Dying Light (21 page)

‘Evenin’, squire, understand you’re looking for me?’ Spiky blond hair, linen suit, no tie, Armani sunglasses, faint Dundee accent.

‘That depends. You speak to Gavin Cruickshank’s wife on Wednesday?’

‘The lovely Ailsa?’ The grin grew even wider as the man peeled off his jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. ‘Guilty as charged. One of these days she’s going to wise up and dump that tosser husband of hers.’ He gave Logan a wink. ‘You ever met her? Knockers like melons, sexy as hell. Never believe she used to be the size of a house. Must go like a fucking bunny…’ He sighed, happy with his fantasy.

‘Wednesday afternoon: why did you tell her Gavin was out with a client?’

‘Hmm? Oh,’ cos he was.’

‘Funny. Everyone else says he didn’t turn up for work that day.’

Pause. Fidget. And then the smile was back. ‘You got me, it’s a fair cop. He didn’t show up Wednesday morning.’

‘So why did you lie to her?’

‘Well, you see, it’s kinda like this: sometimes he doesn’t come in till later. Sometimes he doesn’t come into the office at all. Gav brings in a lot of business, so he can get away with murder round here.’

‘So how did you know he was with a client? Did you speak to him?’

‘Not as such, no. But he sent me a text message.’

‘When was this?’

‘Dunno, mid morning I think. Said he wouldn’t be in till later, didn’t say when.’

‘So you assumed he was with a client?’

‘Ah…’ The smile flickered on and off as he settled into the chair behind the messy desk and switched on one of the computers. ‘Not really, no. You see, Gav is what we call a “cheating bastard”. Here…’ He dug about in the piles of paper, coming out with a glossy photograph of a topless Gavin Cruickshank, surrounded by a gaggle of T-shirt-stretching blondes and brunettes bearing the legend H
OOTERS
. One of them was squeezing his tanned chest, her hand almost covering a black tattoo. They had Hooters emblazoned on their chests; he had A
ILSA
on his. ‘Got that taken when we was in Houston for the last offshore technology
conference. He knobbed three of them in four days. Not that his poor bloody wife has any idea. She still thinks he’s Mister Shiny.’ He shook his head. ‘Unbe-fucking-lievable isn’t it? I mean if you could go home and screw someone like Ailsa, why the hell would you need anyone else? But there you are: he’s an arsehole.’

‘So when he sent you a text saying he wouldn’t be in until later, you thought…’

‘That he was off getting his knob sucked by some lovely young thing? Yeah. Wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘Any idea who?’

‘Well, you met Janet on reception? He’s been poking her off and on for a bit. I think he’s been giving one of your lot’s wife a good seeing to. Detective Sergeant something or other. And he’s been seeing this pole-dancer at Secret Service, you know, the titty bar on Windmill Brae? Hayley…’ An envious grin. ‘’Cording to him she does some of the filthiest things with a carrot you ever seen! Criminal. Hey, maybe she’s got a pimp or something and he’s done for Gav? Or maybe they’ve just run off together. Silly bastard’s talked about it often enough…’ And the grin became a leer. ‘I could console his poor, sexy, abandoned wife! Give her a shoulder to cry on and a knob to bounce on. Jesus, that would be sweet.’

Back outside in the sunshine Logan stood in the car park, looking up at the building Mr Gavin
Cruickshank ran his empire of extramarital sex from. Four women – how did he have the energy? Logan had enough trouble with one.

Logan’s phone started ringing pretty much the moment he switched it back on – a harsh cacophony of bings, squeaks and whistles that made his stomach clench. But it was only Colin Miller; the reporter had managed to track down an address for Brendan ‘Chib’ Sutherland. According to Miller’s sources, Chib and his mate with the long hair and ‘tache were staying in an exclusive little development on the western edge of Mannofield. Logan got the feeling there was something else, something the reporter wasn’t telling him, but no amount of prompting, cajoling or questioning would get him to spill the beans. So in the end Logan just had to thank Miller for the info. Whatever it was, he’d probably find out soon enough. ‘
So, Laz… you got anythin’ for me?
You know, quid pro quo, like?
’ Logan thought about it. DI Steel wanted to let Councillor Marshall get away with abusing a fourteen-year-old, wanted everyone to look the other way, had told him in
no
uncertain terms to keep his nose out of it? No problem, he’d let the
Press and Journal
do it for him. So Logan told Miller all about Councillor Marshall, the Chief Greenbelt Development Planner, and the fourteen-year-old Lithuanian prostitute. Miller nearly exploded with delight. ‘
Holy shit, that’s fantastic! Talk about caught with your
pants down
!’ Pause. ‘
You sure can use this?
’ Logan
told him to go ahead and knock himself out, then hung up. It was the first time in ages he’d actually agot some job satisfaction.

Logan turned the car back towards FHQ – he’d managed to spend a whole four and a quarter hours away from the office, but like it or not, he’d have to go back in to do something about Chib and his greasy-looking mate.

Sergeant Mitchell was having a sly fag on the back podium as Logan slid the pool car into one of the vacant parking spots. ‘What the hell you doing back here?’ he shouted, not bothering to take the cigarette from his mouth. ‘Thought I told you to make yourself scarce?’

‘I take it Napier’s been looking for me.’

‘Surprisingly enough, no.’ He oozed smoke out through his nose, where it became entangled in the hairs of his moustache, leaving it smouldering. ‘The lovely Count Nosferatu has been away with the Chief Constable all day, on what is being politely referred to as “a jolly”.’ Logan nodded gloomily. It just meant the bollocking was
postponed until tomorrow. ‘But one of them Wildlife Crime Officers came past about your dog in a suitcase.’

‘Yeah?’ He’d forgotten all about handing the investigation over, what with the fires and all the dead prostitutes. ‘Any luck?’

‘How the hell should I know?’

‘Wonderful,
thanks
, Eric.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Sergeant Mitchell took a deep drag and tried for a smoke-ring, failing miserably. ‘By the way: Social Work’ve been round, that wee whore of yours is really only thirteen.’ He raised his cigarette in salute. ‘Fuckin’ proud moment for Aberdonians everywhere…’ and suddenly Eric looked all of his forty-one years. ‘Oh and DI Steel wants to see you as well.
And before you ask
: no idea. You’ll have to ask her yourself.’

DI Steel’s incident room was slowly fumbling its way back into chaos, as time and the inspector’s natural flair for entropy took hold. The back shift were manning the phones and pushing paper about; not that there was a lot going on at the moment. Dr Bushel’s profile for the prostitute killer – or ‘The Shore Lane Stalker’ as the papers were calling him – wasn’t being released to the media, but it was stuck up on the wall next to the post mortem photographs. There was no sign of Steel.

Three fresh yellow Post-it notes lurked in the middle of Logan’s desk along with yet another plastic bag of videotapes from Operation
Cinderella. Logan stuffed them, unwatched, in the cupboard with all the others. The first Post-it was from Steel, telling him that the labs had finally got their finger out and come back with an analysis of the items retrieved from Jamie McKinnon’s bumhole: crack cocaine. No surprise there, but he was to call her. Note number two was from the Wildlife Crime Officer: he’d been through all the reports of missing black Labradors but none of them were likely candidates for the torso in the woods. And note number three was from an inspector whose name Logan didn’t recognize saying that he was to phone as soon as he got in. As long as it was before five. Which it wasn’t. So Logan went off to look for DI Steel instead. She was in the canteen, polishing off a ham and cheese sandwich.

‘You wanted to see me?’ said Logan, dropping himself into a seat on the other side of the table, eyeing Steel suspiciously.

‘Mmmmphhh…’ She chewed, forced a big wedge of sandwich into the side of her mouth and mumbled something about leaving him a note.

‘I got a possible address for our Edinburgh pushers.’

A predatory smile slunk its way onto the inspector’s face. ‘’Bout bloody time too,’ she said, washing down the last of her sandwich with a skoof of Irn-Bru. ‘Right, let’s get a search and apprehension warrant. I want to take the bastards tonight, before they have a chance to do someone else.’

‘What about Insch?’

Steel frowned. ‘What about him?’

‘Well, we think that maybe these guys might have something to do with Karl Pearson. You know, the man we found tortured to death with his throat cut?’

‘And?’

‘Don’t you think we should
tell
him about—’

‘Bugger that: this is our collar. Insch can have his turn when we’ve finished doing them for the drugs.’ She settled back in her seat and started digging between her rear molars with a fingernail. ‘This is our chance to shine, Lazarus. We tell Insch and he’ll take the whole thing over. If there’s any credit going on this one, I want it. Insch doesn’t need it.’ And that was it, end of discussion. She wouldn’t even let him tell the Drugs Squad.

It took the best part of an hour to organize the warrants, identify a team and get them together so the inspector could take them through the compulsory pre-operation briefing. Nine firearms-trained officers and a handful of uniform for backup. There was a good mixture of men and women, all of them straight-faced and deadly serious, listening intently as Steel filled them in on Chib Sutherland’s colourful background. Much to Logan’s surprise, DC Simon Rennie had turned out to be firearms qualified – personally he wouldn’t have trusted him with a water pistol, but according to the computer he’d passed with flying colours. He sat right at the front of the room,
his usual not-so-plain-clothes replaced by the black SAS-style kit worn by the rest of the firearms team. As soon as the inspector had finished Rennie stuck his hand up. ‘You sure they’re going to be armed, ma’am?’

Steel shook her head. ‘Haven’t got a bloody clue, but I’m no’ taking any chances. No one is to go into that house without a gun and a bulletproof vest. Understand? I want everyone in the address accounted for, face-down in the lounge, with hands cuffed behind their backs before anyone unarmed goes in. OK? We clear on that?’ Sigh. ‘What is it, Rennie?’

‘Do we know how many of them there’s meant to be?’

‘We’re expecting at least two of them, maybe more. Possibly armed. That’s why I want the place turned upside down. I do
not
want some bugger jumping out the linen closet with a machete while we’re all having a cup of tea and scratching our arses!’ She stood, hands thrust into pockets. ‘What we need to… What?’ Rennie had his hand up again.

‘Do we know if they’ve got a dog?’

‘No we don’t know if they’ve got a bloody dog! If I knew they had a bloody dog, do you no’ think I would’ve told you?’ Rennie went red and apologized. ‘Right,’ said the inspector, dragging a bashed packet of cigarettes from her trouser pocket. ‘I want you all geared up and ready to roll in fifteen minutes.’

Twenty minutes later, Steel’s new firearms team was installed in the back of an unmarked van and heading off to Mannofield. ‘Operation High Noon’, as the inspector had tactfully named it, was underway. A pair of patrol cars took a more circuitous route to the target address, keeping a low profile so as not to attract too much attention. Logan and Steel followed in the inspector’s mid-life-crisis-mobile, detouring past Athol House in Guild Street so Logan could jump out and pick up the warrants while Steel loitered on the double yellows outside. The Procurator Fiscal’s office was on the fifth floor, but her deputy was waiting for him in reception, a buff folder in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other. Her frizzy hair was pulled back from her head in a ponytail that still managed to come down to her shoulder blades, her dark green suit wrinkled after a long day in the office. There were faint purple circles under her eyes. She gave him the folder, but kept the coffee. ‘Thanks,’ said Logan, riffling through the paperwork, making sure all the bits were signed where they were supposed to be.

‘Er… Sergeant McRae,’ she said, ‘I understand there’s a possibility your visitors from Edinburgh might be responsible for torturing Karl Pearson. That true?’

‘Hmm? Oh. It’s possible, but we’ve not got anything linking them yet, it’s all just supposition really. Thanks for getting these together so quickly, Ms Tulloch, I really appreciate it.’

She smiled. ‘Not a problem. And it’s “Miss Tulloch”, not “Ms”. You can call me Rachael.’

Logan smiled back. ‘In that case, I’m Logan.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Rachael.’ Outside someone leaned on a car horn, the loud braying breeeeeeeeep, clearly audible through the building’s doors. ‘That’ll be the inspector. Gotta dash. Thanks again.’ And he was back outside, just in time to be consumed in a cloud of blue diesel smoke from a passing bus.

Steel was hanging out the car window, cigarette jammed between her lips, puffing away for all she was worth. ‘Come on! We haven’t got all bloody day.’ The inspector cut across town, avoiding the traffic on Union Street, sticking to residential back streets, the pale granite buildings rouged with orange and gold as the sun began its slow, downward slip into twilight.

‘Did you know,’ said Logan as the inspector finally pulled the car to a halt, across the road and three houses down from where Chib and his mate were supposed to be staying, ‘that we murder more people, per million head of population, in Aberdeen than the whole of England and Wales combined?’

Steel cranked on the handbrake, and looked at him as if he’d written the words K
NOB
E
ND
across his forehead with indelible marker. ‘Don’t be daft: they kill more people in bloody Manchester in a month than we do all sodding year! Who the hell told you that rubbish?’

‘Rachael, and it’s not that daft if you think about it, it’s averaged over the—’

‘Who the hell is “Rachael”?’ She cracked open the driver-side window and fumbled in her pockets for the ubiquitous pack of crumpled cigarettes.

‘The new deputy fiscal, she—’

‘Thought you were knobbing WPC Watson, in-between prostitutes that is.’ She snorted and lit up, letting the smoke ooze out into the evening air. ‘Better watch that, or she’ll have your bollocks for earrings. Watson can be a right vindictive cow when she puts her mind to it.’

‘What? No!’ Logan stared at the inspector in horror. ‘Nothing’s going on! Who said anything was going on?’

Steel held up her hands, head wreathed in smoke. ‘I’m just saying: watch your step, OK? I mean, I like you and all that – for a man you’re less of a fuckwit than most of your species – but still…’ She stared out the window. ‘Look, there are some things in this life you can’t take for granted. Trust me on this – it’s
way
too easy to put the job first, forget what’s really important.’ Steel sighed. ‘Just don’t screw it up, OK?’ For once Logan got the feeling she wasn’t being sarcastic, which was ironic as she was the one dragging him into work the whole time, pissing Jackie off.

They sat in silence for a minute. Then the radio crackled into life – DC Rennie saying the van was in position. Logan watched as it pulled up outside the house, blocking the large, silver Mercedes in
the driveway. ‘About bloody time,’ the inspector muttered, then grabbed the handset and shouted into it, ‘What the hell took you so long?’

‘
Well… er… We had to make a toilet break…
’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ She slumped in her seat, took the fag out of the corner of her mouth and boinged her head off the steering wheel.

‘
Inspector?
’

‘Rennie, I swear to God, I’d come over there and ram my boot up your backside if your shoulders weren’t in the bloody way. Now get going!’ The sound of muffled conversation crackled out of the speakers and Logan saw the rear doors of the van pop open. Two black-clad officers in full bullet-proof get-up, with chunky black helmets, Heckler and Koch MP5 machine pistols, and the lower half of their faces obscured with black scarves, scurried up the garden path. They skidded to a halt, either side of the front door, and made clenched fist gestures back at the van. Another pair of armed officers leapt from the vehicle and sprinted across to join them, guns at the ready. All very Hollywood. They were followed by a big-boned WPC with a battering ram and a pronounced limp. There was no sign of movement from the house.

‘
Echo three
sixer
, we are in position
.’

Steel frowned and picked up the radio handset. ‘What the hell is “Echo three sixer” when it’s at home?’

‘
Er… it’s PCs Littlejohn, MacInnes, Clarkson, and
WPC Caldwell. We’re round the back
.’

‘Well, why didn’t you bloody well say so? Right, listen up you lot: I want this done nice and cleanly. No shots fired if we don’t have to – Rennie, I mean you – if no one gets hurt, first round’s on me, OK?’ She took her thumb off the transmit button and grinned at Logan. ‘I love this bit.’ Click. ‘GO GO GO!’

The battering ram smashed the front door off its hinges and the large WPC jumped to the side as her colleagues charged past, guns at the ready.

Steel watched them disappear into the house and smiled. That was it. There was nothing to do now but wait for the team to go through every room in the house and give the all clear. She dug the cigarette packet back out again and shoogled it in Logan’s direction. He politely declined the offer. ‘No? You sure? Ah well, takes all sorts,’ she said, lighting up. ‘While we’ve got a minute, I wanted to speak to you about a little visit I had today from an old mate.’ A couple of folded sheets of A4 appeared from the inspector’s inside pocket. She handed them over. ‘You’ve had papers served on you.’