Dying Light

39

‘Are you sure we should be doing this?’ asked Jackie for what felt like the millionth time in the last half hour. The car was cold and uncomfortable, sitting in a small pool of darkness between two lampposts on the quiet residential road. Once more Logan said no, he wasn’t, and went back to staring through the windscreen at Brendan ‘Chib’ Sutherland’s house. An unofficial stakeout in a purloined CID pool car? Of course they shouldn’t be doing it. Especially as Jackie was technically still on duty for the next thirty-two minutes.

A faint groan came from the back seat and DC Rennie sat up, clutching his head. ‘How you feeling?’ asked Logan, looking at the constable’s green face in the rear-view mirror.

‘Like shite...’ He closed one eye and squinted at the house opposite. ‘Where the hell’s Steve got to?’

Jackie half turned in her seat. ‘Give him a break, OK? He’s not the one been out getting pished.’

‘Zeesh, who rattled your bumhole?’

Logan gritted his teeth. ‘Will you two shut up?’ He scowled into the rear-view mirror and Rennie held his hands up in surrender. Silence settled back into the filthy Vauxhall: Jackie sulking, Rennie rummaging about in the rubbish tip that was the back seat, coming up with one of Councillor Marshall’s pornographic magazines. He flipped through it in the dim yellow glow of a nearby streetlamp, with an amused expression on his face.

Logan turned round and snatched the thing off Rennie, getting a ‘Hey, I was reading that!’ for his pains.

‘Where the hell did you get this?’

Rennie shrugged. ‘It was back here, under all the empty Burger King and KFC boxes.’ Logan shook his head and tossed the magazine back to the constable. This was ridiculous: it wasn’t even the same car they’d had on the stakeout. It looked like Councillor Marshall’s porn collection was doing the rounds all over Aberdeen Command Division — police men and women from Stonehaven to Fraserburgh giggling their way through the man’s anal fetish. Made you proud.

‘You realize I have to go sign out at midnight, don’t you?’ said Jackie, peering over her shoulder at Rennie’s magazine.

‘Tell you what, soon as PC Jacobs gets here you can both go back to the station, sign out, then come back. OK?’

‘What you going to do if Sutherland leaves the house while we’re away?’

‘Follow him.’

Jackie snorted. ‘You can’t follow him: you’ve been drinking. So has Captain Caveman here.’

‘Maybe we’ll get lucky and... oh-ho: company.’ A pair of headlights cruised up the street towards them, pulling up on the other side of the road. A pause, then the lights clicked off. No sign of movement from Chib’s house. A figure got out of the manky old Fiat — PC Steve Jacobs, still wearing his uniform — arms full of takeaway. He clambered into the back beside Rennie.

‘Evenin’ all,’ he intoned, popping the cardboard lid off a huge bucket of chicken. ‘I got some aspirins, one of them bargain family things and — Hey, wait your turn!’ Rennie was already helping himself. ‘Did the inspector get hold of you?’ asked Steve, handing Logan a bag of chips. ‘She said it was urgent: something about a press conference?’

‘We saw it in the pub,’ said Rennie through a mouthful of chicken. ‘Cheeky cow taking all the credit.’ Logan blushed in the darkness and kept his mouth shut. Silence returned to the car as they ate, munching and slurping the only noises, while a huge bottle of Pepsi was passed back and forth. One by one they piled the empty wrappers, napkins and bones back into the bucket, then PC Steve stuffed it down at his feet along with all the other rubbish.

‘Now what?’ asked Rennie, washing down a couple of Steve’s aspirins with greasy Pepsi.

Jackie checked her watch. ‘Now we have to go sign out.’

‘It’s OK,’ said Steve, ‘I got Big Gary to do it for us. Cost me three Mars Bars, but we’re free for the night.’

They spent a while playing Spits-or-Swallows, Logan steering well clear of the game; it just made him think of Colin’s fingers. Then came a wide-ranging philosophical discussion on thongs versus big pants and after that Rennie’s extended monologue on EastEnders’ villains, past and present. With Steve throwing in the occasional helpful discussion topic like, ‘Who’d win in a nude mud-wrestling match: Marge Simpson or Wilma Flintstone?’ which kicked off yet another round of Spits-or-Swallows. Betty Rubble apparently spits. But eventually silence and boredom descended again.

Half past one and Chib’s lounge was plunged into darkness. Logan stretched in his seat, feeling his back pop and twinge, complaining about sitting here for the last two and a bit hours. His alcohol buzz was long gone, leaving behind a headache and heartburn. The sound of gentle snoring was coming from the back seat, but up front Jackie squinted at Councillor Marshall’s magazine, twisting and turning the page to catch as much of the faint sulphurous street lighting as possible. ‘You know,’ said Logan as the upstairs light flickered on in the house they were watching. ‘Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all.’

Jackie looked up from what had to be a faked photograph. ‘Thought you said it was the only way we’d get anything on Chib and his mate?’

Logan shrugged, head resting against the misty passenger window. ‘I don’t know.’ Sigh. ‘To be honest I don’t know anything any more...’ He took a deep breath and told her about Colin Miller and what Isobel said had happened. And how it was all his fault.

‘Oh come on, you’ve got to be kidding me!’ She threw a glance into the back seat — where Rennie and Steve were curled up like a pair of gangly spaniels, sleeping peacefully — and lowered her voice to a soft hiss. ‘How could it be your fault? You didn’t hack Miller’s fingers off, did you? No.’ She reached out and took hold of his hand. ‘You’re a good cop, Logan. You caught Dunbar and that Pirie woman — that old cow Steel would have fucked those cases up like she fucks up everything else. What happened to Miller was just bad luck.’ When he didn’t say anything she gave his hand a squeeze. ‘Tell you what, let’s call it a night: tomorrow we go speak to Insch and get a surveillance op set up. That wrinkly-faced bitch might not give credit where it’s due, but Insch will. Solve the Karl Pearson thing and he’ll get you out of Steel’s team like that.’ She snapped her fingers and the snores from the back seat came to an abrupt, snorking halt.

A bleary-eyed PC Steve poked his head through to the front and asked what was going on. Logan was just about to tell him they were going home when the light clicked on above Chib’s front door and a shadowy figure hurried out into the night, carrying a holdall. ‘Heads up,’ said Logan, ‘something’s happening...’ He squinted, wishing he’d got Steve to lift a pair of night-vision goggles. The figure passed beneath a streetlight: black coat, black jeans, black woolly hat, long black hair and moustache. Chib’s mate — the Gimp — walked down to the far end of the street, turning right onto Countesswells Avenue.

‘OK!’ Jackie sounded excited to be doing something for a change. ‘Buckle up, people!’

Logan stopped her before she could turn the key. ‘We can’t. What about Chib?’

‘What about him? The Gimp is on the go, his mate isn’t. We have to get cracking or we’ll lose him!’

‘OK, OK...’ Logan screwed his face up, running the different scenarios quickly through his head. ‘You take Rennie and follow him, Steve and I stay behind and keep an eye on the house.’

It was Jackie’s turn to frown. ‘How come I get Rennie? Why can’t I take Steve?’

‘Because Rennie and I’ve been drinking, remember? Can’t drive.’

‘Then you come with me.’

‘And leave these two in charge of the house? I’d kinda like at least one sensible person in each team, if it’s OK with you.’

PC Steve’s face fell. ‘Hey, I heard that!’

‘No offence.’ Logan eased his door open and slipped out into the night. ‘Now get your arse in gear.’ Ten seconds later they were huddled in the shadows watching Jackie drive away in pursuit of Chib’s pet Gimp, with Rennie rolling about blearily in the back seat.

‘Er... sir, do you really think they should be going after the child molester on their own?’ asked Steve as they sneaked back to his car.

‘Relax, he’s probably just off for a wank in a playground or something. Anyway,’ Logan pointed at the house, where a shadow moved behind the upstairs window, ‘it’s the bastard up there you’ve got to worry about.’ According to Colin Miller anyway.

The night was dark and quiet, just the way he liked it. Tonight was going to be a special night, one to put in the diary, a red-letter day. Giggling softly, he crossed over the road, picking up the pace as he nipped around the playing fields, enjoying the feeling of light and shadow between the lampposts. Airyhall Avenue was lined with attractive family homes: mother, father, two point four children. Happy, happy families, all snug in bed, dreaming their happy family dreams and waiting for another beautiful family day to dawn. Despite the chill his armpits were already beginning to feel sticky with sweat, and he shifted the heavy holdall from one hand to the other. Tonight was going to be fun; mixing business with pleasure always was. And this time Brendan wouldn’t be angry with him. No more black eyes. Anyway, they were going to be leaving Aberdeen soon, heading back home to Edinburgh. He smiled at the thought. The weather up here was too unpredictable: one minute it was blazing sunshine, the next it was hammering with rain, sometimes both at the same time.

At the bottom of the Avenue he stopped to get his bearings, his heart quickening as he saw the sign on the other side of the road: AIRYHALL CHILDREN’S HOME. He’d come too far, shouldn’t have come down this road. Should have stuck to the road he was on... the home was smaller than the one he’d gone to, where THE MAN had been, the man Brendan had stabbed for him, but that didn’t make it any less frightening.

Shivering slightly, he turned and walked the other way, heading back towards the city centre, getting as far away from the place as possible. Only once did he look back over his shoulder at the bulky home and its slumbering, silent inhabitants.

It took ten minutes to walk up past the cemetery on Springfield Road — whistling the Simpsons theme tune from the moment he saw the sign — right, onto Seafield Road, and all the way along to the roundabout on Anderson Drive. He stopped beneath a streetlight, setting the holdall down on the grass verge. Why did he have to pack so much stuff? He dug out Brendan’s directions — a little map, with a smiley stick figure following the arrows towards a big skull and crossbones surrounded by flames. The house they’d trashed because the old lady wasn’t in. Tonight she wouldn’t be so lucky.

A siren’s wail broke through the quiet rumble of midnight traffic and his heart stopped. A white patrol car roared past, blue lights flashing, taking the roundabout without slowing down and speeding off into the night. Not looking for him.

With a broad smile he picked up the holdall and, looking both ways, crossed the road and hurried towards the centre of town.

‘So,’ said Rennie, scrambling over from the back seat, nearly standing on Jackie’s broken arm twice as she fought with the gear stick. ‘You think he’s up to something?’

‘Get your arse out of my face and sit down!’ Jackie snapped. ‘Jesus, I would have stopped the car, OK? You just had to ask.’

‘Didn’t want you to lose him.’

‘How the hell am I going to lose him? He’s on foot — what’s he going to do, outrun us?’

‘OK, OK, bloody hell, I’m sorry.’ He snapped his seatbelt on and scowled out the windscreen at the figure two hundred yards ahead of them, struggling along the pavement with a heavy-looking holdall over one shoulder. ‘You know, ever since you broke your arm, you’ve been a right cow.’

‘I didn’t break my arm, OK? Someone else broke it.’

‘Same thing: you’ve still been fucking horrible.’

She opened her mouth, closed it again, sniffed and shrugged. To be brutally honest, he was probably right. ‘Anyway,’ she said at last, ‘of course he’s up to something. We wouldn’t be following him if he wasn’t up to something.’ She drifted the car to a halt at the side of the road and killed the lights, letting their man get a little distance between them.

‘So what d’you think he’s up to then? Dressed in black, holdall: think he’s off on the blag?’

‘Nah — the bag’s too heavy for that, wouldn’t be able to cart anything away afterwards. Making some sort of drugs run? Dropping the stuff off at his resellers?’ When she thought that Chib’s mate was far enough down the road to not notice the car following him, Jackie turned the headlights back on and pulled out into the quiet road, driving slowly past the playing fields and across the roundabout into Union Grove.

‘You know,’ said Rennie, ‘they did an old lady down here today. She was using little kids as runners. PCP and cannabis and crack and all sorts.’

‘Yeah? Well, maybe our boy’s looking to take up where she left off.’

Rennie grinned. ‘Extra, extra, read all about it: Off-Duty Police Foil Edinburgh Drugs Baron!’

Jackie smiled back at him. ‘I can live with that.’