Dying Light

36

Neil Ritchie looked like shit: hunched over, dark purple bags under his bloodshot eyes, hair wild and unkempt, rocking back and forth in a creaky plastic chair. The noise of an overcrowded prison going about its daily life filtered in through the interview-room walls, while an old cast-iron radiator clunked and rattled impotently in the corner. All being recorded for posterity by the tapes whirring away in the machine. The mug of tea Logan had made for DC Rennie sat in front of the trembling man along with one of the pilfered Wagon Wheels, neither of which he’d touched. ‘So,’ said Logan, leaning forward in his seat, purposely mirroring Ritchie’s posture, ‘how you feeling, Neil?’

The man stared fixedly at the tea, watching a thin skin form on the surface. His voice was little more than a whisper. ‘They... they put me in a cell with a criminal. He stabbed someone! He told me he stabbed someone...’ Neil Ritchie screwed up his face, holding back the tears. ‘I don’t belong here! I didn’t do anything!’

This was exactly the same trick he’d pulled with DI Steel, protest total innocence and repeat ad nauseam. Logan struggled to keep the sympathetic expression on his face. ‘What about Holly McEwan, Neil? They found her hair in your car, on the passenger seat. How did it get there, Neil? Help me understand how it got there and maybe I can help you. Did you give her a lift?’

‘No!’ The word came out like a moan. ‘I never did anything with those women — I promised Suzanne. Never again. Never.’

‘But they found her hair in your car, Neil.’ Logan settled back in his seat, sipping his lukewarm tea, letting the silence stretch.

On the other side of the desk, Ritchie shuddered. ‘I told her — the inspector — I told her it must have happened before I got the car!’ His eyes locked on Logan’s, shining with tears. ‘Someone else gave her a lift! It wasn’t me... it wasn’t me...’

‘Your car’s brand new, Neil. The garage delivered it to you by seven pm the night Holly went missing: there’s a video of her being driven away in your car five and a half hours later.’

‘No! No! It... the car wasn’t there till the morning! I woke up and it was in the drive, it was supposed to be there on Tuesday night — I had to take the bike to the shops. I was going to complain to the garage, but they left a note and a bottle of champagne...’

Lies. Logan sat back in his seat and watched Ritchie rattling on about how he didn’t like to complain, like the good, little passive-aggressive monster he was. It was odd to think that this trembling wreck had killed three women. Not to mention beating the crap out of Skanky Agnes Walker. ‘What happened to your old car, Neil?’ he asked, cutting across Ritchie’s incessant whining. He was willing to bet it would be chockablock with forensic evidence. ‘When you bought the Audi — what happened to your old car?’

The man looked at him, puzzled. ‘I... I didn’t have one. Not for years. I’ve been on the bike. I only bought the bloody Audi because Suzanne kept going on about growing up...’ A sob. ‘Oh God, why did I have to listen to her?’

Logan sat and stared at him. Then slowly, and with much consideration, he said, ‘Oh, shite.’

Five minutes later Logan charged back to the interview room and told Rennie to drop whatever he was doing. The constable spluttered, pointing at the greasy individual sitting on the other side of the table. ‘But I’m in the middle of an interview!’

Logan shook his head. ‘Not any more you’re not. And anyway,’ he said, giving the prisoner a quick once over, ‘Dirty Duncan here isn’t your man. Wouldn’t hurt a fly would you, Dunky?’ The man smiled nervously and mumbled apologies, hands busy beneath the table while Logan hurried Rennie out of his seat.

‘But—’

‘But nothing. Dunky would’ve been too busy wanking himself blind to see anything. Wouldn’t you, Dunky?’ Dirty Duncan Dundas nodded coyly, his shoulders quivering as he rubbed at himself under the table. They got out of there before he could finish.

‘But I don’t understand!’ Rennie whined on the way back to the car. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Someone’s screwed up big time, that’s what’s going on.’ Logan hooked a thumb over his shoulder, back the way they’d come. ‘That brand-new car Neil Ritchie bought? It’s the first one he’s owned for years; he normally rides a motorcycle, his wife drives a tiny hatchback.’

‘So?’

‘Skanky Agnes: her flatmate said whoever beat her up was driving a big flashy BMW. That sound like a Renault Clio to you?’

Rennie thought about it. ‘Oh fuck.’

‘Pretty much what I said.’

‘So we’re back to square one!’

‘No,’ Logan grinned again. ‘We’re not. Not by a long chalk.’

Wellington Executive Motors gleamed in the sunshine, the glass-and-chrome building only outshone by the polished, expensive motorcars arranged around it. The same Vivaldi soundtrack greeted them as they pushed through onto the showroom floor, but the saleswoman kept her distance: she’d obviously learned her lesson last time — McRae and Rennie weren’t here to spend money.

Mr Robinson, the manager, wasn’t pleased to see them back either. He hustled them into his office before any of the paying customers could be put off their purchases. ‘What now?’ He closed the blinds, hiding the showroom.

‘Your staff,’ said Logan. ‘Do they have access to the cars? Out of hours?’

Mr Robinson licked his lips and said ‘em...’ a couple of times. ‘The sales team are encouraged to drive the demonstrator models and study the manuals, so they can answer any questions.’ He gave a sickly smile. ‘It’s all part of Wellington Executive Motors’ commitment to—’

‘The guy who delivered Neil Ritchie’s car...’ Logan checked his notebook for the name. ‘Michael Dunbar — what does he drive?’

‘He, em...’ Round beads of sweat were prickling out on Robinson’s shiny forehead. ‘I’d have to check.’

‘You do that. And while you’re at it, I want to know every car he’s had in the last two months. And I want to see his personnel records too.’ Logan sat in one of the comfortable leather seats reserved for special customers and smiled as the beads of sweat on Mr Robinson’s face started dribbling their way down his face and around his jowls. ‘And yes, we’d love a cappuccino.’

According to the company’s records, Michael Dunbar had been assigned a different car every week: Lexus, Porsche, Mercedes, but he was driving a silver BMW the week Skanky Agnes was assaulted. ‘So,’ said Logan, ‘where is he today?’

Mr Robinson worried a hand through the strands of hair stretched across his bald crown. ‘I just don’t see how this can do any good. I mean, there’s no way any of my staff—’

‘Where is he?’

‘He, erm... called in sick this morning: migraine. Michael suffers from them now and then, ever since the divorce...’

Logan scanned through the showroom timesheets for the last fortnight. ‘Looks like he called in sick last Wednesday too.’ The day after Holly McEwan went missing, presumed dead. ‘Another migraine?’ Mr Robinson nodded. Logan double checked the sheet: every time a prostitute was abducted and killed, Michael Dunbar called in sick the next day. And today he was off with another migraine. That probably meant another dead body.

The radio is on in the garage, Classic FM playing Dido’s Lament, Dame Janet Baker making every word hang in the air like a dying jewel. Humming along with the music, he packs away the vacuum cleaner’s extendable hose and carries the machine back through into the house, returning it to the cupboard under the stairs. Ever since Tracy... Ever since THE DIVORCE, he has kept the house spotless. Not a thing out of place.

It’s a big house — big enough for a husband, a wife and three children. Big enough to feel empty and hollow now that it’s just him on his own. With a sigh he lays his forehead against the wall and closes his eyes, sharing the house’s emptiness. Its sadness.

In the garage, the music swells to a close and then some crass advert for double-glazing blares out, spoiling the moment. Frowning, he goes back through and turns the radio down.

The car sitting in the middle of the garage is now as clean as the house: a shining, top-of-the-range BMW coupé, silver with black leather and walnut trim. Very stylish, and his for another three days. Then, maybe he’ll try a Lexus, something with a lot of storage space? After all, this time it’s been a bit of a squeeze. He closes the BMW’s boot, making sure the plastic sheeting doesn’t get caught in the lock. He’ll go for a drive later, somewhere nice and secluded where no one will see him.

He takes one last look at the car before heading back into the house.

The cellar is bigger than it looks. Before THE DIVORCE this room was full of things: forgotten wedding presents, the children’s old toys, shoeboxes full of photographs, bits of furniture Tracy inherited from her parents... But not any more. It all went when Tracy did. Now the basement is hollow and dead, swept twice a day, mopped every other day. Cleanliness is important. Cleanliness is always important. After all, one wouldn’t want to catch anything.

The doorbell goes and he looks up at the ceiling. Perhaps if he ignores it... But the doorbell sounds again, a cold and empty noise in a cold and empty house. He sighs, but does his trousers up. He can always come back. There’s no rush.

He climbs back up the stairs to the hall, and locks the cellar door behind him as the doorbell chimes once more. ‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ He walks down the hall, pausing to check his reflection in the mirror, putting on his migraine face, just in case it’s someone from work, come to see if he needs anything. They’re good that way. But when he opens the door — squinting painfully into the afternoon light like his head is splitting open — there’s a man he doesn’t know standing outside, dressed in a dark grey suit that would benefit from professional cleaning. A man he’s sure he’s seen somewhere before...

‘Mr Dunbar?’ says the man, with a cold smile, holding up some sort of ID card, ‘DS McRae. Mind if we come in?’