Logan winced his way into work, having breakfasted on Irn-Bru and painkillers. He couldn’t face solids. The morning had brought blue skies and a crisp wind that coated the previous night’s snow with frosted ice.
There was a press conference at half-nine and Logan was dreading it. Someone had climbed inside his head and was trying to push the contents out of his ears. His eyes, normally a reasonable crystal blue, looked like something out of The Brides of Dracula.
When he entered the briefing room there was another rather quiet round of applause, accompanied by a lot of wincing from the participants. He waved them a greeting and slumped down into his usual seat.
DI Insch shushed everyone into silence and then launched into the briefing. Flying in the face of nature, the inspector was remarkably chirpy. Even though he’d been the one calling for flaming Drambuies at two o’clock in the morning. There was no justice.
Insch worked his way through the events of the previous night, eliciting more applause at the appropriate moment. And then it was business as usual: search teams, research, door-to-doors. . .
When everyone else had filtered out Logan was left alone with DI Insch.
‘So,’ said the fat man, settling back on the desk and pulling out a pristine packet of fruit pastilles. ‘How you feeling?’
‘Other than the brass band kicking seven shades of shite out of my brain? Not bad.’
‘Good.’ Insch paused and picked at the wrapping. ‘Divers found Martin Strichen’s body at six-fifteen this morning. Caught in the weeds under the ice.’
Logan didn’t even bother trying to smile. ‘Right.’
‘Just so you know, you’re going to get a commendation for last night.’
He couldn’t meet the inspector’s eyes. ‘But Strichen died.’
Insch sighed. ‘Aye, he did. And so did his mum. But Jamie McCreath didn’t, and neither did WPC Watson. And no other kid’s going to either.’ He laid a bear-like hand on Logan’s shoulder. ‘You did good.’
The press conference was a cattle market: journalists shouting, cameras flashing, television pundits grinning. . . Logan bore it with the best grace he could.
Colin Miller was waiting for him when the conference was over, hanging around at the back of the room looking uncomfortable. He told Logan what a great job he’d done in finding the kid. How everyone was proud of him. He handed him a copy of that morning’s paper with the headline: ‘POLICE HERO FOILS CHILD KILLER!!! JAMIE RETURNED SAFE TO HIS MOTHER! PICTURES PAGES 3 TO 6. . .’. He bit his lip, took a deep breath and said, ‘Now what?’
Logan knew Miller wasn’t talking about the case. He’d been asking himself the same question all morning. Ever since he’d walked into Force Headquarters and didn’t go straight to see Inspector Napier and the rest of his Professional Standards goons. If he turned Isobel in she was ruined. But if he kept his mouth shut it could happen again: another investigation could be compromised, another chance wasted to catch a killer before he killed again. Logan sighed. There was only really one thing he could do. ‘You clear everything she tells you through me. Before you print it. If you don’t: I go straight to the Procurator Fiscal and she gets dragged through the mud. Criminal prosecution. Jail time. The whole thing. OK?’
Miller’s face went blank, his eyes locked on Logan’s. ‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘OK. It’s a deal.’ He shrugged. ‘From what she said, I kinda thought you’d throw the book at her if you found out. Said you’d jump at the chance to get rid of her.’
Logan’s smile was as forced as his words. ‘Yeah, well she was wrong. I hope you guys are going to be happy.’ He couldn’t look Miller in the eyes.
When the reporter had gone Logan wandered down to the reception area, staring out of the large glass doors at the gently falling snow. Thankful of the respite, he sank down on one of the uncomfortable purple seats and leaned his head back against the glass.
Jackie was going to be OK. And he was going to see her this afternoon, armed with a mound of grapes, a box of chocolates, and an invitation to dinner. Who knew, maybe this would be the start of something good?
Smiling, he stretched in his seat, yawning happily, as a heavy-set man pushed through the front doors, brushing the snow off his coat. The man was in his mid-fifties, with a carefully-sculpted beard which was now more salt than pepper. He marched purposefully towards the reception desk. ‘Hello,’ he said, twitching as if he had fleas. ‘I need to speak to the detective with the biblical name.’
The desk sergeant pointed at Logan. ‘Biblical hero, right over there.’
The man walked resolutely across the linoleum floor, his step only slightly loosened by however many whiskies he’d had to get his courage up this far. ‘Are you the Biblical Detective?’ he asked, his voice reedy and a little slurred.
Against his better judgment, Logan admitted that he was.
The man stood up straight as a stair rod, chest out, chin in the air. ‘I killed her,’ he said, the words coming out as if they were fired from a machinegun. ‘I killed her and I’m here to take the consequences. . .’
Logan rubbed a hand over his forehead. The last thing he needed was another case to worry about. ‘Who?’ he said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. And failing.
‘The girl. The one they found in the steading. . .’ His voice cracked and for the first time Logan saw that his eyes were cherry-red, his cheeks and nose scarlet from crying. ‘I’d been drinking.’ He shivered, locked in the past. ‘I didn’t see her. . . I thought . . . all that time. . . When you arrested that man, I thought it would all go away. But he was killed, wasn’t he? He was killed because of me. . .’ He wiped the back of an arm over his eyes and dissolved into tears.
So this was the man who’d killed Lorna Henderson. The man Bernard Duncan Philips had died for. The man Nurse Henderson had killed for.
Sighing, Logan pulled himself out of his seat.
Another case solved. Another life ruined.
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2005
Copyright © Stuart MacBride 2005
Stuart MacBride asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 9780007298976
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
DYING LIGHT
For Fiona
(again)
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Without Whom . . .
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Copyright
Without Whom . . .
The truth is a malleable thing, especially when I get my hands on it. So I have to thank the following lovely people for letting me bend their truths, sometimes beyond all recognition: The Procurator Fiscal’s Office in Aberdeen for letting me in on how the Scottish Justice System actually works; George Sangster of Grampian Police for an invaluable heap of police procedure and info; and my ‘first lady of the morgue’ – Ishbel Hunter the Senior APT at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary who is, as always, a star.
I also owe a debt of thanks to Philip Patterson – who isn’t just a bloody good agent, but a good friend too – and all at Marjacq Scripts; my wunderkind editorial gurus Jane and Sarah; the brilliant cast and crew at HarperCollins, particularly Amanda, Fiona, Kelly, Joy, Damon, Lucy, Andrea, and everyone else who has done such an excellent job in getting this thing out there; Kelley at St Martin’s Press and Ingeborg at Tiden, for their valuable input into this book; and James Oswald for his suggestions and photos of cheese.
I should probably thank the Aberdeen Tourist Board as well, for not having me lynched when the last book came out. If it’s any consolation: at least this one’s set in summer.
But mostly I have to thank my naughty wife Fiona (or she’ll thump me).
1
The street was dark as they entered the boarded-up building: scruffy wee shites in their tatty jeans and hooded tops. Three men and two women, nearly identical with their long hair, pierced ears, pierced noses and pierced God knew what else. Everything about them screamed ‘Kill Me!’
He smiled. They would be screaming soon enough.
The squat was halfway down a terrace of abandoned two-storey buildings – dirty granite walls barely lit by the dull streetlights, windows covered with thick plywood. Except for one on the upper floor, where a thin, sick-looking light oozed out through the dirty glass, accompanied by thumping dance music. The rest of the street was deserted, abandoned, condemned like its inhabitants, not a soul to be seen. No one about to watch him work.
Half past eleven and the music got even louder; a pounding rhythm that would easily cover any noise he made. He worked his way around the doorframe, twisting the screwdriver in time with the beat, then stepped back to admire his handiwork – three-inch galvanized wood-screws all the way round the door, holding it solid against the frame, making sure it stayed irrevocably shut. A grin split his face. This would be good. This would be the best one yet.
He slipped the screwdriver back into his pocket, pausing for a moment to stroke the cold, hard shaft. He was hard too, the front of his trousers bulging with barely concealed joy. He always loved this bit, just before the fire started, when everything was in place, when there was no way for them to escape. When death was on its way.
Quietly he pulled three glass bottles and a green plastic petrol can from the holdall at his feet. He spent a happy minute unscrewing the bottles’ caps, filling them with petrol and popping the torn rag fuses in place. Then it was back to the screwed-shut front door. Lever open the letter box. Empty the petrol can through the slot, listening to the liquid splash on the bare, wooden floorboards, just audible through the pounding music. A trickle seeped out under the door, dribbling down the front step to form a little pool of hydrocarbons. Perfection.
He closed his eyes, said a little prayer, and dropped a lit match into the puddle at his feet. Whooooomp. Blue flame fringed with yellow raced under the door, into the house. Pause, two, three, four: just long enough for the blaze to get going. Throw a half brick in through the upstairs window, shattering the glass, letting the throbbing music out. Startled swearing from inside. And then the first petrol bomb went in. It hit the floor and exploded, showering the room with burning fuel. The swearing became screaming. He grinned and hurled the remaining bottles into the blaze.
Then it was back to the other side of the road, to lurk in the shadows and watch them burn. Biting his lip, he pulled his erection free. If he was quick he could come and go before anyone arrived.
He needn’t have hurried. It was fifteen minutes before anyone raised the alarm and another twelve before the fire brigade turned up.
By then everyone was dead.
2
Rosie Williams died the way she’d lived: ugly. Lying on her back in the cobbled alley, staring up at the orange-grey night sky, the drizzle making her skin sparkle, gently washing the dark red blood from her face. Naked as the day she was born.
PC Jacobs and WPC Buchan were first on the scene. Jacobs nervously shifting from foot to foot on the slick cobbled road, Buchan just swearing. ‘Bastard.’ She stared down at the pale, broken body. ‘So much for a quiet shift!’ Dead bodies meant paperwork. A small smile crept onto her face. Dead bodies also meant overtime and Christ knew she could do with some of that.
‘I’ll call for backup?’ PC Steve Jacobs fumbled for his radio and called Control, letting them know the anonymous tip-off was for real.
‘Hud oan a mintie,’ said Control in broad Aberdonian. There was a pause filled with static and then, ‘You’re goin’ ta have ta hold the fort oan yer own for a bit. Everyone’s off at this bloody fire. I’ll get ye a DI soon as one ’comes available.’
‘What?’ Buchan grabbed the radio off Jacobs, even though it was still attached to his shoulder, dragging him off balance. ‘What do you mean, “as soon as one becomes a-bloody-vailable”? This is murder! Not some sodding fire! How the hell does a fire take precedence over—’
The voice of Control cut her off. ‘Listen up,’ it said, ‘I dinna care what problems you’ve got at home: you bloody well leave them there. You’ll do as you’re damn well told and secure the crime scene till I can get a DI to you. And if it takes all bloody night that’s how long you wait: understood?’
Buchan went furious scarlet, before spitting out the words, ‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘Right.’ And the radio went dead.
Buchan started swearing again. How the hell were they supposed to protect a crime scene with no IB team? It was raining for God’s sake; all the forensic evidence would be getting washed away! And where the hell were CID? This was supposed to be a murder enquiry – they didn’t even have an SIO!
She grabbed PC Jacobs. ‘You want a job?’
He frowned, suspicious. ‘What kind of job?’
‘We need a Senior Investigating Officer. Your “mate” lives around here doesn’t he? Mr Police Bloody Hero?’
Jacobs admitted that yes, he did.
‘Right, go wake the bastard up. Let him deal with it.’
WPC Watson had the nastiest collection of bras and pants that Logan had ever seen. All of her underwear looked like it had been designed by World War One zeppelin manufacturers on an off day – uniform baggy-grey. Not that he got to see a lot of Jackie’s underwear these days, but for a brief spell their shifts were in synch. Logan smiled sleepily and rolled over, the light from the hallway spilling through the open door, illuminating the rumpled bed.
He squinted at the alarm clock: almost two. Still another five hours before he had to report for work and yet another bollocking. Five whole hours.
Click, the light in the hall died. A soft silhouette filled the doorway, having a bit of a scratch as it scuffed its way back in
to bed. WPC Jackie Watson wrapped her unbroken arm around Logan’s chest and settled her head against his shoulder, unfortunately sticking the curly ends of her hair up his nose and into his mouth. Discreetly spitting them out, he kissed the top of her head, feeling the cool length of her body pressed against him. She ran a finger over the inch-long trails of scar tissue that crisscrossed his torso and Logan thought: maybe five hours wasn’t so long after all. . .
Things were just getting interesting when the doorbell went.
‘Damn it,’ mumbled Logan.
‘Ignore it, probably just drunks.’ The doorbell rang again, more insistent this time. As if the sod on the other end was trying to drill his way into the building with his thumb.
‘Bugger off!’ Logan shouted into the darkness, causing Jackie to dissolve into a fit of the giggles, but it didn’t deter the phantom ringer. Then Logan’s mobile phone joined in the noisy pre-dawn chorus. ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ He rolled off, provoking a groan of displeasure, and grabbed the phone from his bedside cabinet. ‘WHAT?’
‘Hello, sir? DS McRae?’ PC Steve Jacobs: the Fabled Naked Swordsman of Old Aberdeen.
Logan let his head slump, face first, into the pillow, still holding the phone to his ear. ‘What can I do for you, Constable?’ he asked, thinking that this had better be damned important if it was going to distract him from a naked WPC Watson.
‘Er . . . sir . . . We’ve kinda got a body . . . an—’
‘I’m not on duty.’
WPC Watson made a noise that said, yes he bloody well was, but not one that concerned Grampian Police.
‘Aye, but everyone else is off at some fire and we’ve no SIO, or IB or anything!’
Logan swore into the pillow. ‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘Where are you?’
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 41
