Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

Logan watched her cry for a moment. ‘Where did you get it from, Suzie?’

But she wasn’t listening to him any more. ‘Oh God, Jamie...’ Tugging at her wet pink hair she mourned for her dead brother.

It was ten minutes before anyone remembered the FLO was still standing in the back garden in the rain.

They headed back into town, DC Rennie behind the wheel, clutching at his groin every thirty seconds, making sure it was still there. Logan stared morosely out of the window, watching the people and traffic go by. At least the rain was letting up, blue sky breaking through the lowering clouds, the wet tarmac sparkling in the sunshine. Rennie pulled up behind a huge BMW four-by-four and waited for the lights to change. Another flashy motor with a personalized number plate — the city was rife with them, like some sort of disease. Logan frowned. Flashy motor, flashy motor... why did that sound familiar?

The lights changed and the four-by-four rumbled away, taking a left onto Springbank Terrace, with Logan staring after it. When the answer wouldn’t come he pulled out his phone and checked his messages — just the one from Brian, Isobel’s assistant: Jamie McKinnon’s post mortem was being delayed until four. Dr MacAlister wasn’t feeling too well. Logan closed his phone, tapping the plastic casing against his chin as he frowned out the window. It wasn’t like Isobel to show any sort of weakness: she’d have to be half dead to postpone a post mortem. Four o’clock... It was just coming up on two now. ‘Right,’ he said, stuffing the phone back in his pocket and pulling out the wad of messages from Mrs Cruickshank. ‘We’ve got a couple of hours to kill before they fillet Jamie. I’ve got a treat for you: we’re off to Westhill.’

Westhill was an ever-expanding suburb seven miles west of Aberdeen. It had started off as a collection of pig farms before the developers got their claws into it, and now it sprawled all the way from the main road up the hill, slowly encircling the golf course with pale brick arms. By the time Rennie had negotiated the roundabout by the business park and was heading into Westhill proper the rain was gone and everything shone in the warm sunshine. Half a dozen magpies leapt and chattered in the grass of Denman Park, strutting back and forth like barristers as they drove by. And then it was past a cramped shopping centre, up the hill, and left — making for Westfield Gardens: home to the adulterous Mr Gavin Cruickshank. The house sat three quarters of the way around the cul-de-sac, backing onto Westhill Academy. Out front the garden was pristine, laid out with circular rose beds, the yellow and pink blooms glittering with raindrops caught in the sun; built-in garage; red, part-glazed front door; twee wooden plaque with CRUICKSHANKS’ REPOSE carved into it. The lampposts all the way around the street were decorated with bright-yellow, laminated A4 posters: a picture of a huge Labrador, its features grainy and indistinct from the photocopying, and the words: MOPPET’S MISSING!!! The address given was for the house next to Cruickshanks’ Repose — an identical building, but not so well kept. The garden was a mess of dandelions and clover, the front door in need of a fresh coat of paint. The garage was lying open, revealing a rusty Fiat nestling amongst piles of old newspapers, paint tins, empty bottles and bits of bicycle. A large chest freezer was the only thing in the whole place that looked as if it still worked. ‘So what’s the story then?’ asked Rennie, locking the car.

Logan pointed at Cruickshanks’ Repose. ‘Husband’s been missing since last Wednesday. Poor cow thinks the next-door neighbour’s got something to do with it. Doesn’t know darling Gavin’s been getting his leg over women all around town — including a pole-dancer with a habit of disappearing off on holiday at a moment’s notice.’

‘You think he’s just buggered off with her?’

Logan dug the postcard from Secret Service out of his pocket and handed it over. ‘What do you think?’

Rennie’s eyes roved across Hayley’s leather-bikinied body. ‘Phwoar, not bad! She can dance on my pole any time she — Hey!’ Logan had taken the picture back.

‘Come on,’ he said, as Rennie pouted, ‘we might as well go see the next-door neighbour before we tell the wife her husband’s a cheating bastard.’

Pressing the doorbell produced a single, dry clunk, so they had to knock. Eventually a swearing silhouette appeared in the door’s rippled glass. ‘This better not be you fuckin’ bob-a-job bastards again...’ trailing off as the door opened. A crumpled woman in her dressing gown scowled at them. ‘Aw, fuck. What is it now?’ Her hair was lank with two inches of brown and grey roots showing, hanging around an oval face with puffy bags under the eyes, broken veins spidering across her cheeks and nose. ‘I told them at the station: the fuckin’ insurance is in the post.’

‘We’re not here about that, Mrs...?’

Panic flickered across her eyes, swiftly followed by a defiant sneer. ‘What you want then?’

‘Last Tuesday you were involved in an altercation with Mr Cruickshank from next door.’

‘Says who?’ She was slowly inching the door shut.

‘I want you to tell me about it. Right now. Before I arrest you and drag you down to the station.’ Logan flashed her an insincere smile. ‘Up to you.’

She closed her eyes and swore. ‘OK, OK.’ She jammed her hands in her dressing-gown pockets and stomped back into the house, leaving the front door open for them. They followed her through a cluttered hall to the kitchen, where a smeared window looked out on a rectangle of chewed-up grass and dog toys, the borders around the edge a collection of churned mud and weeds. The kitchen was a mess of pizza boxes, clear plastic takeaway containers still swimming with grease, empty tins of lager, dirty washing spilling out of an overflowing laundry basket, and the smell of something festering in the sink.

There was an unopened stack of bills on the table and Logan picked one up. It was addressed to Mrs Clair Pirie, with what looked like FINAL REMINDER just visible through the plastic window. ‘Mr Pirie about is he, Clair?’

She snatched the brown envelope from his hands and stuffed it into an already overflowing drawer. ‘None of yer damned business. Filthy bastard fucked off years ago.’

‘I see.’ Logan watched her stab the kettle’s ‘on’ button and pick a teabag from a pile of desiccated brown circles slouching in a saucer. ‘Not for us, thanks. So you live here alone?’

‘No... aye, I mean yes: alone.’ Shifty, shifty, shifty. Logan leant back against the working surface and stared at her in silence as the kettle growled and rumbled to a boil. ‘OK, OK,’ she said at last. ‘Jesus... My boyfriend used to stay here, OK? We was goin’ to put him on the council tax next time. But we split up, OK? Satisfied? Bastard walked out on me.’ The dried-up husk of a teabag was hurled into a dirty mug, chased with boiling water.

‘Tell us about the people next door, Clair.’

‘She’s an interferin’ cow — puttin’ up fuckin’ posters about other people’s fuckin’ dogs, cheeky bitch. And he’s an arsehole. Bastard’s round here complainin’ the whole time. Never fuckin’ happy.’

‘That why you hit him?’

A small smile flickered over her face, before disappearing once more. ‘He started it. Comin’ round here and swearing a blue fuckin’ streak. No fuckin’ manners at all.’ She wrenched open the fridge, dragged out a carton of milk and slopped some in on top of the teabag. A horrific stench slithered out into the kitchen, mouldy cheese and the unmistakable sickly-sweet smell of meat long past its sell-by date. But Clair didn’t seem to notice.