Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

‘You hear he’s gone missing?’

She froze, the dirty mug to her lips. ‘Oh aye?’

‘Since Wednesday, day after you assaulted him.’ Logan watched her eyes and there was definitely something there. He just didn’t know what it was yet. ‘Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

She shrugged. ‘Nothin’ to do with me. Probably run off with one of his tarts anyway. Left that soppy cow of a wife. Just fuckin’ abandoned her...’ Clair fished the teabag out of the mug with a fork and hurled it into the dirty sink. ‘It’s what you fuckin’ men do, isn’t it?’

Back outside in the sunshine Rennie gasped for air. ‘Jesus,’ he said, waving a hand in front of his nose. ‘What a stink! No’ surprised her husband left her. Woman’s a bloody slob... What?’ He looked at Logan who was staring at the front of the house.

‘Do me a favour, OK? I want you to get onto Control and have them do a full check: everything they have on Mrs Clair Pirie.’

‘Think she’s got something to do with Cruickshank going missing?’

‘Nope. My money’s still on Ibiza, Hayley the pole-dancer and her tiny leather bikini. But she is up to something.’

They went next door to Cruickshanks’ Repose. Ailsa appeared, dressed in a blue-and-white-striped apron and rubber gloves, blonde hair tied back. Stunning. Her face went white when she saw Logan standing on her top step. ‘Oh, God.’ She wrung her yellow-rubber-gloved hands, making them squeak. ‘Something’s happened!’

Logan tried for a reassuring smile. ‘It’s OK, Mrs Cruickshank, nothing’s happened: we’re just here to have a little chat, OK? Can we come in?’

‘Oh, of course. I’m sorry... Would you like some tea? It’s no problem.’

She sat them down in a pristine lounge and went to put the kettle on. As soon as she was out of sight, Rennie leaned over and hissed at Logan, ‘OOOH! Suits you, sir! ’

‘Would you grow up! The woman’s husband’s missing.’

‘I know, but Jesus, how the hell do you leave that? She’s bloody gorgeous! I would! Would you?’

‘Shut up — she’ll hear you.’

Rennie looked longingly at the kitchen door. ‘Tell you: she could keep the rubber gloves on, I’d—’

‘Constable — I’m warning you!’

Rennie stared at the carpet. ‘Sorry, sir. Must be the shock of my nadgers still working after Suzie Bloody McKinnon’s kneecap vasectomy.’ Logan couldn’t help smiling.

Ailsa Cruickshank returned bearing a tray topped with mugs of tea and chocolate biscuits. As Rennie helped himself to a Penguin, she perched herself on the edge of the sofa and fidgeted with a cushion. Logan cleared his throat, not looking forward to what was going to come next. ‘Er...’ he said, wondering how he was going to tell her that her darling Gavin was probably off having lots of holiday sex with a pole-dancer. ‘I was wondering if you’ve heard from your husband at all?’

She sighed, deflating slightly. ‘No. No I haven’t.’

‘I see...’ Go on: tell her. ‘Er... when you reported your husband missing, did they ask you about other things not being there: his toothbrush, change of clothes, passport. That kind of thing?’

‘You don’t think he’s... Gavin wouldn’t just leave me without saying anything! He wouldn’t.’

Logan bit his lip and nodded. ‘OK. Well, just in case, do you think we could take a look?’

Ailsa took them upstairs to the master bedroom, unaware of DC Rennie’s eyes locked onto her backside as she climbed up in front of them. The house was decorated in soft shades, everything carefully coordinated. The bed linen matched the curtains, carpet and overstuffed cushions lying on a wicker chair in the corner. In fact the only disorderly part of the room was the huge collection of detective novels — all hers, she explained with an apologetic smile, Gavin didn’t like to read. She rummaged about in a chest of drawers, digging out a pair of burgundy EU passports. One hers, one Gavin’s. His toothbrush was still in the bathroom. His razor, moisturizer, facial scrub, and hair gel still in the medicine cabinet. But that didn’t prove anything. Given the kind of life Gavin Cruickshank led, he probably had identical toiletries in the bathroom of every woman he was shagging. And a lot of people in the oil-service industry had second passports; it helped when you had to get visas organized for contracts in Azerbaijan, or Angola, or Nigeria... So all in all this proved nothing, just gave Logan a chance to put off the inevitable and Rennie a chance to stare at her backside as they went from room to room. Back down in the lounge, Logan took a deep breath and told her the bad news. She stood there in stunned silence for almost a minute before the tears started. Logan and Rennie let themselves out.

They sat in the car, Logan swearing softly, Rennie gazing wistfully back at the house. ‘You sure I shouldn’t just pop back in there and comfort her, sir? Bit of a shoulder to cry on and all...’ He stopped when he saw the expression on Logan’s face. Cleared his throat and started the car. ‘Fair enough.’

Logan took one last look over his shoulder, not surprised to see a suspicious pair of piggy eyes staring at him from the house next door. She was definitely up to something.

The morgue at Grampian Police Headquarters had a strange smell of cheese and onion when Logan arrived seven minutes early for Jamie McKinnon’s post mortem. The guest of honour was already there, lying flat on his back in the middle of the cutting table, naked as the day he was born. But other than that the place was deserted. There wouldn’t be a big turnout for Jamie’s farewell performance — after all, this was just another junkie suicide. Because he’d topped himself in prison they’d have to go the whole hog and do a Fatal Accident Enquiry, but it wasn’t likely to explode into a public scandal. Jamie’s only surviving relative was his sister and as she’d given him the drugs in the first place she was in no position to complain about his death in custody. So today it would just be Logan and DC Rennie in the cheap seats, not so much as a deputy procurator fiscal to keep them company. Though where the hell Rennie had got to was anyone’s guess. Isobel slouched through into the cutting room at two minutes to four, not bothering to cover a jaw-cracking yawn. She scrubbed up in the sink without saying hello.

Logan sighed. Might as well make the gesture: ‘Rough night last night?’

‘Hmmm?’ She looked up from drying her hands, face set in the same scowl she was wearing this morning. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘OK...’ This was obviously going to be one of those ‘fun’ post mortems.

‘Look if you must know, Colin didn’t come home last night.’ She pulled a green plastic apron from the roll by the sink and put it on over her surgical get-up. It was long enough to cover the toes of her Wellington boots.

‘Oh?’ Sounded as if Miller was in for a world of hurt when he got back from work today. ‘What was his excuse?’

The scowl grew darker. ‘I haven’t spoken to him yet.’ She threw a tray of surgical instruments down on the trolley next to Jamie’s corpse. ‘It’s four o’clock: where the hell is everyone?’

Isobel’s assistant Brian was the first one to turn up, full of apologies, closely followed by DC Rennie. Doc Fraser was the last to show: a full eight minutes late and completely unrepentant. He’d been ready at three, he said, something else came up and was it OK if he did his expenses, only he was two months behind and needed the cash. Taking Isobel’s silent scowl as a ‘yes’, he popped his briefcase up on the next cutting table along, spreading out reams of paper and receipts on the shining stainless steel surface.