Dying Light

8

Logan spent the next few hours going around the car parks and alleys again, but it wasn’t any use — the young lady from Lithuania was the only one who’d seen Jamie McKinnon. Everyone else had been too busy making a living in doorways and strangers’ cars.

Force Headquarters was like a graveyard when he pushed through the back doors, not a soul to be seen. Except for Big Gary, still sitting behind the desk, with a Teach Yourself French book and a packet of chocolate Hobnobs.

‘Any news on PC Maitland?’ Logan asked, helping himself to a biscuit.

The large man shook his head. ‘Far as I know, he’s still in intensive care.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You know, no’ everyone blames you for it, OK? I mean, it’s no’ your fault they was tooled up. Is it?’

Logan smiled sadly. ‘So how come I still feel like shite then?’

‘’Cos you’re no’ a heartless wanker, like some of the tubes round here.’ He patted Logan’s shoulder with a massive hand. ‘He’ll be fine. Stick some cash in the whip-round: we’ll get him a stripper. This’ll all blow over. You’ll see.’ Logan thanked him for his optimism then sodded off to the canteen for a cup of tea and a sandwich, taking both down to Records so he could look at some mugshots while he ate. Searching for a big bloke with a shaved head and a goatee beard: the fourteen-year-old Lithuanian girl’s pimp. Clicking his way through ream after ream of bad guys on the computer.

By the time three o’clock arrived, he’d only managed to get through a fraction of FHQ’s collection of mugshots. Tomorrow he’d get someone to put together an e-fit identikit picture. Email it round, see if anyone recognized the man. Straightening up with a creak and a yawn, Logan headed back out into the night, wanting to take one last look for Kylie. So much for knocking off at two.

There wasn’t a lot of activity down at the docks; Wednesday wasn’t really a night for hard drinking so there were fewer drunken idiots staggering out of the nightclubs and strip joints to prowl the streets in search of a cash-based romantic interlude. And that meant most of the prostitutes went home too. Now it was just the hard-core left. The women who were the most desperate. Who hadn’t had much luck earlier in the night. The ones with varicose veins and no teeth. The ones like Rosie Williams.

Logan walked the docks again, but there were only four working girls still out, three of whom he’d spoken to earlier. The last ‘girl’ was in her mid to late forties — difficult to tell in the flickering streetlight — dressed in a cheap miniskirt and PVC raincoat, a pair of black plastic kinky boots finishing off the ensemble. Seeing her, Logan wasn’t surprised she only came out in the wee small hours, when all her punters would be at their most pissed and least picky. Her face was odd, distorted, lumpy... And that’s when he realized: someone had beaten the crap out of her recently. That’s why her smile was twisted and her face uneven, swollen from the blows. She’d tried to plaster over the bruises with make-up.

She saw Logan staring at her and said, ‘You lookin’ for a good time?’ The words were slurred, slightly lisping — probably missing a couple of teeth. ‘Good-lookin’ guy like you, must be lookin’ for a good time...’ She wiggled her hips at him, winced and opened her PVC raincoat wide, exposing a black lace bustier over white skin covered in bruises. ‘See anythin’ you like?’

There was no way Logan could answer that honestly. ‘Someone give you a going over?’

She shrugged and dragged a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket, sticking one between her swollen lips and lighting it with a petrol-station lighter. ‘You a cop?’ She looked him up and down. ‘Naw, don’t bother answerin’ that. Course you’re a fuckin’ cop.’ The first good lungful of smoke set off a coughing fit, eyes closed, left arm clutching her ribs as she hacked and grimaced.

‘Those things’ll kill you.’

She stuck her middle finger up at him and wheezed to a rattling stop, before spitting a dark wad out onto the street. ‘I want health advice I’ll go to my fuckin’ doctor. What do you want? Kickback? Freebie?’

Logan tried not to shudder. ‘Rosie Williams,’ he said instead. ‘Got herself killed night before last. I’m looking for anyone who saw the bastard that did it.’

The woman flinched, wrapping the PVC raincoat tightly around her bruised chest. ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Rosie?’

Logan nodded. ‘Monday night. You working then?’

She shook her head. ‘Naw.’ She pulled in another large lungful of smoke. ‘Had a bit of an accident couple of nights back.’ She gestured at the mess of her face. ‘Walked into a door.’

‘Must’ve been a really big door to do all that.’

‘Aye. Fuckin’ big door.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘But I wasnae here Monday night. Couldn’t fuckin’ move Monday, let alone work.’ She sighed. ‘No’ that I’m gonnae do much business lookin’ like this...’ Her voice trailed off into silence, her eyes focused on the past rather than the darkened streets.

‘Then why are you out here?’

She shrugged. ‘Got mouths to feed. You know? And heroin’s a fuckin’ hungry wee bastard.’

Twenty-two hundred hours: the start of Thursday’s night shift. It had been a day for lounging about in bed, only getting up when Jackie came back from work at five. Fish and chips for dinner/breakfast and then back to bed for a bit. This time with company. So it was a pretty happy Logan who sauntered up the street to FHQ at ten to ten. There was an air of doom and gloom about the place as he pushed through the front doors. Sergeant Eric Mitchell was sitting behind the reception desk, engrossed in a copy of the Evening Express, the lights reflecting off his ever-expanding bald spot. He looked up, displaying a wide Wyatt Earp-style moustache, and scowled. ‘What the hell you looking so damn cheerful about?’

Logan smiled back. ‘And good evening to you too, Eric. I am smiling because it has been a lovely day. What’s got your moustache in a twist? Big Gary nick all the custard creams?’

Eric just scowled and held up the Evening Express so Logan could see the paper’s front page with its headline, POLICE RAID WRONG ADDRESS! There was a large photo: dozens of patrol cars, vans and uniformed officers milling about outside a converted church in Tillydrone.

Logan tried not to grin. At least he wasn’t the only one to screw up a raid this month. ‘Where were they supposed to be?’

‘Kincorth.’ Eric slammed the paper back on the desk. ‘Silly bastards. Like we don’t have enough to worry about!’ He poked a sidebar next to the picture. POLICE INCOMPETENCE: CITY COUNCILLOR SPEAKS OUT. ‘Wee shite’s been gagging for another excuse to make us look like arseholes.’ Eric scowled at the little black-and-white photo of Councillor Holier-Than-Thou Marshall doing his usual smug slug impression. Then Eric remembered he had a message for Logan. ‘DI Steel says get your arse up to her office, soon as you get in.’

Just like Inspector Napier’s lair, DI Steel’s office reflected its owner: cramped, untidy and stinking of stale cigarettes. She was sat behind her desk, feet up, cup of coffee in one hand, mobile phone in the other, fag dangling out the corner of her mouth. She waved Logan to take a seat as she pinned the phone between her ear and shoulder, before rummaging about in a desk drawer, coming out with a little black notebook and a pen.

‘Course I love you,’ she said, the end of the cigarette bobbing up and down, letting loose a half-inch avalanche of ash. ‘Yes... You know I do... No, I’d never do that...’ She scribbled something awkwardly on the pad and threw it across the desk to Logan. ‘You know I do... Susan, you’re the most important thing in my life... Yes... Yes...’

Logan peered at the spidery scrawl. YOU IDENTIFIED THAT TART YET? He gave the inspector a puzzled look and she rolled her eyes, waving a hand at him, asking for the pad back.

‘Yes, Susan, you know I do...’ She scribbled another note. LAST NIGHT — THE ONE WHO SAW MCKINNON? Logan shook his head and Steel said, ‘Damn... What? Oh, no, not you, Susan, I dropped something... yes... uhuh...’ She demanded the pad back and left Logan a final message: FUCK OFF TO THE CANTEEN. I’LL BE UP IN A BIT.

He was on his second mug of milky tea and halfway through a bacon buttie when DI Steel finally slouched into the canteen. ‘Christ, I’m fucking starving,’ she said, slumping down on the other side of the table and sighing. ‘Right, first things first.’ She dragged out a copy of that morning’s Press and Journal and placed it on the tabletop. ‘Care to explain this?’ She pointed at the headline: DRY RUN FOR SUITCASE-TORSO MURDERER. Colin Miller had worked his usual magic, weaving Logan’s suspicions into a pretty good story. Not surprising he was the newspaper’s golden boy.

‘I spoke to him last night,’ said Logan as he read, groaning at every mention of ‘Police Hero Logan “Lazarus” McRae’. Whenever Miller put him in the bloody paper, Angus Robertson — the Mastrick Monster — was always wheeled out to justify Logan’s ‘hero’ status.

‘And the reason you screwed over my investigation?’ Steel’s voice was level, cold. Dangerous. But Logan didn’t notice.

‘Whoever it is, they’re counting on the dog being a full, proper, dry run, OK?’ he said with a smile. ‘So the fact we found the body and released details to the press, means our killer-to-be knows we’re on to them. It’s one thing to kill a dog and dump it, but it’s a hell of a lot more difficult to do it to a human being, especially when you know the police are wise to you.’

‘Well,’ she said, settling back in her seat, giving Logan the benefit of a hyena smile. ‘Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out, doesn’t it?’ He nodded and she let the smile grow colder. ‘Let’s get one thing crystal, Mr Police Hero: this is not a fucking democracy I’m running here. You do what I tell you — when I tell you, not whatever you fucking feel like!’ Logan flinched as the inspector hammered on: ‘And you know what? This time I actually agree with you, but that does not excuse going to the press behind my fucking back to get your name all over the papers!’

Logan dropped his half-eaten buttie back onto his plate. ‘I... I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d—’

‘No you didn’t, did you? But I fucking well do!’ She snatched up the fallen buttie and ripped a huge bite out of it. ‘I’m getting fucked over enough already,’ she mumbled round a mouthful of bacon and bread, ‘I don’t need you adding to my bloody problems.’

Logan sat quietly in his seat, thinking this was a great way to start a working day: yet another bollocking. ‘Sorry,’ he said at last.

‘Just don’t do it again, OK?’ DI Steel popped the last of Logan’s buttie in her gob and chewed unhappily in silence. ‘Right,’ she said when she’d finished. ‘On a lighter note: I read your report on last night. Result. Or it would have been if you hadn’t lost the tart.’ She saw the look on Logan’s face. ‘I know: you did your best. Keep an eye out for her tonight. You can take DC Rennie with you; I’ve shifted him onto nights as well. Keep him out of trouble.’ She stood and ferreted about in her pockets for a packet of rumpled cigarettes. ‘Oh, and before I forget: I want to interview McKinnon again tomorrow. See what the bleach-blond, spiky-haired, murdering wee shite has to say for himself after a night in Craiginches.’

‘I’m supposed to be off tomorrow! Jackie’s got plans, I—’

‘For God’s sake! A woman’s been murdered and all you can think about is getting your leg over?’ Logan blushed. ‘Look,’ said the inspector, ‘it’s not going to take all day to re-interview Jamie McKinnon. You can see your tasty WPC after, OK?’ That, on top of his recent bollocking, just made Logan feel even more guilty.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Good boy. And while you’re about tonight, go see if they’ve done a post mortem on that bloody dog yet. And don’t spend all night in the arms of some prozzie down the docks. I’m not signing off any expense form with “blowjobs” on it.’

DC Rennie looked so much like a plainclothes policeman it was scary. Even in jeans and a leather jacket something about him just screamed ‘LOOK AT ME: I’M A POLICEMAN!’ Not surprisingly they didn’t have a lot of luck speaking to the ladies plying their trade around Aberdeen harbour that night. And their punters weren’t stopping either, not with DC Conspicuous hanging around. So all Logan and Rennie got for their night’s work was several filthy mouthfuls of abuse.

Come half past twelve they’d been around the neighbourhood half a dozen times. There was still no sign of the fourteen-year-old Lithuanian, or her minder. ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers.’ DC Rennie slumped back against the railing that separated Regent Quay from the docks proper. ‘How many times are we going to go round and round in circles, getting shouted and spat at?’ He flinched, and slowly looked up into the sky. Thin raindrops were beginning to fall, making little needle streaks in the streetlights. ‘Shite, that’s all we bloody need.’

Logan had to agree. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the station.’ There wasn’t a single tart out tonight he hadn’t spoken to yesterday, and he still had an identikit picture to put together and a canine post mortem to chase up. They were getting nowhere here.

She smiles at him as he pulls up in his car. Smiles at him, but stays in the doorway. Keeping dry. Lovely fuckin’ day this was turning out to be: first Jason won’t eat his Ready Brek, then he’s late for school and she’s got such a sodding hangover! How’s she supposed to deal with Jason’s dickhead teacher with a dirty vodka hangover? And then PC Plod and his mate scare off the first nibble she’s had all fuckin’ night! Should be out there catching fuckin’ crooks, not hassling women trying to make a living!

The window buzzes down and he has to lean across the passenger seat to say hello. She always stands on the passenger side. Some dirty bastard drove up, wound down his window and grabbed her tits once. Didn’t ask, didn’t pay. Just grabbed her nipples like a fuckin’ vice, and drove off laughing. There’s a lot of sick bastards out there. He asks her how much and she gives him the list. Jacking the prices up a bit,’ cos the car looks new and he’s obviously not short of cash. He thinks about it as the rain really starts hammering down... Maybe she’s hiked the price up too much? Shit. Not like she doesn’t need the fuckin’ money; Jason goes through shoes like the things were free. She opens her raincoat a little, letting him see the red lace bra she’s almost wearing — two sizes too small and uncomfortable as hell, but it always gets the bastards going — and he smiles. Sort of. She keeps herself in good shape, and it shows. So what if her complexion’s not the best: she makes up for it where it counts.

‘You want to get in?’ he asks her. And it’s her turn to think about it. After all, that old tart got herself beaten to death a couple of nights ago. But it’s a nice car, and it’s pissing with rain. And she really, really needs the cash... She jumps in. The car has that lovely new, leathery-plastic smell to it, the upholstery clean, the interior spotless, not like that piece of shit she has to drive. This thing must have cost a fortune. She pulls the seatbelt over her breasts, giving him another flash of red lace, and he smiles. He has a nice smile. For a moment the Julia-Roberts-Pretty-Woman-Fantasy flashes through her brain. Just like it does every time she meets a client who’s good to her. Doesn’t want it too rough, or anything disgusting. He’ll look after her and she won’t have to fuck strangers for money any more. He tells a joke and she laughs as he puts the car in gear and drives them out into the rainy night. He’s really nice, she can tell. She has a sixth sense about that kind of thing.