Dying Light

25

Not one shot was fired. According to DC Rennie, Chib Sutherland and his hairy friend had been sitting calmly at the dining-room table, finishing off their microwaved ready meals. They didn’t shout, or fight back, or do anything, just calmly assumed the position — legs spread, hands flat on the tabletop. Rennie and his colleagues had searched the rest of the house, but there were no signs of any weapons, drugs, stolen goods, or anything else that would justify smashing their front door in with a battering ram.

‘So,’ said the inspector, stepping through into the lounge, where Chib and his mate were lying facedown on the carpet, a pair of armed officers standing over them with Glock 9mm pistols trained on the backs of their heads. ‘They give you any trouble?’

Chib raised his head from the blue tufted Wilton, his face perfectly calm and impassive. ‘My friend and I have done nothing wrong. We are cooperating with the police.’

‘Aye? I thought you two was supposed to be hard men? What happened to you’ll-never-take-me-alive-copper?’

‘My friend and I have no reason to cause trouble. We have done nothing wrong.’ There was no sign of menace in his voice, not like when he’d told Logan to fuck off in the pub.

‘Whatever. Rennie, get these two back to the station. Separate cars. I want them processed and in different interview rooms by the time I get there. OK?’ Rennie snapped off a salute and dragged Chib to his feet. The man was a good three inches taller than Rennie, but he allowed himself to be led from the room without any hint of a struggle. Just before he reached the door his eyes met Logan’s and there was a momentary flash of recognition, swiftly replaced by a calm poker face.

The big WPC who’d hefted the battering ram followed suit with Chib’s mate. In addition to the large moustache, the man now had a beautiful black eye. The WPC led him out to one of the waiting patrol cars, leaving Logan and Steel alone in the lounge. The inspector treated her armpit to a thoughtful scratch. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go have a poke about. See if we can’t find something Rennie and his idiots missed.’ The bedrooms looked as if they’d been caught in a tornado, all the drawers yanked out, beds stripped, wardrobes emptied. It was the same in the bathroom, and up in the attic the team had taken up the fibre-glass insulation, leaving the plasterboard visible between the rough timber joists. They’d even taken the top off the cold-water tank. Logan and Steel finished their tour of the premises in the garage, where a large chest freezer was stuck against the far wall. ‘Aha!’ The inspector strode across to it and wrenched the lid open. It was nearly empty, just a couple of packets of fish fingers and some bags of frozen peas. None of the usual mass of unidentifiable random meat that filled every other chest freezer Logan had ever seen. With a triumphant gleam in her eye, Steel pulled out a packet boasting: PURE COD FILLET WRAPPED IN CRISPY BREADCRUMBS! opened the flap at the end and tipped out a half-dozen pasty-orange blocks of processed fish onto the palm of her hand. ‘Shite,’ she said, peering into the now empty packet. She stuffed the fish fingers back in the box and tried the same trick with the remaining cartons. All contained 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 half an hour. ‘We’re going to have to get a shift on,’ he said. ‘Only got another five and a bit 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 five 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 met 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.’

‘McRae, 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 do the rounds. 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.