat. The showroom sat on Crawpeel Road, in Altens — an industrial estate on the coast road south out of Aberdeen, packed with oil-service companies. Here and there huge architectural monstrosities in steel and glass loomed over the yards and warehouses — major oil companies making sure everyone knew who was boss. But this early on a Sunday morning, Wellington Motors was the only place open.

Still worrying about why DI Steel hadn’t chewed him out for landing her in it to Insch, Logan had barely heard a word Rennie said on the way across town from FHQ. Which was probably just as well; today the detective constable was on his high horse about some sub plot in Coronation Street being identical to one in Brookside years ago.

He was still banging on about it as they pushed through the glass doors onto the showroom’s dark, rubber flooring. The whole place smelled of new car and freshly brewed coffee, Vivaldi emanating discreetly from hidden speakers.

‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ They turned to find a saleswoman smiling at them with all her teeth. ‘Welcome to Wellington Executive Motors.’ She indicated the showroom with a sweeping gesture, just in case they didn’t already know where they were. ‘I’d be delighted to assist you in selecting a model to test drive, but while we do: cappuccino? Biscotti?’ Logan asked for the manager and her smile faltered, before scrambling back into place. ‘Is there anything I could help you with?’ No, there wasn’t. ‘Well, er... Mr Robinson’s with a customer at the moment. Can I offer you something while you wait? Cappuccino? Biscotti?’

Mr Robinson was a round and jovial man with a light grey comb over and a neatly trimmed beard, all smiles and handshakes until he found out Logan and Rennie were policemen. Then it was all pensive horror, wringing hands and, ‘Has something happened?’

Logan put on his best disarming smile. ‘Nothing like that, sir, I need to talk to you about a car you sold to one Neil Ritchie last week. Brand new—’

‘Audi. Yes, Audi. Executive model, air-conditioning, sunroof, satellite navigation, power—’

‘When did he pick it up?’

Mr Robinson spluttered. ‘I... No, no, it’s out of the question. I couldn’t discuss a client’s details, Wellington Executive Motors values our—’

‘It’s important.’

‘I’m sorry, but I’m sure you would need some sort of warrant—’

Logan pulled out two sheets of folded paper from his pocket and held them up. ‘I have a warrant.’ No he didn’t — it was just a printout of the e-fit pictures of Kylie and her pimp, but Robinson didn’t know that. The fat man blanched and Logan hid the pages away again, just in case he asked to see them. ‘According to the car’s registration papers he bought the car last Monday. When did he pick it up?’