Dying Light

12

Sounds were muffled. The mist, thicker here in the forest than out on the road, clung to the trees and bracken, making everything alien and strange. The rain had given up the ghost sometime after midnight, fading to a misty drizzle. Then came the haar, rolling in off the North Sea, smothering the world. The ground beneath her feet was cold and wet as she squelched along the path, the vague outlines of Scots pine, oak, beech and spruce lurking to either side. Dripping. The Tyrebagger Woods were a damn sight creepier today than they’d been yesterday. Anyone could be lurking in the bushes, just around the next bend. Waiting for her... Just as well she had Benji to protect her — or would have if the rotten little sod hadn’t charged off into the fog at the first opportunity.

‘Benji!.. Bennnnnji?’ Something snapped in the forest and she froze. A twig? ‘Benji?’ Silence. She did a slow pirouette, watching the white-and-grey landscape swim around her. It was deathly quiet. Just like it went in films before something really horrible happened to the blonde bimbo with the big boobs. She smiled at herself. Not that she had any worries on that front, being a flat-chested brunette with a Master’s Degree in molecular biology. She was just a bit twitchy because of the job interview. ‘Benji! Where are you, you hairy wee shite?’ The fog swallowed her calls, not even giving her an echo in return. And yet she was sure there was something...

She shook her head and carried on up the track, going the wrong way round the Tyrebagger sculpture trail. A huge disembodied stag’s head loomed out of the mist, hanging between the trees like a cross between the more sinister bits of Watership Down, Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, and the dismembered corpse of a bright-yellow Ford Escort. Whenever she saw the thing she couldn’t help smiling. But not this time. This time there was something primitive about it. Something pagan. Something predatory. Shivering, she hurried past, calling out for Benji again. Why the hell did he have to pick today to go AWOL? It wasn’t as if she could spend all morning looking for him! Her interview was at half eleven. This was just supposed to be a little walk in the woods to calm her nerves. Not tramp about like a bastard in the fog looking for a stupid bloody spaniel. ‘BENJI!’

That cracking sound again. She froze. ‘Hello?’ Silence. ‘Is...’ She was going to hate herself for saying it: ‘Is anybody there?’ Might as well pop on a pair of stiletto heels and a push-up bra then sit back and wait for the axe murderer.

Silence.

Not so much as a whisper. The only sound was the pounding of her heart. This was ridiculous; just because some woman was beaten to death last week didn’t mean there was someone lurking in the woods... Waiting for her...

Crack! The breath caught in her throat. There was someone out there! Fight or flight, fight or flight? FLIGHT: sprinting hell-for-leather up the barely visible path, splashing through puddles and mud. Just wanting to get back to the car park alive. Trees whipped past on either side of the track, their trunks and branches distorted by the mist into wild-killer shapes. Someone was coming after her: she could hear him, crashing through the bushes behind her, getting closer.

Past the poetry trees at a sprint, up the hill, the wet ground treacherous beneath her feet. One foot caught on a tree root and she went sprawling on the gritty mud, fire lancing across her palms and knees as the skin broke. She cried out in pain, but the bastard chasing her didn’t care. There was just time to scream before a dark shape launched itself out of the mist. And slavered all over her with a huge, wet tongue.

‘Benji!’ She pulled herself to her knees and swore and swore and swore while Benji danced and skittered around her, hunkering down on his forelegs and wiggling his ridiculous stumpy tail in the air. And then he stopped, stood stock-still and charged off into the woods again. ‘Bastard fucking dog!’ Both her palms dripped with neon-red blood, the scrapes peppered with little black flecks of dirt. Her trousers were ripped open, exposing a similar story about the knees. And her head hurt like hell. With trembling fingers she reached up and gingerly touched a tender spot above her left eyebrow, wincing. More blood. ‘That’s just fucking marvellous!’ So much for making a good impression. She’d have to cancel, or turn up at the job interview looking like she’d been beaten up. ‘You BASTARD dog!’

Benji was barking from somewhere up the track. Bloody animal had probably found something filthy to roll in. Limping, she followed the sound into the fog-shrouded woods, all thoughts of a sinister attacker forgotten.

The lights of Alpha Two Zero cut solid blue bars through the fog. It sat in one of the Tyrebagger car parks, empty, the radio chattering away schiz-ophrenically to itself, as WPC Buchan and PC Steve picked their way into the woods. Looking for the body.

They’d got the call about twenty minutes ago: young woman’s body found battered to death, stripped naked in the woods. According to the dispatcher, the person who called it in wasn’t that coherent, just kept yammering on about death and the mist and trees. And something about buying sun? WPC Buchan wasn’t in the mood for this. Not after yet another fight with Robert, coming home stinking of cheap perfume and stale sweat — what was she, stupid? She stomped along the muddy path, hands in her pockets and a scowl on her face as PC Steve played Earnest Police Officer Number One, keeping up a running commentary as he swept the foggy undergrowth with a huge torch. She trailed along behind, watching him roam from bush to bush on either side of the path. He had a nice arse, even if he was a bit of a mummy’s boy. She could... A faint smile drifted across her face as she thought about all the things she could do to PC Steve Jacobs. God knew it would be a damn sight more fun than the crap she’d have to go home to tonight.

They clambered up a small hill, the ground slippery beneath their feet. Just past the summit was one of those wooden post things, with a Perspex notice incorporated into it. She flipped it out, reading about how some woman called Matthews had sculpted a group of European bison resting in the primeval forest, out of chicken-wire, moss, wool, and bits of old metal. The usual heritage-slash-council-slash-art-grant-crap. WPC Buchan let the sign fall back into the post and stared into the woods where a barely visible track wound its way into the trees. ‘Buying sun...’ Without saying another word, WPC Buchan stepped off the muddy path and followed the track into the mist.

She could hear PC Steve babbling away to himself, his voice gradually trailing off as she moved away and the fog swallowed him whole.

The ground rose beneath her feet as the track gave way to forest loam. It was like twilight here, shadows of skeletal trees lurking in the mist. Quiet as a shallow grave. And then she heard it: a faint sobbing. WPC Buchan stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Hello?’ She clambered to the crest of a small rise and stepped out onto an area of flat ground. ‘Can you hear me?’

Still nothing.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake...’ She pulled out her torch, even though she knew it probably wasn’t going to do her the slightest bit of good. The fog would just bounce the light back, but the torch’s weight felt comforting in her hand. The sort of thing you could crack someone’s skull open with. Forward into the fog and WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT? They loomed out of the mist, cadaverous beasts, partially rotted. Grazing on the scrub-grass between the fog-shrouded trees.

It was the sculptures: bison resting in the primeval forest. WPC Buchan might not know much about art, but she knew what gave her the fucking willies, and these things took the hairy biscuit. The sobbing was louder now, coming from somewhere near the biggest mouldering animal, the fog clearly visible through holes in its carcass. ‘Hello?’ She clicked on the torch and suddenly the world went white. Two unnatural green eyes flashed in the opaque mass and a low growl split the silence like a rusty knife. ‘Aw shite...’ The eyes came closer and she moved her free hand very slowly to the bulky utility belt at her waist, easing the tiny canister of pepper spray out of its pouch. ‘Nice doggy?’ A face full of that stuff would have anything rolling over and playing dead.

The thing that stalked out of the fog was a spaniel, but without any of the usual happy-go-lucky exuberance. The dog’s lips were curled back, exposing teeth like daggers, its muzzle smothered in gore. She pointed the canister at it, prayed, and sprayed. Suddenly the growling stopped. There was a moment of silence, then yelping exploded from the animal as it staggered around, trying to get away from the searing pain. WPC Buchan didn’t resist the urge to give the dog a good kick in the ribs as she picked her way past.

The sobbing was coming from behind the rotting bison. It was a woman — mid twenties from the look of her clothes — face, hands and knees sticky with plum-coloured blood. Silly cow wasn’t dead after all. It was just another stupid hoax call. WPC Buchan slipped the pepper spray back into its holster. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked. The woman didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead she extended a grubby, bloodstained hand and pointed to one of the sculpturally rotting bison. It lay slumped on the ground, as if it had been trying to get up when death came to call. WPC Buchan turned her torch on it, illuminating the statue in all its decomposing glory. There was something white sprawled alongside it, blending into the fog.

‘Oh fuck...’ Grabbing the radio off her shoulder, she called Control. They’d found the second body.

DI Steel turned up on Logan’s doorstep in a suit that looked almost new. She’d even threatened her hair with a brush: it hadn’t made much difference, but it was the thought that counted. ‘Mr Police Hero,’ she said, picking a fresh cigarette from an almost empty packet, not seeming to care that one was already smouldering away between her lined lips. ‘Got some good news for you! They’ve found another dead tart!’ Soon they were roaring out of Aberdeen on the Inverurie road, past the airport and up the hill to the Tyrebagger Woods. It wasn’t far, less than fifteen minutes from the centre of town the way the inspector drove.

Logan sat in the passenger seat of Steel’s little sports car, trying to stay calm as they hurtled through the rolling fog. ‘So tell me again how this is good news...’

‘Two dead prostitutes, both stripped naked and battered to death. This isn’t just a murder enquiry any more: we’ve got ourselves a bona fide serial killer!’

Logan risked a peek: a huge grin split the inspector’s face, a half-inch of cigarette butt making the car’s interior almost as foggy as the world outside. She winked at him. ‘Think about it, Laz: this is our ticket out of the Fuck-Up Factory! We’ve already got Jamie McKinnon in custody, all we need to do is tie him to both bodies and we’re laughing. No more crappy cases no one else wants, no more getting lumbered with every halfwit and reject in the force. You and me: back doing real police work!’ They almost missed the turning in the fog, a twisting ribbon of tarmac that snaked away into the shrouded forest. Steel followed it until the slow-motion blue strobe of a patrol car’s lights marked the entrance to the car park. She pulled up between the filthy hulk of the Identification Bureau’s Transit and a flashy Mercedes. That would be Isobel’s. Logan groaned. Just what he needed. All around them the forest was dense and silent, wrapped in a thick blanket of white. There wasn’t a breath of wind as DI Steel popped the boot, swapping her surprisingly clean shoes for a tatty old pair of Wellingtons. And then they headed up the path.

‘What do we know about the victim?’ asked Logan as the inspector wheezed up the hill beside him.

‘Bugger all.’ She stopped and lit the last fag in her packet from the smouldering remains of the one in her mouth, before flicking the tiny butt off into the mist. ‘Dispatch said, “naked and beaten”; I said, “mine!”’

‘Then how do you know she was a prostitute?’

‘Handbag full of condoms. No ID, but loads and loads of condoms. Could have been an erotic balloon modeller I suppose, but my money’s on tart.’

‘What if it’s not?’

‘What if it’s not what?’

‘A serial killer. What if this wasn’t McKinnon? What if it’s a copycat?’

DI Steel shrugged. ‘We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.’

The crime scene wasn’t hard to find, even in the smothering fog. The clack-flash-whine of the IB photographer’s camera lit up the area like sheathed lightning. An enthusiastic cordon of blue Police tape was wound between the trees and they ducked under it, making for the noise and lights. Suddenly, out of the mist, loomed the shapes of decaying animal carcasses. Off to one side, the Identification Bureau had abandoned the traditional SOC tent — it was too big to fit between the trees, so they’d rigged up a bivouac by draping the blue plastic sheeting over the branches and a web of POLICE tape.

Logan and Steel struggled into a set of white paper coveralls, complete with booties. The IB had erected a walkway of tea-tray-sized rectangles with short metal legs, which wound its way across the clearing towards a cluster of people, preventing the attending personnel from treading all over the crime scene. Steel and Logan clanged their way along it, three inches off the ground, making for the body. An IB photographer hovered on the periphery, camera flashing away as the Chief Pathologist peered and prodded at the remains of a young woman. The victim was lying on her side, one arm stretched up over her head, her legs like open scissors on the damp, black forest floor. As Logan watched, one of the Identification Bureau technicians asked Isobel if it was OK for him to bag the hands. She nodded and he wrapped clear evidence pouches over the bloodstained fingers, just in case there was any trace evidence under the victim’s nails. Logan was surprised to see they’d done the same thing to her head... and then he realized it was a large, blue freezer bag. That would be an original crime scene feature. Her whole body was covered with weals and bashes, but the skin was like porcelain, a thick line of dark purple marking low tide along the length of her body where the blood had pooled after death.

Isobel sat back on her haunches, snapped off her latex gloves and handed them to the first person she clapped eyes on. Her face had a haggard look, as if she wasn’t sleeping, the dark circles under her eyes still visible through her make-up. She stayed there for a moment, staring at the plastic bag over the victim’s head. ‘Get her down to the morgue,’ she said at last. While one of the IB techs pulled out a phone and dialled a local firm of funeral directors to pick up the body, Isobel wearily stuffed things back into her medical bag.

‘What’s the story?’ asked Logan, and she jumped.

‘Oh... it’s you.’ She didn’t exactly sound pleased. ‘If you’re looking for wild speculation you’re out of luck. Until I get the bag off the victim’s head I can’t tell if she was beaten to death like the other one, or suffocated.’

‘How about time of death?’

Isobel looked around at the still, silent forest. ‘Difficult to say. Rigor mortis has come and gone... cold, wet weather... I’d say you’re looking at about three days. What with all the rain we’ve had there’s not going to be a lot of trace evidence.’ She pointed at the stain of dark purple blood that ran in a straight line down the victim’s body — from the tips of her outstretched fingers to her foot — congealed haemoglobin, trapped in the two inches of flesh closest to the forest floor. ‘Looking at the lividity, I’d say she was either killed here, or the killer dumped the body within the first couple of hours. We’ll take some soil samples. See how much blood and other body fluids we get out of the ground.’ She straightened up and stifled a yawn. ‘Off the record, I’d say he took her out here, got her to strip off and then beat her to death.’

Logan looked down at the body sprawled across the carpet of pine needles. ‘He would have stripped her after death.’

Isobel favoured him with one of her withering glances. ‘Ever tried to undress a dead body?’ she asked him. ‘Much easier to get her to strip under the pretence of having sex.’

He didn’t take his eyes off the dead girl. ‘Three days ago puts this at Friday night. It was pissing down. No way she’d come all the way out here in the pouring rain and take off all her clothes for a quickie. That’s shagging in doorways territory. Back of cars. Not the middle of the forest...’

Isobel bristled. ‘Well, I’m sure you know best, Sergeant. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare for the post mortem.’ She swept out, gripping her medical case like she was about to cause it a permanent injury. And wishing it was Logan’s scrotum. DI Steel waited until she’d disappeared from view before slapping Logan on the shoulder. ‘You used to shag that?’ she asked, admiringly. ‘Christ, your poor wee dick must’ve got frostbite!’

Logan ignored her. The crime scene looked relatively clean, but you never knew your luck. He pulled out his mobile phone and told Control to send every open-search-area-trained officer they had. And a police search advisor as well — to carve the forest up into grids and organize the teams. After all, there was no point keeping a dog and barking yourself, as DI Steel liked to say. And while they were at it, a mobile incident room wouldn’t go amiss either.

DI Steel watched him with approval on her wrinkly face. ‘Right,’ she said when he’d hung up. ‘Get the troops mustered in the main car park. Fingertip search between there and where the body was discovered. And while we’re at it, better get a six-hundred-yard cordon set up around the crime scene. Every tree, every bush, every fucking rabbit burrow: I want it gone through with a fine-toothed comb. And I want to speak to the woman who found the body.’

He must have looked surprised, because the inspector threw a predatory smile in his direction. ‘And remember,’ she said, ‘we are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up.’

Logan hoped to God she was right.