Stuart MacBride - Dying Light

Logan clambered in behind the steering wheel, but Jackie told him to shift his backside over. He wasn’t getting to drive. ‘But it was ages ago, I—’

‘I don’t care. Last thing we need is you getting done for drink driving. We’re in enough trouble as it is.’ She started the car and struggled into her seatbelt, wincing as she twisted to clip the buckle into place. ‘Did Insch know you’d been on the piss?’

‘Don’t think so... Least, he didn’t say anything.’

‘Good.’ She pulled out into the road, heading back towards the flat. ‘What did you tell him?’

‘Everything... Well, everything except for Colin’s fingers and the fact we were staking out Chib’s house without any sort of official sanction. Didn’t think that would go down too well.’

Jackie groaned and swung the car onto Holburn Street. ‘Why the hell did we let you talk us into this?’

Logan sank down in his seat. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘I don’t actually feel bad enough already.’ He clicked on the police radio, looking to pick up any news from the roadblocks, or an update on Steve. Nothing. He pulled out his phone and called A&E. Constable Jacobs was in surgery and his condition was critical. They’d know more in a few hours.

Logan let his head rest against the cool glass of the passenger-side window. What a great day: in the morning he’d gone to the funeral of someone he’d got shot; in the afternoon he’d caught a serial killer; in the evening someone else had taken all the credit for it; and now he’d presided over yet another shooting. What a great, great, great, great, day. Not to mention finding out he’d been responsible for a friend getting their fingers hacked off. No wonder he was part of DI Steel’s Screw-Up Squad: it was where he belonged. Speaking of which, he might as well get it over with... He pulled out his phone and called up DI Steel’s messages, feeling more and more depressed as they played. ‘ Logan, where the hell are you? Press conference in half an hour — be there!’ Beeeeeeep. ‘It’s me again — what, are you sulking? Come on, get your arse in gear, the CC wants you to give a speech, or some fuckin’ thing .’ Beeeeeeep. ‘Ten minutes — where are you? Look, I forgive you, OK? Now get back here! ’ Beeeeeeep. ‘ Jesus, Logan: why do you have to be so high fucking maintenance? Come on! ’ Beeeeeeep. And on and on. The last one was a curt ‘ You’d better have a bloody good excuse for not turning up! ’ Far from stealing all the glory, she’d actually been trying to give him his moment in the spotlight. ‘Wonderful.’ He deleted all the messages. It was too late now anyway, he’d screwed that up, just like he’d screwed up everything else.

He still had no idea what to do about Miller. With Chib on the run Isobel would be on Logan’s back the whole time: nipping his head about how he was supposed to have done something, and why had no one caught them yet, and what if they came back, and... Logan screwed up his face and swore and swore and swore. ‘Turn the car round!’

‘What?’ Jackie pointed at the junction in front of them. ‘We’re nearly home.’

‘Turn it round!’

She gave a theatrical sigh and hauled the car around, doing a U-turn on Union Street. ‘Where to, o great and wise master?’

‘What if Chib’s not on his way south? What if he’s got unfinished business?’

Now it was Jackie’s turn to swear. ‘Colin Miller’s fingers.’

‘Exactly. Chib knows we’re on to him, he’s going to think it’s Miller’s fault.’

She floored the accelerator, tearing down Union Street, ignoring the red lights on Union Terrace and the amber outside the Music Hall, deserted streets and shops flashing by on either side. ‘You going to call for backup or what?’

Logan braced himself as Jackie bounced the car through the Y-junction at the top of Holburn Street, following the road round onto Albyn Place. ‘What if I’m wrong?’

‘Then you look like an arse. What if you’re right?’

‘Miller doesn’t want anyone to know about his fingers, he—’

‘Tough shit. Steve doesn’t want to be lying in hospital with a bullet in him! That Weegie bastard held his hands up earlier we’d have Chib in custody days ago, instead of getting our arses shot off!’

She was right. Logan pulled out his phone and made the call — closing his eyes as Jackie rallied the car around the Queen Victoria roundabout — only to be told no one was available: everyone they had spare was manning roadblocks. Logan swore, hung up and dialled DI Insch’s mobile. ‘You do know he’s going to fire me for this, don’t you?’ he asked while the phone rang. ‘Inspector? It’s Logan — I need some backup.’

‘ Backup? What the hell do you need backup for? ’ Logan told him about Miller’s fingers and Chib’s threat to return if he was caught talking to the police again. ‘ You think he’s daft enough to go back there? You mad? He’ll be scooting it down the road with his tail between his legs! ’

‘What if he’s not?’

Grumbling, Insch said he’d see what he could do and hung up. Jackie slowed the car to a more normal speed and turned off onto Forest Road, the entrance to Aberdeen’s moneyed district. ‘Well?’ she asked.

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe? What sort of answer is that?’

‘The one I got, OK?’ He pointed at the entrance to Rubislaw Den North. ‘You want to go left here then on round the corner.’

The street was silent. Little flecks of light danced across the pavements, sodium-yellow streetlight dappled through the swaying leaves of huge, mature beech trees. The house was up ahead, as dark and silent as the rest of the street. Logan tapped on the passenger window. ‘Pull in here.’

Jackie squeezed the car in between a grubby blue Transit Van and a soft-top Porsche. ‘Right,’ she said, creaking on the handbrake, ‘what’s the plan?’

‘Sneak up, have a look about. If nothing’s happening we come back and wait in the car.’

‘Great. Just what I need: more hours cooped up in this bloody heap.’

They stepped out into the night, picking their way past the filthy van. Logan stopped, turned, frowned and asked Jackie if it looked familiar to her. ‘You kidding?’ she said, turning her back on it. ‘Looks like every other crappy Transit in the whole city. I thought we were in a hurry?’

Logan marched up the path to Isobel’s house, cupping his hands against the drawing-room window and peering through into the darkened room. Nothing. The lounge was the same. There was no way to get around to the back of the house.

‘Now what?’ asked Jackie.

‘Could always try the bell I suppose.’ Logan pressed the button and the familiar biiiiiing-bonnnnnnnng rang out from deep inside. They settled back to wait, and wait and — Logan tried the bell again. Both cars were in the drive: they had to be in, it was half past three in the morning!

Jackie peered through the letterbox. ‘Like a graveyard in there.’

‘Is it just me,’ said Logan, ‘or are you starting to get a bad feeling about this?’

‘Maybe they’ve both passed out? You said Doc MacAlister was getting laid into the whisky when you were here — Miller’ll be on painkillers...’

Logan stood back, gazing up at the dark house. ‘What’s the worst that can happen if we go in there and nothing’s wrong?’

‘You get your bollocks chewed off for breaking and entering.’

‘Not if we’ve got a key...’ He tipped up the small pot of pansies growing beside the door and rummaged about in the shadows beneath it, coming up with nothing but dirt and a worm. He tried the other side. Nothing. ‘Damn, she used to keep a spare key out here.’