McRae 2 - Dying Light

by Stuart MacBride

  exactly what they claimed to. Swearing, DI Steel wiped her hands clean on the trousers of her off-grey suit, leaving two smears of defrosting orange breadcrumbs. 'Not fond of fish fingers then?' asked Logan innocently. 'Don't take the piss. I once found a whole freezer full of cannabis resin, all done up as packets of Weight Watchers chicken vindaloo.' She scowled, poked about in the frozen peas, then slammed the lid shut. 'Get onto the Drugs Squad. Tell them to take the damn place apart if they have to, but I want some sodding evidence!' Logan made the call, but he was pretty sure they wouldn't find anything. Chib and his quiet buddy had been way too damn calm for there to be anything incriminating on the premises. They left a uniformed officer to guard the house and drove back to FHQ via the Burger King on Union Street. The clock on the dashboard said five past three, so Logan checked his own watch: nine seventeen. Chib and his mate had been in custody for nearly an hour. 'We're going to have to get a shift on,' he said. 'Only got another five hours before we have to charge them or let them go.' 'Let them go my arse, those two are guilty as ... bloody hell, mayonnaise . . .' She wiped at the front of her blouse, smearing the glob of shiny white into the black material. 'Look like fuckin' Monica Lewinski. . . Anyway, we've got them on camera at the hospital. Jamie'll cop to them forcing that crack up his bum, or we'll do him for dealing.' She rubbed at her blouse again. 'You got any napkins?'

  Up in interview room number fiye there was a disturbingly calm and relaxed atmosphere. Brendan 'Chib' Sutherland sat on the other side of the interview table, wearing a white paper boiler suit while his own clothes were being examined for forensic evidence. He'd been photographed, DNA sampled and had his fingerprints taken by the LiveScan AFR machine. Right now the national computer database was

  being scanned for a match. Even though they already knew who he was. 'So then said Steel, settling a plastic cup of nasty coffee in front of Chib. 'How come you're no' bleating for a lawyer?' Chib smiled at her, picked up the coffee, sniffed it, and put it back on the chipped tabletop, untouched. 'Would it do any good?' 'No.' She turned to look at Logan, who was still fighting with the cellophane wrapping on a pair of blank videotapes. 'You know,' she said, 'it bugs the tits off me when they ask for a lawyer all the time, but when somebody doesn't it's kinda disappointing.' Logan grunted, clunked the switch to set the audio and visual records running, and read out the standard pre interview data. Then they settled down in silence for a minute, each side weighing up the other. And then Steel started in with the questions: where did Chib get the crack from? Why did they choose Jamie as their mule? 'I don't understand,' Chib put on a puzzled expression. 'Has this McKenzie made a complaint of some kind?' 'Not McKenzie, McKinnon, as well you know, you arrogant wee shite. You attacked him while he was lying in a hospital bed, broke four of his fingers and stuffed condoms filled with crack cocaine up his arse.' Chib chuckled in a good-natured sort of way. 'No, I'm sorry, you must be mistaking me for someone else.' 'We got you on the hospital security tapes, doing it.' Steel settled back in her seat and grinned. 'Now you can face the charges on your own, take the fall, play the big man . . . But you'd be going down for a long, long time.' The big man shook his head sadly. 'Inspector, I have never forced anything up anyone's backside against their will.' He smiled disarmingly. 'And we both know that there isn't a tape of this horrible crime being committed by me, because I'm not guilty of anything.'

  Steel snorted. 'Don't come it, Sunshine; you're guilty as sin. Your mate the child molester's being interviewed as we speak--' 'He's not a child molester.' Chib's voice took on the same ominous timbre it had in the pub. 'No?' Steel sniffed and paused for a bit of a chew. 'Long hair, moustache: looks like a child molester to me. Anyway, you think he isn't going to roll over on you? He'll spill his guts and you'll take the fall for the whole lot: drug trafficking, assault, resisting arrest--' 'I did no such thing!' He leant forward in his seat, hands on the tabletop, still secured together with the cuffs. 'As soon as the police officers identified themselves my companion and I complied fully with their instructions.' Steel puckered her lips, making her face look even more pointy. 'You and your mate can comply with my sharny arse--' There was a knock on the interview-room door and DC Rennie stuck his head round and asked if he could speak to the inspector for a moment. 'Aye,' said Steel, picking herself up from the squeaky plastic seat, 'hud on a minute. Interview suspended at... what is it, nine thirty-seven?' Silence settled back into the room as the inspector stepped outside with DC Rennie. Chib sat back in his chair, relaxing. 'You know,' he said to Logan once the tapes were stopped. 'You really look dreadful. But then I suppose that's what happens when one gets into the habit of drinking before lunchtime.' 'What?' 'Don't you remember? We rnet in that pub last week? You barged into me and then called me "mate" about seven hundred times. Wanted to buy me a drink. . .' He settled further back into his chair and treated Logan to his best smile. 'I was really rather flattered. Constable . . . ?' 'McRae. Detective Sergeant.' 'JVIcRae, eh? McRae, McRae, McRae, McRae.' A frown. 'Not

  Lazarus McRae? The one in all the papers last year? Caught that kiddie fiddler?' Logan admitted that it was. Chib smiled in admiration. 'Well, well, well, as I live and breathe, a real life police hero. If there's one thing I simply can't stand, it's paedophiles. Prison's too good for them. But I know I'm preaching to the choir on that one, eh?' He winked. Logan scowled. 'It was an accident.' The large man from Edinburgh nodded sagely. 'Right, an accident. I get you. Mum's the word.' There then followed a very uncomfortable silence. 'So,' said Logan eventually, 'heard from Kylie lately?' The smile froze on Chib's face. 'Who?' 'You know: Lithuanian, thirteen, bad perm, selling herself on street corners? Ring any bells?' 'I have no idea what you're talking about.' 'Oh, come on, you must remember Kylie: you used her to get that planning permission for Malk the Knife's new houses?' Chib frowned, making a big show of thinking about it. 'You know, I think I would remember doing something like that. Must be another case of mistaken identity.' 'What did you do? Sell her on to "Steve" when you were finished with her? Or is he working for you too? All part of one big, happy criminal family?' The thug cocked his head to one side and smiled at Logan. 'You do have a very active imagination, Sergeant. I would almost say--' The door clattered open and DI Steel hooked a thumb in Logan's direction, wanting him to join her in the corridor. 'It's that bloody prostitute-watch of yours,' she said, prodding him in the stomach with a nicotine-stained finger, ignoring the resulting grimace. 'The whole bloody team's sitting about like spare pricks, waiting for someone to brief them.' Logan groaned; he could see what was coming. 'I,' said Steel, 'am too busy with Twinkle Toes in there and his

  mate, to pish about all night on the off chance some dozy bastard's going to play Grab-A-Prozzie. Operation Cinderella was your idea: you deal with it.' She pointed an imperious finger down the corridor towards the stairs. 'And if you do catch the Shore Lane Stalker, make sure you don't arrest him till I turn up. I need the brownie points.' She turned her back on him and headed back into the interview room, closing the door behind her.

  Operation Cinderella had been running long enough for the novelty to wear off. The top brass didn't bother turning up to the briefings any more, and neither did middle management, so it was just DS Logan McRae and a roomful of bored police men and women. This was the second-last night they'd have a full contingent of officers, after tomorrow their five-day sanction would be up. The operation wouldn't be cancelled - there was too much danger of another woman going missing, turning this into a public relations nightmare - but the manpower would be severely restricted from Sunday night on. Just enough to keep the thing ticking over for appearance's sake, with as little impact on the overtime bill as possible. Logan gave the room the standard speech, leaving out the inspector's 'We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up' bit. As Steel wasn't in charge tonight, Logan was making some changes: for WPCs Menzies and Davidson, their minders and a skeleton crew working the video surveillance gear, it was business as usual; everyone else was to change into their civilian clothes and d
o the roiyids. Speak to the working girls. See if anyone hadn't turned up for work recently. If anyone was missing. It looked like their boy was more or less on a four-day cycle, that meant he'd probably have another one under his belt by now. And it might be a sack of shite, but everyone was to read through Dr Bushel's half baked psychological profile again. See if any of the girls, or

  their pimps, had seen, or screwed, anyone that fitted the doctor's loose description. They parked the CID pool car in the usual position down at the docks. Only this time Rennie was stuck behind the wheel while Logan slouched in the passenger seat. If there was any sleeping to be done - and Logan was determined there would be - he'd be the one doing it. Privilege of rank as DI Steel liked to say. They hadn't been in position for long before the world started to come and go in slow-motion flashes. His eyelids stayed down for longer each time until his chin sank towards his chest. The night passed in a blur, people came and went, but Logan didn't recognize any of them. The car was cold and uncomfortable and Rennie wouldn't shut up about his top ten best episodes of Coronation Street. When Logan finally got back to the flat, it was all he could do to take off his clothes and fall into the empty bed. 'Sleep, sleep, sleep . . .' Darkness. Then a soft hand on his shoulder and the warmth of a naked body against his. Gentle lips caressing the side of his neck, a hand making lazy circles amongst the scars on his stomach. Then lower, the kissing becoming more intense. And then she was on top, her long hair spiralling down across his face and chest, grunting and moaning as Jackie sat up in bed next to him and asked what all the noise was about. Click and the bedside light came on, exposing Rachael Tulloch in all her naked glory, straddling him. 'Oh,' said Jackie, 'that's all right then. I thought it was mice.' Logan tried to explain, but she just rolled over and went back to sleep while Rachael buried his face in her pale breasts. And then the door opened and his mother was standing there holding a frying pan, dressed like Henry the Eighth. 'Sir!' Her voice was hissing and urgent. 'I think they've found something.' 'Hmmmmmphf?' Logan sat bolt upright in the passenger seat, banging his head off the car roof. DC Rennie was looking at him with concern on his face.

  'You OK?' Logan scrubbed a hand across his eyes, slumped back in his seat and swore. 'First bloody dream in ages that doesn't feature dead bodies and you wake me up! Bastard!' 'Sorry, sir, but I thought you'd want to know - Caldwell says she's got a lead on a missing prostitute.' Logan shook his head, trying to banish the last remnants of the dream, the smell of Rachael's naked body still fresh in his nostrils. This was all DI Steel's fault! If she hadn't said anything about him screwing around he wouldn't be having dirty dreams featuring the Deputy Procurator Fiscal. He'd have been having his usual nightmares about rotting children, battered women and charred corpses. At least he wouldn't have this weird sense of guilt. 'What do you mean they've got a lead?' And the smell of Rachael was gone.

  26

  'Her name's Joanna said WPC Caldwell, jerking her thumb over her shoulder at a girl who couldn't have been much more than sixteen and was having difficulty standing upright. 'Says she usually meets up with this older woman before the start of their shift. You know, drink strong cider and cheap vodka. Get nice and numb.' The WPC sniffed and glanced back at the staggering prostitute, probably thinking she was old enough to be the girl's mother. 'Only "Holly" didn't turn up for work tonight. Or last night either.' Logan nodded, it was a long shot. Holly had probably taken a couple of days off, or was up in the infirmary getting a dose seen to, but you never knew. Joanna had the sunken cheeks and lazy eyes of someone on more than just alcohol. A plague of purple love bites infected either side of her neck, her breasts wobbling at the top of a grubby, petrol-blue basque, the left nipple poking through a hole in the lace. Black miniskirt and high-heeled ankle boots. She'd thrown a threadbare maroon coat over the top of the ensemble. Very stylish: if you were into authentic diseased-junkie chic. 'Joanna?' She looked up at him and smiled, hungrily. 'You looking for a good time?'

  'No. No I'm not.' And even if he was there was no way in hell he'd be looking for it with her. 'I want to speak to you about your friend Holly.' Joanna screwed up her face and spat a glob onto the cobbled street. 'Cow hasn't showed up for days! Owes me a pack of fags.' The shifty look was back. 'And fifty quid as well.' 'When did you last see her?' She shrugged, and dug her hands into her overcoat pockets. 'Dunno . . . What day is it today?' Logan told her it was Friday and she counted backwards on her fingers, taking two attempts to come to the conclusion, 'Tuesday night. That's when she begged the fags off me.' Tuesday night: four days after Michelle Wood was killed. Joanna leaned forward, exposing more of her chest than Logan wanted to see. 'She's no' been back since. No sign of her! Supposed to meet up for a wee drink before . . . you know, before we go out.' A car slowed down, then the driver caught sight of all the people hanging about beneath the streetlight and speeded up again. 'Aw, fuckV Joanna stomped a high-heeled foot and stared after the departing car. 'He was totally going to stop! You bastards have to piss off and leave me alone, or I'll never make any money!' 'Soon as you give us a last name for Holly, and an address too.' Joanna gazed down the empty street, where the car's taillights were just disappearing from view. She licked her lips, then looked back at Logan, that hungry glint in her eyes again. 'It'll cost you.'

  In the end Logan had to cover Holly's alleged debt: fifty quid and a packet of fags. The address was for a council flat in Froghall, an area of Aberdeen with a less than spotless reputation. There was no guarantee that Holly from Froghall was actually missing, but it wasn't worth taking the risk. He called

  FHQ and asked them to send a squad car round to the address. If she opened the door dressed in a rubber nun's outfit then at least they'd know she wasn't dead. He settled back into the passenger seat of the CID car to wait for the report, drifting in and out of sleep while Rennie kept watch on WPC Menzies down the far end of Shore Lane. He surfaced just after one, stiff and sore from sleeping in the car. According to Rennie, the streets had been pretty quiet. Business wasn't exactly booming in Aberdeen's red light district. Logan yawned; thank God he finally had a day off tomorrow - there was no way he could keep this up much longer. He tried to work the crick out of his neck, before radioing round to check in with the rest of the team. Rennie had been right, it'd been a quiet night to begin with, but now it was completely dead. Control called in at half past one: Alpha Two Zero had been to the address in Froghall but no one was home. Provided nothing more important came up, they were going to try again later, but Logan wasn't to hold his breath. Operation Cinderella was talking a big bite out of the nighshift as it was. There was a whole city out there that needed patrolling. By three o'clock in the morning, Davidson and Menzies were playing Eye Spy over their concealed radios, while the rest of the team played If-You-Had-To-Or-Die, picking names like Saddam Hussein, the Queen, Ann Widdecombe, Homer Simpson, Oprah Winfrey, and in one instance, DI Insch. Not surprisingly, more people were prepared to die rather than sleep with him. Finally Lo an called the operation to a halt and sent everyone back to FHQ. He left DC Rennie to park the car and headed up to Steel's incident room. No sign of her, she was still interviewing Chib and his friend. Logan checked his watch; they only had an hour and a bit before the pair of them would have to be formally charged, or released. A bored-looking constable was

  slouched against the wall outside interview room number three, reading a copy of the Evening Express and muttering under his breath. 'Mornin', sir he said when he saw Logan coming up the corridor. 'You lookin' for the inspector?' 'Yeah, she in there?' Logan pointed at the door over the man's shoulder. 'Nope, just that Chib bloke. Inspector's in number two with the other one.' 'You know if he's copped to anything?' 'Doubt it: this one's said bugger all the whole night Been like watching paint dry.' No surprise there. Logan couldn't see someone with Chib's reputation breaking down and confessing all his sins. He knocked on the door to number four, letting himself in without waiting for a reply. DI Steel was slouched back in her seat, arms folded, scowling at the man o
n the other side of the table. He was wearing one of the IB's paper boiler suits, but looked comfortable in it, as if he was at a pyjama party for alien abductees. A WPC stood in the corner, looking every bit as bored as the officer outside in the corridor. It seemed Chib's friend wasn't much of a talker either. There was a Manila folder sitting on the tabletop in front of the inspector and Logan helped himself to it, flicking through the sheets as Steel carried on her silent war of attrition. According to the file the suspect had been identified as one Greg Campbell from Edinburgh. There wasn't much on him: when he was wee he'd served some time in the same borstal as Chib, after that there was a bit of breaking and entering, resetting - flogging stolen car stereos down the pubs by the Edinburgh docks - and when he was seventeen he got into a pub fight and glassed someone. But since then he'd been relatively clean. Or at least he hadn't been caught, which was a different thing entirely. If Greg was hanging out with Chib, he was working for Malk the Knife. And Malkie I