Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

Logan pulled out a sheaf of photographs, propping one up against the tape recorder directly in front of Dunbar: a naked woman, lying on her back in the middle of a dark alley. ‘Tell me about Rosie Williams.’ Dunbar moved so he wouldn’t have to look at the battered body any more, but Logan stuck another picture in front of him. A naked woman lying on her side on the damp forest floor. ‘No? How about Michelle Wood?’ Another photograph: wrapped in clear plastic in the boot of a car. ‘Or Holly McEwan? No? How about this one?’ A battered face, covered in blood, the photograph taken an hour ago while they’d waited for the ambulance to turn up. The final picture was a mugshot from the station’s collection: Skanky Agnes Walker, full face and side on. Dunbar stiffened.

Logan tapped the print with his finger. ‘She was the first wasn’t she?’

‘Dirty bitch...’ they were barely words.

A long silent pause, only broken by the dull whir of the tape machine and someone’s shoes squeaking on the linoleum in the corridor outside.

‘Tiffany. The one in the cellar. She said her name was Tiffany. Picked her up last night in a shiny new car and took her out to Balmedie beach.’ A small smile played around his lips as he relived the memory. ‘Paid her to suck my cock and when she was finished — smacked her over the back of the head with a hammer. Bundled her into the boot. Took her home. Dragged her down to the basement and tied her up. Couldn’t have timed it better,’ cos you know what?’ He leant forward and whispered the words. ‘The last one was dead.’

Something cold settled in the pit of Logan’s stomach. ‘The last one was dead?’

‘Dead. Three whole days she lasted for. You see, after I got away with the first couple I thought: what the hell? Why rush it? Why not just take her home: really make her pay for giving me her filthy fucking disease? Take my time. Make her pay for leaving me...’

Rennie’s face went white. ‘Christ on a stick.’

There was more. Now that the floodgates were open, Michael Dunbar wanted to tell them everything. Every last sordid detail of how he beat them, then raped them, then beat them some more. Stamping on their ribs, snapping their arms and legs, making them pay for what they’d done to his marriage and his family and his children and his life. Stripping them naked so there wouldn’t be any evidence. Dumping their bodies when they got too cold to play with any more...

Out in the corridor afterwards, Logan slouched against the wall, feeling nauseous, while DC Rennie carted Dunbar downstairs to the holding cells. The Shore Lane Stalker was due to appear in court at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, where he’d be refused bail and sent up to Craiginches until it was time to stand trial. And given his full confession and all the forensic evidence, there was no chance of anything other than a guilty verdict. And all done by the book.

With a deep sigh, Logan heaved himself upright, just in time to see DI Steel come thundering down the corridor, her face pinched and furious. ‘Where the hell is he?’ she demanded, stomping to a halt.

‘Who?’

She scowled. ‘You bloody well know “who”. The bastard you hauled in here without even consulting me!’

‘You were busy interviewing the Pirie woman—’

‘Don’t give me that CRAP! You know fine well I would’ve suspended the fucking interview!’ She stabbed him in the chest with a rock-hard, bony finger. ‘You interviewed Ritchie without my approval. How bloody dare you!’

Logan squared up to her, drawing himself up to his full height. ‘He confessed, OK? Four murders and two attempted. I interviewed him because you didn’t want to be disturbed, and he confessed.’

‘What the hell’s that got to do with anything? You went behind my back, you—’

‘I did my bloody job!’

‘Your job is to do whatever I tell you to do, you backstabbing, glory-grabbing—’

‘Me?’ Logan couldn’t believe his ears. ‘What about you? Remember this morning’s P&J? “DI Steel solves one of the most baffling cases in Scottish—”’

‘I don’t write the press releases, and you know it!’ They’d been getting steadily louder, but now her voice dropped to an icy whisper as she dug an envelope out of her jacket pocket and tore it open. ‘Know what this is?’ she asked, pulling out a sheet of paper. ‘It’s the letter of commendation I wrote to the Chief Constable for you and Rennie.’ She tore it into shreds and threw it in his face. ‘Believe me, Sergeant : if you ever fuck with me again I will personally screw you over so badly you won’t know whether to clutch your dick or cry.’ She turned on her heel and stormed off, leaving Logan to pick up the pieces.

They were supposed to be celebrating, but Logan wasn’t in the mood. His phone had gone off at least half a dozen times, but whenever he dragged it out the display said DI Steel was on the other end — probably wanting to have another go at him — so he let it ring through to voicemail, before giving up and just switching the damn thing off. He was off the clock; if the inspector wanted to shout at him, she could do it during office hours. He felt far too guilty to face her at the moment, especially after spending ten minutes Sellotaping the shredded letter back together again — her praise of Rennie and himself had been embarrassingly effusive.

Half seven and DC Rennie was back from the bar with the drinks: G&T for Rachael; pint of Stella for Logan and himself; vodka Irn-Bru, pint of special and two rum and Cokes for the four members of the search team who’d helped rummage through Michael Dunbar’s house. Rennie launched into an impromptu speech about how great they all were for catching Dunbar before he killed again, finishing it off with a toast to Detective Sergeant Logan McRae, without whom none of this would be possible.

There was a cheer and general clinking of glasses. Rachael was leaning over and telling one of the WPCs how many strings she’d needed to pull in order to get the search and arrest warrant set up so quickly, but how she knew it’d be worth it, as Logan was so damn clever. Two major high-profile crimes solved in as many days: first the Torso in the Suitcase and now the Shore Lane Stalker. Apparently there was nothing he couldn’t do.

Doc Fraser turned up in time for the second round. He looked knackered as he knocked a huge bite out of his Guinness, sighed and wiped the white foam moustache off his top lip. ‘Christ, I needed that.’

‘Rough day?’

Doc Fraser nodded and took another deep gulp. ‘You don’t know the half of it. With Isobel out of the picture I’ve got to do the whole lot myself. And you know what it’s like just now: bloody dead bodies all over the place. The amount of junkies I’ve sliced up this week...’ Sigh. ‘Oh, and before I forget, that stinking torso you lumbered me with yesterday: same stab wounds and stomach full of antidepressants as your rotting dog carcass.’ He sat back, frowning. ‘Come to think of it, every rotten, suppurating corpse I’ve hacked up in the last six months has been one of yours, did you know that? You’re now officially off the morgue Christmas-card list.’

‘Ah, you love it really.’ Logan smiled. ‘So how come you’re doing all the post mortems? Where’s Isobel?’

The pathologist shrugged and polished off the last of his pint. ‘No idea: didn’t come in today. Tried phoning her, but no reply. Mind you, she’s been acting like a rabid futtrit for weeks now, maybe the boys from Cornhill finally came and carted her away? Gave her a nice padded cell and all the crayons she can eat.’

The mood started to sour when someone from the Drugs Squad turned up and told them how DI Steel had caught the real Shore Lane Stalker! Rennie surged to his feet, demanding to know who the hell said DI Steel caught anyone. ‘It was us!’ he said, slapping his chest. ‘We caught the bastard, not her! She wasn’t even there!’ Logan just groaned. He hadn’t got around to telling Rennie about the letter of commendation yet.