Dying Light

27

The sunshine was somehow thinner today, as if it knew autumn was on the way. Logan and Jackie wandered along Union Street, fighting their way in and out of the stream of Saturday-morning shoppers. So far the day had consisted of a much needed lie-in, a late breakfast and a long shower. Jackie had unplugged the phone and made Logan switch off his mobile — they were going to have a day off, just like normal people did. They stopped off pretty much at random: a couple of bottles of wine, a CD, some chocolate, and then off into the Trinity Centre where Logan had to hang about while Jackie tried on clothes. Just what he wanted to do on his day off. He slumped against the wall, along with all the other afflicted husbands and boyfriends whose womenfolk had decided it would be fun to go shopping.

While Jackie was in the changing room with an armful of blouses and trousers, he clicked his phone back on to see if anyone was looking for him. There was a message from Colin Miller sounding depressed. Logan wandered off to the periphery of the changing area, far enough to not be overheard by the motley collection of bored men, but still close enough to keep an eye on Jackie’s shopping, and called him back. ‘What can I do for you, Colin?’

‘Hey, Laz.’ Sigh. ‘Wonderin’ if you’ve got anythin’ for me?’

‘What, again? What happened to the Lithuanian spit roast?’

‘Bugger all, that’s what happened to it. I went and spoke to the guy in Plannin’: says they threatened to go to the press with pictures of him and Marshall with their dicks in that wee girl if he didn’t push through the plannin’ permission for Malk the Knife’s houses.’ Another sigh. ‘Can you see the headline? Housing HOOD HIRES TEENAGE TART TO PERVERT PLANNING! exclusive... I can’t publish anythin’: they’ll kill me.’

Logan was about to admit that Miller had a point when Jackie stuck her head round the corner of the changing room, searching the collection of bored men for him. He had just enough time to throw Miller a hurried goodbye and switch the phone off again before she saw him. As soon as she did he was handed a pile of clothes and told to find the same things in a size fourteen. As he rummaged through the summer tops, Logan wondered why on earth he’d agreed to come on this expedition; probably because Jackie had made the gesture of a full Scottish breakfast this morning — a peace offering, like the curry he’d bought last week — and he was still feeling guilty for having that dream about Deputy PF Rachael Tulloch. And her pale breasts...

An hour later they’d got as far as Marks and Spencer’s underwear department — no doubt to buy some more World War I army surplus industrial-strength bras and pants — before Logan got the chance to secretly turn his mobile on again, intending to call Miller back and see what else the reporter had got out of Councillor Marshall’s friend. The screen lit up with about a dozen messages, all from DI Steel. Call her back, or ignore her? It was his day off after all. He called her back.

‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling all bloody morning!’

‘I’m on my day off,’ said Logan, eyes darting across the rows of underwired bras, making sure Jackie was still in the fitting room.

‘Don’t be so bloody wet; we’ve got a missing tart to find!’

‘We don’t even know she’s missing.’

‘Aye, well that’s where you’re wrong. Got a warrant to force entry this morning. Found the boyfriend passed out in a pool of vomit — he’s no’ seen her for about a week.’

‘Maybe she’s gone away for a bit?’

‘Aye, right, and my arse squirts perfume. Get back here: we need to come up with a plan.’

‘I’m on my day off!’ He turned and scowled at a line of scarlet thongs. ‘Can this not wait until tomorrow?’

‘No it bloody can’t.’

Jackie could tell he’d done something stupid the moment she stepped out of the changing room. ‘You’re going in, aren’t you? That bitch called and you’re going in.’ Logan nodded and she screwed her face up, counting to ten. ‘Right, I want you back at the flat by seven at the latest — we’re having dinner. If you’re late I’ll kill you. And then I’ll kill her. Understood?’

Logan kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thanks.’

‘Aye, well, just you make sure you solve this bloody case and get shot of the rancid old cow for good.’

The rancid old cow was standing in front of the incident-room whiteboards, a magic marker in one hand and a cup of milky coffee in the other. There was a new picture on the board — though this time it wasn’t paired off with one from the associated post mortem — and DI Steel stared at it, tapping the pen off her cigarette-yellowed teeth. The new girl was in her late thirties: frizzy bleached-blonde hair, brown eyes — one slightly off centre, wide nose, cleft chin and one of those fake-looking beauty spots. Like a greasy black mole. Not the prettiest. Right up their killer’s alley. DI Steel turned suddenly and caught Logan standing behind her. ‘Jesus,’ she said with a start, ‘what you doing sneaking up on me like that for? You want to give me a heart attack?’

Chance would be a fine thing. ‘This Holly?’ he asked, pointing at the new face.

‘Yup. Probably lying battered and dead in a ditch by now, but at least we know who we’re looking for. I’ve got three search teams out.’ She counted them off on her fingers, ‘Hazlehead, Garlogie and Tyrebagger — where we found the last one.’

Logan nodded. ‘Think he’ll go back to the same place twice?’

‘Stake my left boob on it, but just in case I want the other two given the once over. And if we don’t find anything we expand the search: get some more bodies in and work our way through every bit of woodland from here to Inverurie.’ Logan shuddered to think just how much effort that would take.

‘So what do you want me to do then?’ he asked. ‘Sounds like you’ve got it all under control.’

Steel opened her mouth and then closed it again. ‘Buggered if I can remember,’ she said at last. ‘Oh, aye: that woman with the missing husband’s phoned about a million times today, and you’ve got to go see Complaints and Discipline. Here.’ She passed him a hand-scrawled note. ‘If you hurry you’ll just catch him.’

Logan sat in the small reception area outside Professional Standards scowling at the note, trying to get some sense out of its random collection of squiggles. He could strangle DI Steel! Dragging him in on his day off, again, just so that smug bastard Napier could tell him he was going to be fired. Hooray! What a great way to spend the day. It would serve them all right if he just marched straight in there, slammed his warrant card down on the table and told Count Nosferatu where he could shove it. The job and the warrant card both, right up his sanctimonious ar—

‘Ah, Sergeant, if you’d like to step inside...’ It wasn’t Napier, it was the other one, the quiet one who always sat in the corner taking notes. The quiet man settled himself down into one of the nasty visitor chairs and motioned for Logan to do the same. There was no sign of Napier.

‘I take it you know why you’re here?’ said the inspector, pulling out a copy of Sandy the Snake’s complaint. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson alleges that you were abusive and threatened him when he visited the station yesterday. That you said you would, and I quote, “break his bloody fingers”. Is that correct?’ Logan nodded and kept his mouth shut. ‘I see,’ said the inspector, scribbling something down on his copy of the form. ‘And were there any witnesses to this incident?’

Sigh. ‘No. We were alone in the reception area.’

‘Really?’ The inspector sat forward in his chair. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson says that a member of the public was also present. A Mr...’ he flicked through his notes. ‘Mr Milne who’d come in to report a theft?’

‘Milne?’ Logan frowned. ‘What, Manky Milne? He turned up, ranting about having his script nicked, same as he does every Friday. Thinks if he reports his dihydrochloride stolen he can get more from the drugs rehabilitation scheme. But he’s just selling them on to buy heroin. Makes up the difference with a bit of housebreaking.’

‘I see... so not a reliable witness then.’

‘Last time he was in court the judge called him a barefaced liar with the morals of a plague rat. And anyway, he didn’t arrive till after.’

The inspector smiled. ‘Excellent. In that case it will be down to Mr Moir-Farquharson’s word against yours. Especially if this Milne character wasn’t even present at the time of the alleged incident... Excellent, excellent... Well, thank you for your time, Sergeant. I’m sure you have much more important things to be getting on with.’ And that was it: Logan was shown out of the office, given a handshake and sent on his way.

He stood on his own in the empty corridor, the sound of damp shoes squeaking on the drab, dirty-olive floor from somewhere round the corner. ‘What the hell was that all about?’ This just didn’t make any sense. It actually felt like the inspector was trying to help... Maybe he was having some good luck for a change? If so he’d better make use of it, before it disappeared again. Logan commandeered a couple of uniforms, an office, and three portable video units. They were going to go through the footage shot by Operation Cinderella on the night Holly McEwan went missing.