Dying Light (24 page)

DI Steel squinted at the video monitor. ‘So what am I supposed to be looking at again?’ Logan hit rewind and the car that had been sweeping towards the camera went into reverse. He hit play and it swooped forward again. A brand-new Audi. The picture was a little ropey, but it was clear enough to make out the figure in the passenger seat. She was caught in the glow of a streetlight: frizzy bleached-blonde hair, squint nose, cleft chin, half a ton of make-up and a black beauty spot on the left cheek.

‘Holly McEwan,’ said Logan, tapping the screen. ‘This was taken by the video surveillance unit in the van. You can’t really make out all of the number plate, but if you look over here…’ He pointed at the next monitor, where a view along Regent Quay flickered and jiggled. He pressed play and the image settled down to show the same brand-new Audi stop at the junction before disappearing onto Virginia Street. He rewound the tape
and hit pause again. This time the car’s number plate was clearly visible.

‘You sure this is the same car?’ asked Steel, pressing her nose against the glass.

‘Positive: the partial registration from the other tape matches this one and so does the time stamp. But just in case, I’ve asked the lab to see if they can’t get a better image of the first number plate.’

‘Ya wee beauty!’ Steel grinned, showing off a row of yellow teeth. ‘All we need to do now is—’ Logan held up a piece of paper. ‘Vehicle registration, name and address.’

‘Sergeant, if you were a woman: I’d kiss you.’

The Bridge of Don was a sprawl of housing developments on the north of the city, growing over the years like a Mandelbrot fractal of cul-de-sacs in tan brick. Neil Ritchie owned a four-bedroom, two-storey detached villa on the very edge of the development, its large back garden studded with mature trees marking the boundary between the city and fields of oilseed rape. Around the front of the property Logan and DI Steel sat in a reasonably clean CID car, with DC Rennie in the back. There was no brand-new Audi sitting on the driveway – just a little, dark blue Renault Clio and a huge motorbike – but there was a double garage sitting at the end of the lock-block drive. Steel pulled out her mobile and punched in Neil Ritchie’s phone number. There was a pause, and then DI Steel said in a broad Aberdonian accent, ‘Hullo,
is iss Mistur Ritchie?… Fit?… Aye, aye, aye… Noo, I ken he wis askin’ fer a pucklie chuckies, but ah canna deliver em imarra… A pucklie chuckies… Chuckies… Aye, d’yis want tae pit im oan?’ She clasped one hand over the mouthpiece and smiled like a crocodile. ‘Bastard’s in. Let’s do it.’ She opened the car door and stepped out into the cloudy afternoon, closely followed by Logan and Rennie.

Logan spoke into a radio handset and told the other team it was all systems go as Steel strode up the drive to the front door. She gave the nod and Rennie leant on the doorbell. ‘Hullo?’ she said into the phone clamped to her ear. ‘Is iss Mistur Ritchie?’

From the other side of the door they could hear a man’s voice: ‘Damn, can you hold on a minute? That’s the front door…’ It opened revealing a man in his early thirties holding a cordless phone. He was all dressed up in a set of expensive biker’s leathers, a little heavy around the middle, with a face that no one would think to look twice at. Not ugly, just forgettable. Exactly the sort of face you’d want for picking up prostitutes and beating the life out of them. He smiled at Rennie and pointed at the phone. ‘Be with you in just a minute…’ He turned his attention back to the call. ‘Now, who did you say was calling?’

‘It’s the police,’ said Steel, ‘we’ve come to have a little chat.’

The man looked at the phone, then at the inspector, then said, ‘Sorry?’ into the mouthpiece.

Steel smiled at him and snapped her phone shut. ‘Mr Neil Ritchie? Want to let us in, or would you prefer us to drag you down to the station, kicking and screaming?’

‘What? I’m just on my way out, I—’

‘Not any more you’re not.’ She whipped out the warrant and pointed at Rennie. ‘Make sure there’s not a dead tart lying on the kitchen floor, there’s a good boy.’

Inside, the house was opulent. Expensive-looking Turkish rugs on polished hardwood floors, the pale cream walls festooned with vivid watercolours and photographs, the whole thing looking suspiciously like it had been professionally designed. There was a woman sitting in the spacious lounge reading a Val McDermid, a cup of what smelled like peppermint tea sitting on the Moorish coffee table beside her. She looked up and frowned as DC Rennie marched past her into the kitchen. ‘Neil? Who is that man? Is there something wrong?’

Neil stood, wringing his hands in front of the fireplace. ‘It’s some sort of dreadful mistake!’

DI Steel sidled up and threw a chummy arm around him. ‘That’s right: just a mistake. I’m sure you didn’t mean to pick up those prostitutes, strip them naked and beat them to death. Now why don’t we all have a nice cup of tea and you can tell us
all
about it.’

The woman was out of her seat in a flash. ‘
Prostitutes?
Neil? What prostitutes? What the hell have you been up to?’ She clutched her book to her chest, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘You promised me! You promised you wouldn’t do that again!’

‘I… I didn’t! I swear to you! I didn’t do anything!’

‘You know,’ said Steel, patting the man on the shoulder, ‘you’d be surprised how often we hear that in our line of work. Where were you last Wednesday morning at a quarter to three?’

‘I… I was at home, asleep.’

‘And Mrs Ritchie here can confirm that, can she?’

He looked imploringly at his wife, but she collapsed back onto the sofa, staring at him in horror. ‘Oh my God! I was away at my mother’s all week! He’s been here on his own! It’s you isn’t it? That man in the papers!’

‘Suzanne – it’s not what it looks like, I swear! I didn’t do anything!’

‘I see.’ The inspector smiled. ‘And tell me, Mr Ritchie, where’s that nice new car of yours?’

‘What? It’s in the garage… I didn’t do anything!’

‘Well, we’ll let the forensic team decide that, eh? Now, how about you come down to the station voluntarily, and we can sort this whole thing out? How does that sound?’

His eyes darted left and right, but Logan was
blocking the doorway and there were policemen in the back garden. ‘I… I want to speak to my lawyer first.’

Steel tutted and shook her head sadly. ‘Sorry, that’s not the way it works. You can come with us voluntarily, or in cuffs, but either way, you’re coming with us.’

Back at the station, Mr Ritchie was stuck in interview room number five, with a nice cup of decaffeinated brown sludge and a glowering PC. The IB team had found bleached-blonde hair on the passenger seat of Ritchie’s new car that looked a lot like the samples they’d taken from Holly McEwan’s flat. Down in the incident room, DI Steel was busy fidgeting with her bra strap while Logan pinned up everything they could find on Neil Ritchie: thirty-four; married – no children; working as a hydrocarbon accountant for one of the major oil companies. The only blemishes on his police record were two warnings for kerb crawling, both more than four years old. Other than that he was Mr Squeaky Clean. He’d even organized a ‘teddy bear scramble’ in aid of the Archie Foundation – a local charity that raised money for sick children. So the IB were going through his home computer, looking for internet kiddie porn.

‘Right,’ said the inspector when Logan was done. ‘Let’s go see what he has to say for himself. You can play good cop if you like?’

‘What? No, I can’t.’

‘You want to be nasty? No offence, but you’re not exactly—’

‘No, I mean I can’t do the interview.’ This was the bit Logan had been dreading. It was already twenty past six – an interview would take hours and Jackie had been quite explicit about what would happen if he wasn’t back at the flat by seven.

‘You’re kidding me! We’ve got the bastard by the balls, and you don’t want to be in at the kill?’

‘I do. I do want to. But I can’t. I have to get home.’

‘Ahh.’ Steel nodded sagely. ‘You’re on a promise and you think getting your leg over is more important. I understand. Fine…’ She crossed her arms and stuck her nose in the air. ‘I’ll take DC Rennie in with me. Be good experience for him, breaking a case like this. You go get laid.’

‘It’s not like that, I—’

‘By the way, did you speak to Complaints and Discipline this morning?’

‘What?’ Logan frowned, thrown by the sudden change of tack. Complaints and Discipline was what Professional Standards used to be called, before they’d changed their name to appear more cuddly and approachable. ‘Er… yes. I did.’

‘Going to let you off with a caution, are they?’

‘Well, it was kinda weird, they were talking like it might even get thrown out. No charges.’

All expression fell from the inspector’s face.
‘Aye, well don’t say I never do anything nice for you.’ She turned on her heel and stomped off. Logan almost made it as far as the front door before an out-of-breath PC Steve grabbed him, sounding like he’d just sprinted all the way from Dundee.

‘Sorry, sir…’ Puff, pant. ‘But DI Insch wants to see you, right away!’

Logan checked his watch: he still had thirty-five minutes, enough time to go home via a florist and pick up something for Jackie, so she’d know he appreciated the armistice. A few more minutes here probably wouldn’t hurt.

Up in the main incident room DI Insch had parked himself on a desk at the epicentre of organized chaos, one large buttock resting on the top, the other hanging over the edge as he listened to a report from the bearded detective sergeant he’d tormented earlier. DS Beattie, he of the porn-star wife. Insch glanced up from the report to stuff another cola bottle into his mouth, saw Logan walking in with PC Steve and told Beattie to go do something else for ten minutes. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, fixing Logan with a cool gaze. ‘Join me in my office.’

Detective Inspector Insch’s office was bigger than Steel’s: enough space to fit a large, tidy desk, a computer, three filing cabinets, a huge weeping fig, and a couple of comfy chairs. But Logan wasn’t offered a seat – as soon as he was inside the door was slammed shut and Insch demanded to know
what the blue fucking hell Logan thought he was playing at?

‘Sir?’ He took a step back, bumping into a wastepaper basket overflowing with sweetie wrappers, sending an empty packet of Gummi Bears fluttering to the dirty carpet tiles.

‘You had those bastards in here last night and you DIDN’T TELL ME!’

Logan held up his hands. ‘Who? Who did…’ and then it dawned on him. ‘What, Chib Sutherland and his mate?’

Insch was getting redder and redder. ‘You bloody well knew I wanted to speak to them, but did you call me and let me know you had them in custody? No: I had to hear it when I came in this afternoon.
After
they’d been released on bail!’

‘They got bail?’ Bloody typical, you could murder your granny with a tattie peeler these days and still not get remanded in custody.

‘Of course they got bail!’ The inspector’s face had gone past red, heading into a dangerous shade of purple, spittle flying from his lips as he yelled. ‘You tried to do them for a piddling little drugs charge! I wanted them for suspected murder. MURDER! Understand? Not just a couple of condoms of heroin!’

‘It was crack cocaine…’ He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

Insch jabbed a sausage-like finger into Logan’s chest. ‘I don’t care if they were filled with C-Four explosive and rammed up the Duke of Edinburgh’s
backside: I wanted to speak to them!’ He took a deep breath then settled back onto his desk, crossing his huge arms and scowling. ‘Come on then, let’s hear it: your
brilliant
excuse.’

‘DI Steel told me not to.’ He might feel shitty for landing the inspector in it, but it was hardly his fault. He’d tried to get her to involve Insch at the outset. ‘I told her you should be informed about the operation and she refused.’

Insch’s eyes narrowed, until they were little angry black pearls, glittering dangerously in his flushed, piggy face. ‘Is that so…’ He stood, flexing his shoulders, making his shirt bulge alarmingly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Sergeant, I have some business to attend to.’

The sky was low and grey above the opulent granite buildings of Rubislaw Den as Colin Miller heaved himself out of the car, dragged the laptop from behind the driver’s seat and plipped on the alarm. It had been yet another shitty day. Not so long ago he’d been a proper journalist. Used to win awards. And now look at him; reduced to writing crappy human interest stories, and all because of that lousy puff piece on Malk the Knife’s bloody housing development. Bad enough Malkie sends his psychopaths up to lean on him to produce the thing in the first place, but now the paper didn’t trust him to write about anything more challenging than bloody knitting fairs and sheep dogs. And the one good story he had, the one that
would save him from all this shite, was the one story he couldn’t publish.

Colin stood up straight and glowered at the looming clouds. He should quit: write a book. Something gory with lots of death, blood and sex in it. The paper could stick their human-bastard-interest stories. He’d be out there drinking champagne and eating fucking caviar! He didn’t need the P&J, it needed him…

He sighed, slumping slightly, feeling the weight of his new responsibilities. Who was he kidding, he couldn’t afford to lose his job. Not now there was—

‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t ace paperboy, Colin Miller.’ Edinburgh accent, deep voice, right behind him.

Colin spun around to see Brendan ‘Chib’ Sutherland leaning casually against a big silver Mercedes. Oh Christ, what now? ‘Er… Mr Sutherland, nice to see you again…?’

Chib shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t think so, Colin. I don’t think it’s going to be very nice at all. Shall we go for a little ride? We can take my car.’

‘I… er…’ He took a couple of steps back, clutching the laptop bag like a shield, and bumped into a solid mass. It was Chib’s mate, standing right behind him. ‘I can’t, I have—’

Chib held up a finger. ‘I insist.’

A large pair of hands wrapped around Colin’s upper arms and forced him into the back of the
waiting car. Slithering over the leather seats to the far side, he scrabbled for the handle, but nothing happened – the child lock was on. He turned to see Chib slide onto the back seat with him, closing the door with a solid clunk. ‘Now then,’ said the man he’d called a wannabe Weegie, pulling a pair of poultry shears from his coat pocket. The curved blades glinted in the grey evening light. ‘My associate is going to drive us somewhere nice and quiet, where we can be alone. I need to ask you some questions and you’ll need to scream.’