Dying Light (27 page)

‘What happened to the front door?’

She frowned, as if his words were coming from a long way off. ‘Door? Oh, it…’ she shrugged, wincing at the motion. ‘Ah forgot ma key.’ She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

‘I expect you fell down the stairs too. What with it being dark out there and all.’

Suzie closed her eyes and nodded, tears sparkling over her lashes and falling onto her bruised cheeks. Logan sighed. ‘You and I both know that’s bullshit. Someone kicked the door in, then did the same to you. And I’ll bet you all the tatties in Scotland I know who did it.’

‘Did… Did he really overdose?’

‘Far as we can tell. We’re not sure if he did it on purpose or not.’

‘Oh God.’ She buried her head in her hands, rocking back and forth with silent sobs. ‘I killed him!’

Logan watched her cry for a moment. ‘Where did you get it from, Suzie?’

But she wasn’t listening to him any more. ‘Oh God, Jamie…’ Tugging at her wet pink hair she mourned for her dead brother.

It was ten minutes before anyone remembered the FLO was still standing in the back garden in the rain.

They headed back into town, DC Rennie behind the wheel, clutching at his groin every thirty seconds, making sure it was still there. Logan stared morosely out of the window, watching the people and traffic go by. At least the rain was letting up, blue sky breaking through the lowering clouds, the wet tarmac sparkling in the sunshine. Rennie pulled up behind a huge BMW four-by-four and waited for the lights to change. Another flashy motor with a personalized number plate – the city was rife with them, like some sort of disease. Logan frowned. Flashy motor, flashy motor… why did that sound familiar?

The lights changed and the four-by-four rumbled away, taking a left onto Springbank Terrace, with Logan staring after it. When the answer wouldn’t come he pulled out his phone and checked his messages – just the one from Brian, Isobel’s assistant: Jamie McKinnon’s post mortem was being delayed until four. Dr
MacAlister wasn’t feeling too well. Logan closed his phone, tapping the plastic casing against his chin as he frowned out the window. It wasn’t like Isobel to show any sort of weakness: she’d have to be half dead to postpone a post mortem. Four o’clock… It was just coming up on two now. ‘Right,’ he said, stuffing the phone back in his pocket and pulling out the wad of messages from Mrs Cruickshank. ‘We’ve got a couple of hours to kill before they fillet Jamie. I’ve got a treat for you: we’re off to Westhill.’

Westhill was an ever-expanding suburb seven miles west of Aberdeen. It had started off as a collection of pig farms before the developers got their claws into it, and now it sprawled all the way from the main road up the hill, slowly encircling the golf course with pale brick arms. By the time Rennie had negotiated the roundabout by the business park and was heading into Westhill proper the rain was gone and everything shone in the warm sunshine. Half a dozen magpies leapt and chattered in the grass of Denman Park, strutting back and forth like barristers as they drove by. And then it was past a cramped shopping centre, up the hill, and left – making for Westfield Gardens: home to the adulterous Mr Gavin Cruickshank. The house sat three quarters of the way around the cul-de-sac, backing onto Westhill Academy. Out front the garden was pristine, laid out with circular rose beds, the yellow and pink
blooms glittering with raindrops caught in the sun; built-in garage; red, part-glazed front door; twee wooden plaque with C
RUICKSHANKS
’ R
EPOSE
carved into it. The lampposts all the way around the street were decorated with bright-yellow, laminated A4 posters: a picture of a huge Labrador, its features grainy and indistinct from the photocopying, and the words: M
OPPET’S
M
ISSING
!!! The address given was for the house next to Cruickshanks’ Repose – an identical building, but not so well kept. The garden was a mess of dandelions and clover, the front door in need of a fresh coat of paint. The garage was lying open, revealing a rusty Fiat nestling amongst piles of old newspapers, paint tins, empty bottles and bits of bicycle. A large chest freezer was the only thing in the whole place that looked as if it still worked. ‘So what’s the story then?’ asked Rennie, locking the car.

Logan pointed at Cruickshanks’ Repose. ‘Husband’s been missing since last Wednesday. Poor cow thinks the next-door neighbour’s got something to do with it. Doesn’t know darling Gavin’s been getting his leg over women all around town – including a pole-dancer with a habit of disappearing off on holiday at a moment’s notice.’

‘You think he’s just buggered off with her?’

Logan dug the postcard from Secret Service out of his pocket and handed it over. ‘What do you think?’

Rennie’s eyes roved across Hayley’s leather-bikinied body. ‘Phwoar, not bad! She can dance
on my pole any time she—Hey!’ Logan had taken the picture back.

‘Come on,’ he said, as Rennie pouted, ‘we might as well go see the next-door neighbour before we tell the wife her husband’s a cheating bastard.’

Pressing the doorbell produced a single, dry clunk, so they had to knock. Eventually a swearing silhouette appeared in the door’s rippled glass. ‘This better not be you fuckin’ bob-a-job bastards again…’ trailing off as the door opened. A crumpled woman in her dressing gown scowled at them. ‘Aw, fuck. What is it now?’ Her hair was lank with two inches of brown and grey roots showing, hanging around an oval face with puffy bags under the eyes, broken veins spidering across her cheeks and nose. ‘I told them at the station: the fuckin’ insurance is in the post.’

‘We’re not here about that, Mrs…?’

Panic flickered across her eyes, swiftly followed by a defiant sneer. ‘What you want then?’

‘Last Tuesday you were involved in an altercation with Mr Cruickshank from next door.’

‘Says who?’ She was slowly inching the door shut.

‘I want you to tell me about it. Right now. Before I arrest you and drag you down to the station.’ Logan flashed her an insincere smile. ‘Up to you.’

She closed her eyes and swore. ‘OK, OK.’ She jammed her hands in her dressing-gown pockets and stomped back into the house, leaving the
front door open for them. They followed her through a cluttered hall to the kitchen, where a smeared window looked out on a rectangle of chewed-up grass and dog toys, the borders around the edge a collection of churned mud and weeds. The kitchen was a mess of pizza boxes, clear plastic takeaway containers still swimming with grease, empty tins of lager, dirty washing spilling out of an overflowing laundry basket, and the smell of something festering in the sink.

There was an unopened stack of bills on the table and Logan picked one up. It was addressed to Mrs Clair Pirie, with what looked like F
INAL
R
EMINDER
just visible through the plastic window. ‘Mr Pirie about is he, Clair?’

She snatched the brown envelope from his hands and stuffed it into an already overflowing drawer. ‘None of yer damned business. Filthy bastard fucked off years ago.’

‘I see.’ Logan watched her stab the kettle’s ‘on’ button and pick a teabag from a pile of desiccated brown circles slouching in a saucer. ‘Not for us, thanks. So you live here alone?’

‘No… aye, I mean yes: alone.’ Shifty, shifty, shifty. Logan leant back against the working surface and stared at her in silence as the kettle growled and rumbled to a boil. ‘OK, OK,’ she said at last. ‘Jesus… My boyfriend used to stay here, OK? We was goin’ to put him on the council tax next time. But we split up, OK? Satisfied? Bastard
walked out on me.’ The dried-up husk of a teabag was hurled into a dirty mug, chased with boiling water.

‘Tell us about the people next door, Clair.’

‘She’s an interferin’ cow – puttin’ up fuckin’ posters about other people’s fuckin’ dogs, cheeky bitch. And he’s an arsehole. Bastard’s round here complainin’ the whole time. Never fuckin’ happy.’

‘That why you hit him?’

A small smile flickered over her face, before disappearing once more. ‘He started it. Comin’ round here and swearing a blue fuckin’ streak. No fuckin’ manners at all.’ She wrenched open the fridge, dragged out a carton of milk and slopped some in on top of the teabag. A horrific stench slithered out into the kitchen, mouldy cheese and the unmistakable sickly-sweet smell of meat
long
past its sell-by date. But Clair didn’t seem to notice.

‘You hear he’s gone missing?’

She froze, the dirty mug to her lips. ‘Oh aye?’

‘Since Wednesday, day after you assaulted him.’ Logan watched her eyes and there was definitely something there. He just didn’t know what it was yet. ‘Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

She shrugged. ‘Nothin’ to do with me. Probably run off with one of his tarts anyway. Left that soppy cow of a wife. Just fuckin’ abandoned her…’ Clair fished the teabag out of the mug with a fork and hurled it into the dirty sink. ‘It’s what you fuckin’ men do, isn’t it?’

* * *

Back outside in the sunshine Rennie gasped for air. ‘Jesus,’ he said, waving a hand in front of his nose. ‘What a stink! No’ surprised her husband left her. Woman’s a bloody slob… What?’ He looked at Logan who was staring at the front of the house.

‘Do me a favour, OK? I want you to get onto Control and have them do a full check: everything they have on Mrs Clair Pirie.’

‘Think she’s got something to do with Cruickshank going missing?’

‘Nope. My money’s still on Ibiza, Hayley the pole-dancer and her tiny leather bikini. But she is up to something.’

They went next door to Cruickshanks’ Repose. Ailsa appeared, dressed in a blue-and-white-striped apron and rubber gloves, blonde hair tied back. Stunning. Her face went white when she saw Logan standing on her top step. ‘Oh, God.’ She wrung her yellow-rubber-gloved hands, making them squeak. ‘Something’s happened!’

Logan tried for a reassuring smile. ‘It’s OK, Mrs Cruickshank, nothing’s happened: we’re just here to have a little chat, OK? Can we come in?’

‘Oh, of course. I’m sorry… Would you like some tea? It’s no problem.’

She sat them down in a pristine lounge and went to put the kettle on. As soon as she was out of sight, Rennie leaned over and hissed at Logan, ‘OOOH!
Suits you, sir!
’

‘Would you grow up! The woman’s husband’s missing.’

‘I know, but Jesus, how the hell do you leave that? She’s bloody gorgeous! I would! Would you?’

‘Shut up – she’ll hear you.’

Rennie looked longingly at the kitchen door. ‘Tell you: she could keep the rubber gloves on, I’d—’

‘Constable – I’m warning you!’

Rennie stared at the carpet. ‘Sorry, sir. Must be the shock of my nadgers still working after Suzie Bloody McKinnon’s kneecap vasectomy.’ Logan couldn’t help smiling.

Ailsa Cruickshank returned bearing a tray topped with mugs of tea and chocolate biscuits. As Rennie helped himself to a Penguin, she perched herself on the edge of the sofa and fidgeted with a cushion. Logan cleared his throat, not looking forward to what was going to come next. ‘Er…’ he said, wondering how he was going to tell her that her darling Gavin was probably off having lots of holiday sex with a pole-dancer. ‘I was wondering if you’ve heard from your husband at all?’

She sighed, deflating slightly. ‘No. No I haven’t.’

‘I see…’ Go on: tell her. ‘Er… when you reported your husband missing, did they ask you about other things not being there: his toothbrush, change of clothes, passport. That kind of thing?’

‘You don’t think he’s… Gavin wouldn’t just leave me without saying anything! He wouldn’t.’

Logan bit his lip and nodded. ‘OK. Well, just in case, do you think we could take a look?’

Ailsa took them upstairs to the master bedroom, unaware of DC Rennie’s eyes locked onto her backside as she climbed up in front of them. The house was decorated in soft shades, everything carefully coordinated. The bed linen matched the curtains, carpet and overstuffed cushions lying on a wicker chair in the corner. In fact the only disorderly part of the room was the huge collection of detective novels – all hers, she explained with an apologetic smile, Gavin didn’t like to read. She rummaged about in a chest of drawers, digging out a pair of burgundy EU passports. One hers, one Gavin’s. His toothbrush was still in the bathroom. His razor, moisturizer, facial scrub, and hair gel still in the medicine cabinet. But that didn’t prove anything. Given the kind of life Gavin Cruickshank led, he probably had identical toiletries in the bathroom of every woman he was shagging. And a lot of people in the oil-service industry had second passports; it helped when you had to get visas organized for contracts in Azerbaijan, or Angola, or Nigeria… So all in all this proved nothing, just gave Logan a chance to put off the inevitable and Rennie a chance to stare at her backside as they went from room to room. Back down in the lounge, Logan took a deep breath and told her the bad news. She stood there in stunned silence for almost a minute before the tears started. Logan and Rennie let themselves out.

They sat in the car, Logan swearing softly, Rennie gazing wistfully back at the house. ‘You
sure I shouldn’t just pop back in there and comfort her, sir? Bit of a shoulder to cry on and all…’ He stopped when he saw the expression on Logan’s face. Cleared his throat and started the car. ‘Fair enough.’

Logan took one last look over his shoulder, not surprised to see a suspicious pair of piggy eyes staring at him from the house next door. She was definitely up to something.

The morgue at Grampian Police Headquarters had a strange smell of cheese and onion when Logan arrived seven minutes early for Jamie McKinnon’s post mortem. The guest of honour was already there, lying flat on his back in the middle of the cutting table, naked as the day he was born. But other than that the place was deserted. There wouldn’t be a big turnout for Jamie’s farewell performance – after all, this was just another junkie suicide. Because he’d topped himself in prison they’d have to go the whole hog and do a Fatal Accident Enquiry, but it wasn’t likely to explode into a public scandal. Jamie’s only surviving relative was his sister and as she’d given him the drugs in the first place she was in no position to complain about his death in custody. So today it would just be Logan and DC Rennie in the cheap seats, not so much as a deputy procurator fiscal to keep them company. Though where the hell Rennie had got to was anyone’s guess. Isobel slouched through into the cutting room at
two minutes to four, not bothering to cover a jaw-cracking yawn. She scrubbed up in the sink without saying hello.

Logan sighed. Might as well make the gesture: ‘Rough night last night?’

‘Hmmm?’ She looked up from drying her hands, face set in the same scowl she was wearing this morning. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘OK…’ This was obviously going to be one of those ‘fun’ post mortems.

‘Look if you must know, Colin didn’t come home last night.’ She pulled a green plastic apron from the roll by the sink and put it on over her surgical get-up. It was long enough to cover the toes of her Wellington boots.

‘Oh?’ Sounded as if Miller was in for a world of hurt when he got back from work today. ‘What was his excuse?’

The scowl grew darker. ‘I haven’t spoken to him yet.’ She threw a tray of surgical instruments down on the trolley next to Jamie’s corpse. ‘It’s four o’clock: where the
hell
is everyone?’