Dying Light

30

‘You wee beauty!’ DI Steel stood by the window in her office, having a sly fag, reading the preliminary forensic report on the hair samples from Neil Ritchie’s brand-new Audi. They were a perfect match for the ones taken from a hairbrush in Holly McEwan’s flat. She turned and beamed at Logan as he entered the room, technically an hour and a half late for work, but as he’d worked the two days he was supposed to be off he didn’t think it would matter that much. And anyway, he wanted to put off seeing the inspector for as long as possible. That winking red light — when he’d finally plucked up the courage to find out what it was at half past four this morning — turned out to be a recorded voice telling him his phone number had won a Caribbean cruise, five thousand pounds cash, or a certificate as the world’s most gullible bumhole. He hadn’t called them back.

Steel waved him over and shot him a grin. ‘Lazarus, just the man I’ve been waiting for all my life...’ She paused and checked her watch. ‘Well, since seven am anyway. Still, never mind,’ she said. ‘You’re here now.’

Logan frowned. This wasn’t exactly the welcome he’d been expecting. Why hadn’t the inspector ripped a chunk out of his backside yet? ‘Er...’ Change the subject. ‘What did you charge Ritchie with?’ With no body it would be hard getting a conviction.

‘Nothing yet. Get this: he’s still on a voly! He’s no’ even been detained yet!’ Her face lit up like the Stonehaven Christmas lights. ‘How cool is that?’ The six-hours detainment rule wouldn’t start until Ritchie was formally detained. He was still here voluntarily; as it was, they could keep him as long as they liked. Or at least until he asked to leave. ‘Spent most of last night blubberin’ about how he hadn’t done nothing and it’s all some dreadful mistake.’ She grinned. ‘Had that pompous tosspot Bushel interview him, doing his criminal psychiatrist bit. Four-eyed git was so excited he nearly wet himself — Ritchie fits the profile to a tee: absent mother, domineering father who liked to shag prozzies, miserable childhood, blah, blah, blah, nobody loved him. The usual stuff.’

‘Wait a minute — the profile said he’s supposed to have a menial job; Ritchie’s a hydrocarbon accountant!’

‘So what? Profiling’s hardly an exact science, is it? Anyway, the forensic evidence ties him to Holly McEwan — the PF agrees, Ritchie’s our man.’

‘What about Michelle Wood and Rosie Williams?’

‘Don’t complicate things. We’ve still got Jamie McKinnon if we can’t do Ritchie for all three tarts. In the meantime...’ She rummaged about in the mess of paperwork that covered her desk, coming out with an address. ‘Ritchie claims he didn’t have his shiny new car when Holly went missing. Probably bollocks, but I want it checked out. And take Rennie with you: he’s getting right on my tits this morning.’

Wellington Executive Motors was a single-storey glass box, lined inside and out with top-of-the-range motorcars that cost more than Logan’s two-bedroom flat. The showroom sat on Crawpeel Road, in Altens — an industrial estate on the coast road south out of Aberdeen, packed with oil-service companies. Here and there huge architectural monstrosities in steel and glass loomed over the yards and warehouses — major oil companies making sure everyone knew who was boss. But this early on a Sunday morning, Wellington Motors was the only place open.

Still worrying about why DI Steel hadn’t chewed him out for landing her in it to Insch, Logan had barely heard a word Rennie said on the way across town from FHQ. Which was probably just as well; today the detective constable was on his high horse about some sub plot in Coronation Street being identical to one in Brookside years ago.

He was still banging on about it as they pushed through the glass doors onto the showroom’s dark, rubber flooring. The whole place smelled of new car and freshly brewed coffee, Vivaldi emanating discreetly from hidden speakers.

‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ They turned to find a saleswoman smiling at them with all her teeth. ‘Welcome to Wellington Executive Motors.’ She indicated the showroom with a sweeping gesture, just in case they didn’t already know where they were. ‘I’d be delighted to assist you in selecting a model to test drive, but while we do: cappuccino? Biscotti?’ Logan asked for the manager and her smile faltered, before scrambling back into place. ‘Is there anything I could help you with?’ No, there wasn’t. ‘Well, er... Mr Robinson’s with a customer at the moment. Can I offer you something while you wait? Cappuccino? Biscotti?’

Mr Robinson was a round and jovial man with a light grey comb over and a neatly trimmed beard, all smiles and handshakes until he found out Logan and Rennie were policemen. Then it was all pensive horror, wringing hands and, ‘Has something happened?’

Logan put on his best disarming smile. ‘Nothing like that, sir, I need to talk to you about a car you sold to one Neil Ritchie last week. Brand new—’

‘Audi. Yes, Audi. Executive model, air-conditioning, sunroof, satellite navigation, power—’

‘When did he pick it up?’

Mr Robinson spluttered. ‘I... No, no, it’s out of the question. I couldn’t discuss a client’s details, Wellington Executive Motors values our—’

‘It’s important.’

‘I’m sorry, but I’m sure you would need some sort of warrant—’

Logan pulled out two sheets of folded paper from his pocket and held them up. ‘I have a warrant.’ No he didn’t — it was just a printout of the e-fit pictures of Kylie and her pimp, but Robinson didn’t know that. The fat man blanched and Logan hid the pages away again, just in case he asked to see them. ‘According to the car’s registration papers he bought the car last Monday. When did he pick it up?’

With much harrumphing and muttering the showroom manager explained that unfortunately Mr Ritchie was regrettably unable to collect his vehicle on the Monday due to an inopportune incident with a seagull, requiring the bonnet to be resprayed. Logan cursed under his breath — that meant Ritchie wasn’t the one who — ‘However,’ Robinson smiled with pride, ‘we were able to drop the vehicle off at Mr Ritchie’s home on Tuesday, along with a complimentary bottle of Veuve Clicquot to compensate him for the delay.’ Holly McEwan didn’t go missing until after eleven on Tuesday night — Ritchie would have had plenty of time to take delivery of the car, pick her up, transport her out to the Tyrebagger Woods and batter her to death. Which meant Ritchie was back in the shit again.

‘We’ll need to take a statement from whoever dropped off the car.’

The manager peered out through the showroom’s glass wall, pointing at a bland man in a grey suit talking to an overweight woman in a bright yellow cardigan. ‘I’m afraid he’s with a customer at the moment. But while you wait — cappuccino? Biscotti?’

They had their coffee and biscuits by the front door, looking out at the forecourt as the first wisps of rain started to fall, speckling all the expensive metal parked outside. The man in the grey suit escorted his becardiganed customer inside to the sales desk, fawned over her a little, complimented her on her excellent taste as she put down a staggeringly large deposit on a new BMW, and escorted her back to her own car with one of the company umbrellas. Rennie cornered him as soon as he returned. Yes he’d delivered Mr Ritchie’s car — drove it round there on the Tuesday after work. Apparently some seagull had done a monster crap on the bonnet, then danced about on it for a while. Made a hell of a mess of the paintwork. Logan let the constable take the statement while he went back to worrying about DI Steel. Maybe she was doing it to punish him, holding off on taking her revenge, letting him stew... To be honest that didn’t sound much like Steel; a swift knee in the bollocks was more her style.

The glass doors opened and he looked up to see a familiar figure striding into the showroom, chatting amiably to a frumpy-looking woman. Councillor Marshall’s face fell when he saw Logan standing by the window. The saleswoman cut through the ranks of expensive cars like a shark, smiling and calling out how nice it was to see the Councillor again, and wasn’t Mrs Marshall looking lovely today? Which was a blatant lie — she was in her mid fifties with a figure that wouldn’t quit... spreading. Her voice was like a dentist’s drill as she told the sales-shark that they were looking to replace their people carrier after it had had a small accident, weren’t they, Andrew? God only knew what her original hair colour had been when she was younger, but now it was fire-engine orange and permed to within an inch of its life. Logan could see why the councillor was so keen to trade up for a newer model. He was loath to admit it, but maybe Steel was right, maybe it wasn’t as simple as ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty’. Maybe this was one of those times when the unique verdict allowable under Scottish law applied — ‘not proven’.

‘Well?’ asked Steel when they got back to FHQ. She was sitting behind her paper-strewn desk, feet up on a pile of interview transcripts, her suit jacket thrown over the back of the chair so everyone could see she hadn’t bothered to iron her blouse.

‘Car was delivered on the Tuesday after the showroom shut at six, so he would have had it by half six, quarter to seven at the latest.’

‘Excellent. You get a statement?’

‘Yup.’

‘Good, you can type it up while Rennie gets the coffees in.’

Rennie pouted. ‘Again? How come I always have to get—’

‘Chain of command, Constable.’ She winked at him. ‘And you always manage to scrounge up chocolate biscuits.’ Rennie was obviously about to protest some more, so Steel told him to get a bloody move on, shouting, ‘And wash the mugs this time!’ after him as he muttered, mumbled and grumbled his way down the corridor. When he was gone she opened the window and told Logan to close the door while she had a fag. The smoke drifted out into the grey Sunday morning — disappearing against the charcoal skies. ‘So,’ said the inspector, picking a loose hair of tobacco from her lip, ‘you got something to say to me?’

Here it comes. He took a deep breath and apologized for landing her in it with DI Insch. The inspector listened to him without saying a word, smoking silently like a smouldering volcano. ‘Actually,’ she said when he’d finished, ‘I was talking about Complaints and Discipline. I put a good word in for you and they let you off without so much as a spanking. I didn’t know about the DI Insch thing.’

Logan tried not to wince. Why couldn’t he have kept his bloody mouth shut? ‘I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I—’

‘Doesn’t really matter what you meant to do, does it, Sergeant? It’s what you actually did that counts. Even a moron like you should know that.’

Logan bristled. ‘At least I didn’t tell him about Councillor Marshall!’

‘Well that’s really big of you—’

‘You’re damn right it is! What would Professional Standards do if they found out you’ve been blackmailing him?’

Steel froze, her eyes cold and hard. ‘I beg your pardon?’

It was too late to back out now: ‘Keeping his “little indiscretions” secret must’ve cost him a fortune.’

She stared at him, the muscles in her jaw clenching and unclenching. ‘I’ve no’ taken a bloody penny off the man. You want to know what my “price” is? Do you? He’s no’ allowed to fuck us over in the papers, or give out fucking quotes about how Grampian Police are all a shower of shite! Nothing else.’

Oh God, that explained Marshall’s sudden change of heart. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Steel got there first. ‘Now I think I’d like you to get the fuck out of my sight, before I do something you’re going to regret.’

DI Insch was sitting in his usual spot when Logan slunk into the arson incident room. A new pin board had been set up over by the windows, this one covered with photos of Karl Pearson. One of him smiling at a football match, and a montage of what was left of him in a sixth-floor flat in Seaton. ‘Er, sir,’ said Logan, trying not to look at the graphic, Technicolor close-ups of Karl’s stapled testicles, ‘can I speak to you about DI Steel?’ Insch’s face darkened, but Logan charged on. ‘I was wondering what you did yesterday... About the interview suspects being released?’

‘None of your damned business, that’s what I did about it.’ He dug out a crumpled packet of Fizzy Fish and started throwing the yellow shapes into his mouth, one after another, chewing angrily. ‘She’s caught her serial killer and can do no wrong in the eyes of our beloved bloody Detective Chief Superintendent.’

‘Oh.’ What a surprise, Steel had obviously taken all the credit for tracking down Neil Ritchie. ‘So are you going to bring them in? Chib and his friend?’

‘On what grounds? That they’re from Edinburgh and look a bit dodgy? Think the PF’ll give me a warrant with no bloody evidence?’ He scowled and finished off the packet, crushing it in one huge fist before throwing it at the nearest wastepaper basket. ‘I’ve already had Dr “I’m-So-Sodding-Clever” Bushel in here twice this morning wanting to do up a profile on whoever killed Karl. Little attention-seeking, glory-hunting, four-eyed...’ He snarled. ‘Apparently the Chief Constable is delighted someone so knowledgeable and special is “assisting” poor thick old DI Insch. How? How does writing rubbish about the fires being a sexual thing help us catch the bastard doing it? What am I supposed to do with that? Put an ad in the personal columns? “Looking for white, male GSOH, mid twenties — into setting fire to people’s houses, with them inside, and masturbating while they burn — for long-term commitment at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Genuine psychos only; no time wasters.” Can really see that working.’ Scowl. ‘Oh, and before I forget: we got the DNA results back on your wankerchiefs — both the same. I’ve got them running a search through the database, see if we can find some sort of match, but there’s a dirty big backlog because of that serial rape case in Dundee.’

‘What about the MO? It’s pretty distinctive.’

‘What a great suggestion, Sergeant. I hadn’t thought to run a search on something as bloody obvious as that.’ He gave Logan a withering glance. ‘You think I sailed up the River Don on a used condom? Course I bloody checked. Three other fatal fires where the entrances were screwed shut — Lothian and Borders sent up the investigation reports.’

‘They got any idea who did it?’

Insch gave him that same look again. ‘I don’t know, I forgot to ask. Why, do you think it might be important?’

‘OK, OK, there’s no need to bite my head off; only trying to help.’

Insch rummaged around in his suit pockets, but came up empty handed. He sighed. ‘I know. I’m just pissed off because nothing’s bloody happening. We’ve got someone out there burning people to death, and I haven’t got a clue how to stop him.’ The inspector hauled himself off the edge of the desk. ‘Anyone asks, I’m off to the shops. There’s a big bag of sherbet lemons out there with my name on it.’

Logan watched the inspector go. So much for hiding out with DI Insch until Steel calmed down a bit. Maybe it would be best to make himself scarce. He signed for a CID pool car and headed out into the late morning traffic just as the first specks of rain started to fall. Logan clicked the radio over to Northsound Two, the music fighting a losing battle against the wheeeeeek-whonnnnnnnnk of the car’s windscreen wipers. He drove about more or less at random, trying to figure out what he was going to do for the rest of the day. With Steel pissed off, the murdered prostitute case was pretty much off limits. There wasn’t anything he could do about Chib Sutherland and his mate — even if they could pressure Jamie McKinnon into making a statement about the forced insertion of drugs, he wasn’t going to stand up in court and testify against two of Malk the Knife’s goons. Might as well wrap his willy up in smoky bacon and dance naked in a cage full of rabid Rottweilers. So it was the missing person case or nothing. At least it’d keep him busy. He’d already spoken to the wife and the colleagues, which left the pole-dancer and the neighbour. The strip joint was closer.

Just off Union Street there was a steep cobbled alley, descending rapidly until it disappeared, three storeys down, under Bridge Street. Windmill Brae, home to nightclubs, bars and Friday-night fist-fights. Secret Service was near the bottom of the hill, with not-so-discreet boards in the windows — silhouettes of naked women — protecting the public from seeing anything raunchy going on inside. Logan parked outside on the double yellows. The front door was open, a mop and bucket standing in the space between the narrow pavement and the kiosk where you could buy your ticket. The water in the bucket swirled with disinfectant, trying to overcome the overpowering reek of last night’s vomit.

Inside it was pretty much what he’d been expecting: a long, dark room on three levels, bar on one side, dancing stage with four metal poles and floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the other. Just to make sure you didn’t miss anything. Little round tables filled the remaining space, the chairs upturned on top so that a spotty youth could work a floor polisher in between them. The loud wub-wub-wub of the machine punctuated with the occasional clang as it bounced off one of the tables’ central supports. A large man appeared behind the bar, clutching a bottle of detergent, yelling over the noise, ‘How many times I have to tell you to go easy with that thing? It’s no’ a fuckin’ race car!’ Then he noticed Logan standing in the doorway and scowled. ‘We’re closed.’

‘I can see that.’ Logan pulled out his warrant card. ‘DS McRae. You’ve got a dancer called Hayley working here?’

The man didn’t move. ‘Why — what’s she done?’

Logan crossed the still wet floor and leant on the bar. ‘She’s not done anything. I just want to know when you last saw her.’

‘Depends, doesn’t it?’

‘On what?’

‘On why you want to know.’

He pulled out a copy of the photo Mrs Cruickshank had submitted with her missing person report. ‘This man’s been missing since Wednesday afternoon. Someone told me he and Hayley were an item. I need to find out if she knows where he’s gone.’

‘Ha, you’ll be fuckin’ lucky. Didn’t show up for her shift Wednesday night. Hasn’t been in since.’

‘Wednesday?’

‘Aye. She does it every couple of months, disappears off to Ibiza, or some other tourist trap, soon as she’s got enough cash from the tips. Gets them last-minute deals off the internet and buggers off without a word. First we know of it’s when the fuckin’ postcard arrives.’

‘So it’s not unusual for her to just go away like this?’

‘Sometimes one of the other daft cows here goes with her, sometimes she takes a bloke, depends who she’s shagging at the time.’

Logan proffered the photo again. ‘You recognize him?’

The man squinted at the picture. ‘Aye: Gav. In here most nights when Hayley’s dancin’. She’s been doing him for a couple of months.’

Logan took the picture back. It was beginning to sound like Gavin Cruickshank was an even bigger bastard than he’d thought — sodding off to Ibiza with a pole-dancer. ‘You got an address for Hayley?’

‘Let’s see that warrant card again.’ Logan handed it over, and the man squinted at it for a while. ‘OK,’ he said at last, digging about under the bar and coming up with a box of postcards. ‘Just had these printed. You know, showing off the best girls. Going to hand them out in the pubs at closing time, get the punters all hot and bothered for a lap dance.’ He flipped the top card over, scribbling an address and telephone number on the back, before passing it across the bar. The photo showed a very attractive woman in her mid twenties, striking brown eyes, sexy smile, long black hair, black leather bikini, knee-length kinky boots, a small diamond crucifix hanging from her pierced belly button. First Ailsa, then the ScotiaLift receptionist and now this. How the hell did Gavin Cruickshank do it?

The man grinned. ‘Fuckin’ tasty, eh? You wouldn’t kick that out of bed for fartin’.’

Logan gave him a business card. ‘Call me if she gets in touch, OK?’

Outside, the rain was getting heavier and Logan had to make a run for the car. According to the scribbled address, Hayley lived in a flat down the bottom of Seaforth Road. He didn’t expect it to amount to much, but he drove over there anyway, the traffic creeping along in the downpour. The radio burbled away to itself as Logan navigated the drenched streets, wondering if last night meant things were finally starting to go right with Jackie again. It had been a good evening — good food, good wine, and afterwards had been pretty damn good as well. The news came on and Logan turned the radio up, listening to reports of a car crash in Torry, another protest being scheduled for Monday’s planning meeting, and the main story of the day: someone was ‘assisting the police with their enquiries’ into the murder of a number of prostitutes. And lo and behold, there was Councillor Marshall on the radio, telling the world what a great job Grampian Police was doing and how we could all sleep safely in our beds again. A little bit of DI Steel’s blackmail went a long way.

Hayley’s flat was on the second floor of a three-storey granite tenement block. From her front room she’d have a great view of the sprawling Trinity Cemetery with Pittodrie Stadium — home to the intermittently disastrous Aberdeen Football Club — lurking in the background, drab and dreary in the rain. Lovely.

He clambered out of the car and rang the doorbell. No answer, not that he’d really been expecting one. So he tried the neighbouring flats; no one had seen Hayley since Wednesday morning. Later this afternoon he’d put in a call to the local airport, see if they had any record of her and Gavin buggering off to sunny climes in the last week. And if that didn’t turn anything up there was always Inverness, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Prestwick...

Wherever they’d gone, they’d turn up soon enough. All tanned and knackered from too much sex while his wife was at home, going frantic with worry. What a shit. Logan didn’t really want to be the one to tell Mrs Cruickshank her perfect husband was probably off on holiday screwing another woman. Maybe he could get a nice, sympathetic WPC to break the news instead.

He got as far as turning the car round before his mobile phone started ringing: DC Rennie calling on behalf of DI Steel — who was obviously still too angry to speak to him in person. Jamie McKinnon was dead.