Dying Light (18 page)

‘Why don’t you and me go for a walk and a chat?’

She grinned. ‘I talk dirty good!’

‘Yeah, I know: you told me that before, remember?’ He took hold of her arm and steered her back towards the street, provoking a cry of protest from the bloke with his trousers round his ankles. Apparently Logan was jumping the queue. ‘She’s fourteen,’ Logan replied, ‘and I’m CID. Want to see me arresting you for child abuse?’ The big man yanked his trousers up and mumbled something about having kids himself and wasn’t it terrible and he never meant anything by it and he
really
didn’t know she was fourteen…

Beneath the streetlights Logan got his first good look at her. Sometime in the last week she’d managed to break her nose. ‘What happened to your face?’

Kylie shrugged. ‘Steve – he get angry. I tell him rain bad for business, but he say I not make enough money.’

‘You look like you haven’t eaten for a week.’

She shook her head, staggering a little as they walked up the side of the Citadel and into the Castlegate. ‘I eat Happy Meal. Steve good to me.’

Yeah, thought Logan, good old ‘Steve’. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you some chips.’

The queue was longer than usual, the drunk and the not-so-drunk waiting patiently for their turn to order smoked sausage supper and a mealie pudding, beneath the silent, flickering glare of a television set up above the till. Logan and Kylie slowly shuffled their way around the little chicane
in the middle of the shop to encourage orderly queuing, with the Lithuanian explaining why Edinburgh chip shops were much better than the ones in Aberdeen because they did salt and sauce, not just salt and vinegar. They’d finally made it as far as the long stainless-steel-and-glass bunker – where the deep-fried bits and pieces went to die – when Kylie pointed up at the silent TV screen and squealed with delight. ‘I make fuck with him!’

Blushing, but unable to help himself, Logan looked up to see the smug, slimy face of Councillor Andrew Marshall. ‘You sure?’ he hissed, not wanting to draw any more attention than they already had.

She nodded. ‘At private party, when I come Aberdeen first, him and bald friend both at same time. “Spit roast”, is right? When bald man in mouth and other man is up—’

Logan didn’t need to hear any more; given the Councillor’s taste in magazines it was pretty clear where he would have been. He paid for their chips and walked her across the road to eat them. She was so engrossed she didn’t even notice they’d walked all the way around the Arts Centre and were heading up the ramp onto the rear podium. In fact it wasn’t until Alpha Six Two honked its horn to get past that she suddenly realized where she was: Grampian Police Force Headquarters. Screaming curses in Lithuanian she hurled her remaining chips at Logan and turned to run, but
he grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and dragged her, kicking and screaming, into the building.

Half an hour later Logan jumped into DI Steel’s CID pool car and handed the inspector a white pudding supper, with the obligatory pickled egg.

‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting bloody ages!’

Logan grinned and sank down in the driver’s seat. ‘Oh, here and there.’

‘What?’ she said, chewing suspiciously on a handful of chips. ‘What’s so damn funny?’

‘I just picked up a prostitute.’

‘Oh aye?’ She picked up her white pudding and ripped a bite out of it, chewing round the words. ‘What’s the matter, WPC Watson not dirty enough for you,’ cos I can—’

He didn’t let her finish. ‘A fourteen-year-old Lithuanian prostitute to be precise. Called Kylie.’ This got a blank look. ‘Saw Jamie McKinnon having sex with Rosie Williams the night she was murdered?’

Steel groaned and shovelled in another handful of chips. ‘What fucking good is that to me?’ Bits of chewed potato were falling onto her blouse. ‘Bastard already admitted shagging her. And if it was the same guy who killed Rosie and Michelle Wood, then it doesn’t matter who
saw
McKinnon there.’

‘But just in case – it puts him at the scene. We
don’t have any evidence remember? You destroyed…’ He stopped when he saw the expression on the inspector’s face. ‘I mean, the tape machine wasn’t working.’

‘And you’d better fucking remember that.’

‘There’s something else, if you’re interested?’ He smiled and let the question hang as Steel took another huge bite out of her white pudding. As if she was trying to castrate the thing. ‘This fourteen-year-old girl says Councillor Marshall’s shagged her up the arse while she was sucking someone else’s dick.’

There was a sudden explosion of half-chewed white pudding coating the inside of the windscreen while DI Steel choked.

Logan winked. ‘Thought you’d like that.’

Thursday started much like any other day, unfortunately. Not enough sleep and what little he’d managed to grab after Operation Cinderella packed up for the night was riddled with dreams of dead children, damp and rotten, the flesh falling from their bones as they skipped and danced through his flat, their eyes like runny-yolked eggs. No wonder he felt dreadful. He was definitely going to check up on PC Maitland today. Pop past and see how he was doing. Offload a bit of the guilt.

DI Steel was in the incident room, speaking to DI Insch and fiddling with a pack of cigarettes. Logan was too tired to bother listening in, so he slouched over to his desk instead and tried to figure out what he was going to do about Steel. She’d told him in no uncertain terms that he was to have nothing more to do with Kylie – she’d be taking over the underage sex thing personally. And if he breathed a word of it to anyone she’d have his balls.

There was a plastic bag full of videotapes sitting on Logan’s desk, each one bearing a sticky label with ‘O
PERATION
C
INDERELLA
N
IGHT
2’ scribbled on it, and next to that a big Manila folder: the criminal records of one Chib Sutherland. Sighing, Logan got himself a mug of coffee and started to read.

Chib was every bit as lovely as Colin Miller had implied. Most of his formative years were spent in borstal for knifing some attendant at the children’s home he was staying in, then on to a serious life of violent crime. Right up to the time he started working for that great philanthropist, Malcolm McLennan – AKA Malk the Knife. He’d taken the boy in and moulded him in his own image: a vicious wee thug who wouldn’t get caught any more. According to Lothian and Borders he was in the frame for at least eight murders, though there was never enough hard evidence to do him for any of them. But people had gone missing, never to be seen again. Then there were the bodies that
had
been found, battered and mutilated. Everyone knew Chib was responsible; there just wasn’t any way to prove it. Not when any witnesses were so conveniently struck down with amnesia, or a cricket bat.

‘Hoy, Lazarus.’ Logan looked up to see DI Steel hovering over the desk, smiling at him with yellowed teeth. ‘Good news,’ she said, ‘in a crappy sort of way. Seems like the big boys down south have decided to lend little old Grampian Police a
helping hand. Isn’t that just fucking swell?’ When Logan didn’t answer she slapped a couple of sheets of A4 on top of the report he was reading. ‘They’ve sent us up a preliminary psychological offender profile! Wow! According to Insch, you’ve already worked with the specky-four-eyed git who wrote it, so guess what?’ The inspector beamed and punched him on the shoulder. ‘You have “experience”. I want to know what all the shite in that report means, and – more importantly – if any of it’s worth the paper it’s written on. And don’t take too long: Mr Clinical Psychologist is on his way up the road as we speak. I want some sort of synopsis before he gets here at eleven.’ Logan tried not to groan. Instead he poked the plastic bag full of videotapes and asked the inspector what she expected him to do with them all. ‘I don’t bloody care, do I,’ she said. ‘Take them home and record over them if you like, it’s not like we’re ever going to watch the bloody things anyway.’ She stopped, halfway to the door. ‘Oh, and don’t forget what we talked about last night.’ The threat was implicit:
tell anyone and you’re screwed
.

Dr Bushel was exactly as Logan remembered: arrogant, self-satisfied, balding and immaculately dressed. The strip lights sparkled off his little round glasses as he stood at the front of the briefing room taking a select group of Grampian’s finest through his psychological profile for their potential serial killer. There wasn’t anything here that Logan
hadn’t already told DI Steel after reading the report, but it was all new to the Assistant Chief Constable, the deputy CC, and the head of CID. The killer would be white, male, in his mid to late twenties, have intimacy issues, and have used a prostitute before, but found it a humiliating experience. The beating was a sign of his hatred towards women, the intensity of his rage acting as a pointer to buried conflict with his mother. He would have a menial job, but be articulate enough to lure Michelle Wood into his car. Socially adequate. He took his victims’ clothes, not as a trophy, but because he wanted to humiliate them. And possibly for some sort of masturbatory fantasy. He would strike again.

Once the doctor had finished his presentation, DI Steel started asking the questions Logan had raised in private earlier, framing each one as if she was pulling it out of the blue, thinking on her feet. Putting on a show for the senior brass while Logan sat and fumed in disgust.

Dr Bushel hummed and hawed and speculated and theorized, but it all sounded like bollocks to Logan. The man had come up with a vague outline based on next to no evidence, having never seen either of the crime scenes at first hand. Logan couldn’t see how any of it was going to help them actually catch the killer.

The ACC thanked Dr Bushel for his time and invited him to a special lunch with the Chief Constable later. When they were all gone, DI Steel
slouched in her seat and blew a long, wet raspberry. ‘Did you ever hear so much shite in your life? “He will strike again!” Course he bloody will, he’s got away with it twice, what’s he going to do, call it quits and take up needlepoint instead?’ She shook her head, scratching away at her left armpit. ‘And I’ll bet Bushel gets paid
twice
as much as we do. Specky git.’

Logan scowled. ‘So how come you played up to it then?’

‘Ah… politics, Sergeant. When the top brass hand you a turd, you polish it and say, “my, what a lovely jobbie!” That way they are impressed by your intellect, perception and ability. If you don’t, all you’ve got is a handful of shit. Come on, we’ve got more important things to do than sod about here. We’ve a killer to catch.’

It was just after lunch when Logan finally got a result from his lookout request on Skanky Agnes, though it wasn’t the one he’d been hoping for. A WPC, over at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary visiting her mother in intensive care, had spotted Agnes Walker lying on a bed in the corner, tubes going in and out of every orifice. She’d been mainlining heroin while pissed out of her face on supermarket vodka – the perfect recipe for an overdose. An unemployed receptionist discovered her slumped in the ladies’ toilets at the Trinity shopping centre. She lapsed into cardiac arrest in the ambulance and had been in a coma ever
since. DI Steel sent a WPC up to sit by her bedside, just in case she made a miraculous recovery and decided to give them a description of whoever had beaten her up. They weren’t holding their breath.

So instead of charging off to save the day, Logan was stuck wading through the list of known sex offenders in an attempt to match one of them to Dr Bushel’s ridiculously vague offender profile. It was too noisy in the incident room, so Logan grabbed his piles of paperwork and went looking for somewhere quieter. All the other offices were busy, but interview room four was free. He annexed it, flicking the switch that changed the light outside from green to red: I
NTERVIEW
I
N
P
ROGRESS
, before spreading out the files and printouts on the battered tabletop. Trying to find a killer in amongst the rapists, paedophiles and flashers. Even with the window open it was too hot in here – Logan loosened his tie, yawned, rested his elbows on the table and propped his head up with his hands. Slowly the words started blurring into each other. Blink. Rapist. Blink. Rapist. Nod… blink. Paedophile. Yawn. Blink, blink… darkness.

‘Mmmphf…?’ Logan snapped upright, eyes wide and dilated, what the hell was – he dragged his mobile out, wiping the small trail of drool from the side of his mouth with his other hand. Blink, blink. The clock on the interview-room wall said
seven minutes past five: he’d been asleep for three whole hours. ‘Hello?’ trying not to sound like he’d just woken up. It was DI Insch.

Mrs Kennedy’s lounge was a disaster area: chairs and tables overturned, paintings slashed, photo frames smashed, china poodles reduced to glittering shards on the carpet. Mrs Kennedy sat in a ruptured armchair, fat orange cat clutched to her bosom like a security blanket. It eyed the detectives standing in the middle of the room with evil distrust, yellow eyes narrowed to slits, ears back.

‘Honestly,’ said the old lady, shaking. ‘I don’t want to cause any fuss, I’m fine. Really…’ She’d been out at the time, but the downstairs neighbour had heard the destruction and called 999. They couldn’t bear to think of poor old Mrs Kennedy lying up there in a pool of blood, battered to death! They were basically well meaning, but no bloody help whatsoever. They didn’t see anything, didn’t peer out the spy hole in their door to watch the bad guys come down the stairs. Didn’t even look out the window to see if they got into a waiting car, or a bus, or a taxi, or clambered aboard a passing elephant. They were scared someone would see them looking. It was a pain in the arse, but Logan could understand their reticence. They were in their seventies, why risk being seen by violent thugs who might come back and get them? Instead they’d kept their heads down
and called the police. It was still more than a lot of people would do.

Whoever the vandals were, they’d done a pretty good job of bankrupting Mrs Kennedy’s insurance company. The lounge, kitchen, and both bedrooms had been thoroughly trashed. But there was something odd in the lounge, something that seemed a bit out of place amidst all the devastation. Smack bang in the middle of the far wall the words ‘STOP NOW’ had been scrawled in dripping, fluorescent orange paint. ‘Any idea what it is they want you to stop doing?’ asked Logan, pointing at the bright, spray-painted letters.

Mrs Kennedy shook her head and hugged the cat even tighter, causing it to wriggle. ‘I… I help organize a youth club for local youngsters? Up at the school? We have football matches and jumble sales…’

‘Hmm,’ said Insch. ‘Well unless you’re caught in the middle of a turf war between the Boy Scouts and the Girl Guides, I think we can rule that out. Anything else?’

‘I still tutor some children. Since I had to retire I sometimes think it’s the only thing that keeps me going.’

‘Oh aye?’ Insch was poking about in the remains of a large china dog with his shoe. ‘Piano? French?’

‘Chemistry. I was a chemistry teacher for thirty-six years.’ She smiled, eyes misty with recollection. ‘I taught thousands and thousands of children in my time.’ She sighed. ‘And now all I have is
this…’ DI Insch made his excuses as the tears started, but Logan decided to do the decent thing and make her a cup of tea. The kettle was dented, but otherwise functional, so he set it to boil and went hunting for some teabags. They were scattered all over the floor by the upended bin, mingling with broken eggshells, potato peelings and other debris. He found one that didn’t look too unhygienic – after all it was going to get boiling water poured over it – and plopped it in a mug that still had its handle attached. While the bag was stewing, Logan rummaged about, looking for milk and sugar. He found it in the fridge: a large, clear plastic bag of something that looked like fresh herbs, only not so wholesome.

The sound of footsteps crunching on debris and Logan spun around to see Mrs Kennedy standing there,
sans
cat. Hands clenching and unclenching, she watched aghast as he stood up, holding the bag of ‘herbs’. Logan popped open the zip-lock top and took a tentative sniff at the contents.

‘I… I can explain…’ she said, voice low, eyes darting down the hall where a uniformed PC was writing down details of the damage on a large clipboard. ‘It’s for my arthritis…’ She held up her trembling hands. ‘And my sciatica.’

‘Where do you get it from?’

‘I… an ex-pupil of mine. He said it had helped his father. He brings me some every now and then.’

‘There’s a lot here,’ he said, shaking the bag. ‘All for your own use?’

‘Please believe me.’ The tears were starting again. ‘It makes the pain go away: I never meant to break the law!’

Logan stood watching her as thick tears rolled down her cheeks, a thin dribble of snot starting on its way south from her nose. She fumbled a handkerchief from her pocket and he stared at her hands: swollen joints, squint fingers, just like his grandmother’s had been for the last fifteen years of her life. ‘OK,’ he said at last, popping the bag back in the fridge and closing the door. ‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.’ He let himself out. STOP NOW: a funny thing to scrawl on an old lady’s wall. Esoteric. Probably made perfect sense to whatever drug-addled halfwit scrawled it up there. But still…

The sky was a dirty dove-grey as Logan stepped out of the front door. The white and orange of the patrol car had attracted the same audience as last time: a trio of small children, all watching the policemen with awe. It must be just like having the telly come to life, right outside your house. Who knew what sort of exciting things you could see…

Logan crossed the road and walked up the steps to the little cluster of kids, dropping down on his haunches so he wouldn’t tower over them. Two little boys, four or fiveish with snotty noses, wide blue eyes and bowl haircuts, and a little girl in a stroller. She couldn’t have been more than two and a bit: frizzy blonde hair done up in pigtails,
teddy bear clutched in one hand, sucking her thumb and looking up at Logan like he was a hundred feet tall. ‘Hello,’ he said, in his best nonthreatening voice, ‘my name’s Logan. I’m a policeman.’ He pulled out his warrant card and let one of the bowl haircuts handle it with grubby fingers. ‘Were you here earlier?’

The little girl pulled her thumb out, a long trail of spittle stretching from lips to finger before falling onto teddy’s nose. ‘Man.’

‘Did you see a man?’

She pointed a dribble-covered finger at him. ‘Man.’ Then held the bear up, so he could see that she’d chewed most of the fur off one ear, and said ‘Man’ again. Logan’s smile began to falter. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

DI Insch sat behind the wheel of his filthy Range Rover, peering out through the windscreen as the first flecks of moisture gave way to a steady downpour. ‘So much for a sodding barbecue tonight,’ he said as Logan leapt into the passenger seat and out of the rain. ‘How’d you get on with the Grampian Police Fan Club?’