Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘I have decided to give you a chance to fuck something up all on your ownsome.’ She thrust Logan’s report into the constable’s hands. ‘Read that, then get up to Craiginches and find me whoever killed Jamie McKinnon. I want a written confession and a packet of Embassy Regals on my desk by this time tomorrow.’

A look of fear crawled over DC Rennie’s face. ‘Ma’am?’

Steel punched him on the shoulder, hard enough to make him wince. ‘I have every faith in you. Now bugger off — I’ve got work to do.’ Rennie did what he was told, shaking his head in bewilderment.

‘Er...’ said Logan, knowing this was probably going to get him even further into the inspector’s bad books. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? I mean, he’s only a constable and—’

‘And you are only a backstabbing arsehole, but I still let you play cops and robbers, don’t I?’ Logan shut his mouth. Steel hopped off the desk and dug her hands into her pockets, rummaging around until she found a wrinkled packet of fags. ‘What’s the worst he can do? No one’s going to come forward and admit to seeing anything; sure as hell no one’s going to confess. So Rennie gets a bit of experience under his belt. He can’t screw it up any more than it already is. And let’s face it: no one’s going to miss a little bastard like Jamie McKinnon anyway.’ She saw the disgusted expression on Logan’s face and snorted. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that — he was a shitebag. Remember Rosie Williams? Maybe McKinnon didn’t kill her, but he still beat her up badly enough to make her throw his arse out. And do you really think that was the first time he’d had a few pints and laid into her? Check his record: McKinnon liked to get drunk and beat up women. Bastards like that deserve all they get.’ Her voice was flat and bitter. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, Sergeant, some of us have real police work to do.’

‘Backstabbing arsehole...’ Logan stomped back down the stairs, muttering all the way. DI Steel seemed to have conveniently forgotten that he was the one who’d spotted the car with the missing prostitute in it. That if it wasn’t for him , DI Steel wouldn’t even have a suspect in custody... Wasn’t his fault Insch was on the warpath; if Steel had got her finger out and acted like a proper bloody detective inspector in the first place and actually told Insch they had Chib and his mate in custody, this would never have happened. Bloody DI Steel and her personal crusade to grab any glory going.

He stared out of the back door, watching the clouds whip across the pale grey sky. Jackie wouldn’t be home until after midnight, so all he had to look forward to tonight was an empty flat, a carry-out and a bottle of wine. Maybe two bottles. It wasn’t as if he’d been sticking to the diet anyway. Could always start again next Monday, when things got a little better. But he’d been saying that for the last three months, and they never did... It was time to go home.

He got as far as the off-licence before his mobile phone started ringing. Oh Christ, now what?

A depressingly familiar gravelly voice on the other end: ‘ Where the hell did you disappear off to? ’

Logan groaned. Bloody DI Bloody Steel. ‘Shift’s over, I’m going home.’

‘Don’t be daft: more important things in life than beer and nipples. Search team three’s just called in, they’ve found something.’

‘Holly McEwan?’ They’d found the fourth victim’s body.

‘No. Suitcase: red, smells like a dead dog in a sauna.’ A pause then some muffled conversation . ‘Get your arse back to the station — we’ve got a dismembered corpse to go play with.’

Garlogie Woods again. Logan pulled the filthy CID car up onto the grass verge about a hundred yards down from the packed lay-by. Steel had spent the trip out brooding and smoking while Logan drove. DC Rennie, however, had cleared himself a little nest in the piles of chip papers and pizza boxes that cluttered the back of the car — the damn thing was still filthy from Operation Cinderella — and discovered the foot well to be full of painful, eye-watering pornography. Showing remarkable strength of character, Rennie ignored it, sticking to Logan’s report on Jamie McKinnon’s murder instead, desperate to get it finished so he could go and start interviewing up at the prison when they were finished here.

The inspector clambered out of the car without a word and squelched her way through the rain-soaked undergrowth back to the lay-by, squeezing past the line of cars and vans parked up on the verge. Everyone and their dog were here: a canine unit sitting in the middle of the churned-up mud, flanked by one of the search team minibuses and what looked like Doc Wilson’s car. For once Logan was glad he was working with Steel rather than Insch. Given the inspector’s last encounter with the duty doctor, Logan didn’t want to be around when those two ran into each other again.

He waited on the grass verge while Rennie rummaged about in the boot, coming out with handfuls of latex gloves and evidence bags which he secreted about his person, making the pockets of his suit bulge. Logan locked the car, before asking Rennie what he was doing out here. ‘Thought Steel wanted you to look into Jamie McKinnon’s death.’

DC Rennie gave the same nervous smile he’d been wearing back at FHQ. ‘The inspector says I have to learn to multi-task. Says she doesn’t trust many people to do this one, just you and me, sir.’ Logan gave a humourless laugh. ‘Trusting’ wasn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe his relationship with DI Steel right now.

The gate to the dirt track leading into the forest had been jemmied open, a pair of fresh tyre tracks gouged into the dirt leading off up the hill. A uniformed constable examined their warrant cards and waved them through. The track was pitted and slithery with mud; heather bushes grew on either side, their little purple and white spears waving in the breeze as Logan and Rennie picked their way along the verge. Broom grew in dark green profusion to their right, the brown, brittle seed casings rattling in the breeze like a nest of venomous snakes. And on the other side, tall pine trees, the forest floor beneath them carpeted with fallen needles, soaked almost black with the rain, studded with red mushrooms and luminous green ferns. ‘You going to this thing tomorrow then?’ asked Rennie, as they waded through the wet grass.

‘Tomorrow?’

‘The funeral? You know, Trevor Maitland?’

Oh shit. Logan winced; he’d forgotten all about it. How the hell was he supposed to stand there and look Maitland’s widow in the eye? What was he supposed to say — I’m sorry I screwed up and got your husband killed? Great bloody comfort that would be. ‘What happened with that search on the Pirie woman?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘Eh? Oh, right...’ Rennie shook his head. ‘Jesus, what a munt she was! The Cruickshanks have filed about twenty complaints against her since Christmas: drunken, abusive behaviour mostly. Even tried for an antisocial behaviour order, but no luck so far. Banned for drink driving about three months ago — Mr Cruickshank tipped the local station off — done for assault last year, two counts of possession, but she got off with a warning. Rumours she was involved in some sort of kiddie porn ring, all anonymous complaints, but the Westhill station recognized the voice—’

‘Gavin Cruickshank again?’

‘Bingo.’ They reached the top of the hill and started down the other side, still following the rutted tracks in the mud. ‘There’s piles more, but basically she’s a dirty scumbag and Mr Cruickshank’s had it in for her ever since she moved in. Last complaint was made on the Tuesday night when she thumped him one.’