Dying Light (32 page)

The Gimp stopped halfway down Union Grove outside a grubby-looking tenement and scanned the street, making sure no one was watching him. Jackie turned the radio on, cranking up the volume until it was nearly painful – some late-night DJ on Radio One pounding out dance music into the early morning hours, making the car throb – and drove straight past, eyes forward, not paying any attention to the man with the bag full of drugs. It seemed to work: Rennie twisted and slouched, keeping an eye on the Gimp in the passenger-side wing mirror as the man pulled a key out of his pocket and let himself into the building. Rennie slapped the dashboard. ‘He’s in!’

‘Good.’ Jackie killed the radio and swung the car around, driving slowly back towards the tenement, settling for a parking space a couple of doors down. They sat in the dark, watching the front of the building.

‘Now what?’

‘Now we wait.’ Silence settled on the car, punctuated by Rennie humming the theme tune to
Emmerdale
. ‘Er… Jackie,’ he said, when he’d finished. ‘Should we not be catching him with the stuff on him? I mean, if he’s not got the drugs, how do we arrest him for it?’

Jackie scrunched up her face and swore. Rennie was right. She opened her door and stepped out into the quiet, night-shrouded street, looking very conspicuous in her Grampian Police uniform. ‘Well, come on then: what you waiting for?’

The building was in darkness, not even a hallway light showing through the glass above the grimy communal front door. Not that much of a surprise: after all it was going on for two in the morning, everyone would be in their bed, asleep. Except for the Gimp and whoever it was he was meeting. Jackie frowned up at the filthy granite. ‘That woman who was done for the drugs: you think this is the same building?’ Rennie just shrugged, so she clicked on the radio strapped to her shoulder and asked Control for an address check on the old woman arrested for running a pre-school drugs cartel. A familiar voice crackled out of the speaker and Jackie cranked down the volume, trying not to alert the Gimp. It was Sergeant Eric Mitchell, asking why she wanted to know and how come she was using a police radio: wasn’t she supposed to be off duty? ‘Aye, well…’ said Jackie, trying to think of a diplomatic lie. ‘I was giving DC Rennie a lift home when we saw
a suspicious individual entering an address on Union Grove.’ It came out sounding as if she was giving evidence in a shoplifting court case, but it was too late to turn back now. ‘I wanted to know if this was the same address, as I recognized the individual as someone who has previously been arrested on suspicion of drug dealing.’

‘Have you been practising that?
’ asked the voice on the other end of the radio. ‘’
Cos it needs some
bloody work
.’

‘Look: he’s a dodgy character, he’s got a huge holdall with him and we think it’s full of drugs. Now you going to give me that address or not?’ It took a minute, but eventually Sergeant Mitchell confirmed that it was the same building they were now standing outside. No way that was a coincidence.

‘
You want me to send backup?
’

‘No, we got this one. Just get the letters of commendation ready, OK?’

Sergeant Mitchell said he’d see what he could do.

The building’s front door wasn’t locked – the Gimp had left it on the snib – so they pushed through into the building’s tiny airlock lobby, their shoes scuffing on the coconut matting. It was dark in here, getting even darker as Rennie eased the door closed. Now the only light came second-hand through the rippled glass above the door, the streetlight’s yellow glow doing little to lighten the gloom. A second wooden door formed the far side
of the airlock, and on the other side of that was nothing but darkness. Something brushed her hair and Jackie nearly yelled, before realizing it was Rennie’s hand, fumbling about. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she hissed.

‘Looking for a light switch,’ he whispered back.

‘Are you fucking mental? Do you want everyone to know we’re here?’

‘I can’t see a bloody thing…’

‘Then shut your cakehole and
listen
!’

Silence. Then slowly, a low puffing and the occasional grunt became audible from somewhere above. Jackie grabbed Rennie’s shoulder and inched forward to the stairs. They crept their way up the first flight, pausing at the bend, where a large stained-glass window let in a faint smear of light. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Jackie looked up, trying to judge where the noise was coming from and saw it: torchlight at the very top of the stairs, the outline of a man, hunched over, doing something suspicious.

She crept forward again, almost getting to the middle floor when the banister creaked beneath her hand. The grunting from above stopped. Now the only sound was the blood whumping in her ears. Then the torch’s beam brushed the stairs behind them and swept upwards, catching Rennie full in the face. Someone said ‘Fuck!’ then all hell broke loose.

A glass bottle smashed against the stairs above their heads, showering the wall with what smelled
like petrol. Jackie took a deep breath and bellowed at the top of her lungs: ‘POLICE! HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!’ then had to jump out of the way as another bottle crashed into the banister, spewing hydrocarbons across the stairs and carpet.

Rennie cried out in pain and stumbled into her in the dark, sending them both crashing onto the landing. And then the stairs juddered: the Gimp thundering down towards them. Jackie struggled to stand, but Rennie was sprawled on top of her, swearing a blue streak. She slapped at him, shouting, ‘Get off me you moron!’

Thud, thud, thud and the Gimp was on the middle floor, running past at full tilt. Jackie flailed a leg out, her boot connecting with a kneecap. A grunt of pain, swiftly drowned out by the crash, thud, crack of the Gimp tumbling head-first down the stairs.

‘Move!’ Jackie slapped Rennie again and he lurched off her, letting loose another agonized yelp and a fresh bout of foul language. She scrabbled to her feet and threw herself down the stairs, aiming for the rounded, bulky shape silhouetted against the landing window. She slammed into him just as he was getting to his feet, sending them both careering into the corner with a clatter of glass bottles. Bang – hot yellow fireworks burst across Jackie’s vision as her head bounced off the wall. She staggered back, ears ringing, and slipped on the top step, collapsing against the banister as the Gimp lurched to his feet.

Jackie lashed out randomly with a foot and missed, but the Gimp didn’t: a heavy boot connected with her ribs, lifting her clean off the floor, sending her crashing back into the woodwork. Oh Christ that hurt! She tensed, ready for the next kick, but it didn’t come: the Gimp was making a run for it.

Harsh light, as if someone had turned on the sun, stinging her eyes, making everything leap painfully into focus. She squinted up to see Rennie leaning against the wall of the first-floor landing, one blood-soaked hand holding on to the light switch, still swearing for all he was worth.

More thudding down the stairs: the Gimp was nearly at the bottom. Jackie struggled upright, then ducked as another bottle exploded against the wall beside her, sending petrol everywhere. ‘BASTARD!’ She charged, stopping dead when she saw what the Gimp had in his hands: a Zippo lighter. Her hair was full of fucking petrol!

Blood oozed from a gash in the Gimp’s forehead, running down the side of his nose and into his moustache. He grinned. Then set the world on fire.

‘Christ I’m bored.’ PC Steve slumped forward in the driver’s seat of his scabby Fiat. Arms crossed over the top of the steering wheel, he let out a theatrical sigh, then said, ‘Spits-or-Swallows?’ Logan said no. ‘If-You-Had-to-or-Die?’ Another no. ‘Shoot-Shag-or-Marry?’

‘
No
. I don’t want to play anything, OK?’

‘Only trying to pass the time…’ They sat in silence for a whole two minutes before the constable came out with, ‘Did you hear about Karen’s boyfriend?’

Logan frowned. ‘Who the hell is Karen?’

‘You know, Karen Buchan? WPC?’ Bout so tall? She was with me when we found Rosie Williams?’

The frown turned into a scowl. ‘Oh…
her
.’

‘Aye, well.’ Steve leaned over and dropped his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, even though there were only the two of them in the car and the rest of the street was deserted. ‘Rumour has it her bloke – PC Robert Taylor to you and me – has been playing “non-league fixtures”, if you know what I mean.’

A small bout of schadenfreude made Logan smile. ‘Serves her right.’

‘Yeah, she is a bit of a cow. Anyway, he’s been seen down the docks doing it! Actually doing it! Can you believe it? I said to Jackie, I said…’ There was more, but Logan tuned it out, staring through the window at the dark, silent house. It was nice of everyone to help out, but basically, this was a monumental waste of time. Another half hour and he was calling it quits. Tomorrow he’d talk to Insch and— The light above Chib’s front door blossomed into life.

‘… and then she’s like all, “could he
be
any balder?” and I said—’ Steve was still babbling away to himself so Logan jabbed him one in the ribs. ‘Ow! What was that for?’

‘Something’s up.’ He pointed at the house where Chib Sutherland was hurrying out of the front door, a mobile phone clamped to his ear. He went straight to the silver Mercedes sitting outside and jumped in behind the wheel. The car roared out of the driveway, speeding away from the house. Cursing, PC Steve coaxed his grubby Fiat into life and hurried after Chib, trying not to make it too obvious he was following him.

‘What d’you think’s got into him?’ asked Steve, as Chib jumped the red lights on Springfield Road.

‘No idea…’ But whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be good.

Blue flames raced up the stairs, leaping from step to step on the petrol-soaked carpet. Jackie turned and ran, trying to stay ahead of the blaze. The wall behind her burst into flickering yellow where the last petrol bomb had hit, tendrils of black smoke curling around the next flight of stairs, spiralling upwards to the ceiling. She slithered to a halt on the first-floor landing where Rennie was banging on the door to the nearest flat and shouting, ‘Open up for God’s sake!’

‘Kick it in!’ yelled Jackie. Rennie took two steps back and slammed his boot into the wood: the whole frame juddered, but the door stayed shut. ‘Again!’ This time the door exploded inwards, taking half the surround with it. A sudden blast of heat from upstairs and the paint began to blister on the underside of the landing, drips of molten
carpet oozing down from above. Smoke was rapidly filling the stairwell – thick, black, lung-searing clouds that reeked of petrol and burning nylon. They charged into the flat. Inside someone was screaming the word ‘burglars’ over and over again. And then the smoke detector picked up on the inferno and added its shrill bleeping to the shouting and swearing and the roar of the flames.

Jackie snatched the radio off her shoulder and yelled for a fire engine and ambulances, following Rennie through the nearest door. The screaming became an incoherent shriek. A double bedroom: old woman in bed, clutching the blanket to her chest, teeth on the bedside cabinet next to her; old man already on his feet, wrinkled willy poking out the front of his stripy pyjamas, brandishing a walking cane, snarling.

Rennie slammed the bedroom door closed. ‘We’re the police, you silly bugger! Is there anyone else in the house?’ The old man lowered his makeshift cudgel and shook his head. ‘What about next door?’

‘Mr and Mrs Scott.’ He coughed; smoke was already beginning to find its way into the bedroom. ‘They have a young daughter and a dog…’

Rennie swore. ‘I want you to get that window open!’ he said, pointing. ‘Chuck the mattress out and lower your wife and yourself down. WPC Watson will help you.’ He turned – catching Jackie’s eye as she rattled off a description of their attacker to Control, telling them to pick the bastard
up and kick the shit out of him – then Rennie wrenched the bedroom door open and charged out into the hall, slamming it shut behind him.

Jackie didn’t figure out what he was up to till it was too late. ‘Rennie! Rennie, you daft bastard!’ They were out of time: just have to hope he knew what he was doing. She joined the old man at the painted-shut window, yanking and hauling on the frame until it creaked open like an arthritic joint. The double mattress tumbled out, spinning as it fell, leaving the duvet caught on a little oval satellite dish. The old man peered out uncertainly at the rectangle of foam and springs. Even if it was just a first-floor flat, it was still a
long
way down. Jackie grabbed him by the arm and shoved him towards the open window. ‘Come on: you have to go first. I’ll lower your wife, you catch her, OK?’ She was having to shout now, the roar of the fire drowning out everything but the incessant squealing of the smoke detector. He hesitated and she cast another glance over the lip of the window to the crumpled remains of a mattress fifteen feet below. ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she lied, ‘you’ll be fine!’

‘Don’t bloody patronize me…’ Gingerly he inched out of the window, lowering himself as far as possible before plummeting the last eight feet onto the mattress, landing in a tangle of limbs and foul language. The old woman was a lot more nervous, and a lot heavier, but Jackie still managed to force her out the window, even if she did come
close to crushing her husband when she crashed down on top of him.

Something burst inside the building, making the bedroom door rattle. From outside came the faint wail of sirens. Jackie took a deep breath and jumped.

Brendan ‘Chib’ Sutherland’s driving became a lot less erratic when he hit Union Grove. The silver Mercedes slowed until it was well below the speed limit, almost as if the driver was looking for something. PC Steve slowed down as well, keeping the distance between the two cars constant. A siren was sounding from somewhere up ahead. Then they saw the orange glow in the sky. Something was burning.

The Mercedes jerked to a halt in the middle of the road and a figure lurched out from the pavement, bent over, limping, a sagging holdall in his hands. He clambered into the car, there was a short pause, and then Chib drove off. ‘Damn…’ Logan dug out his mobile and dialled Jackie’s number. Worried. She’d been following the Gimp and now there he was, looking as if he’d been in a fight, and there was no sign of either Jackie or Rennie. ‘Come on, pick up the bloody phone!’ Twelve rings later it cut to voicemail and he cursed, hung up and hit redial.

Steve was still on Chib’s tail, following him up Union Grove towards the junction with Holburn Street. ‘Holy shite!’ He stared agog out of the windscreen: up ahead flames leapt from a tenement rooftop, neon-yellow sparks spiralling into the night, a pall of thick, black smoke spreading like a bruise across the sky – the top two floors were ablaze. Chib drove calmly past.

Logan swore again as Jackie’s recorded message told him she was just too damn special to come to the phone right now, so leave a message. Hang up. Redial. He grabbed the radio off PC Steve’s shoulder, clicked it on and demanded to be put through to WPC Watson, only to be told to wait his turn: she’d called in from a serious fire and wasn’t answering her radio any more. Logan shouted, ‘Stop the car!’ and PC Steve slammed on the brakes. Logan wrenched open the door and sprinted towards the burning building, shouting for Jackie at the top of his lungs. The howl of sirens was getting stronger.

A small knot of people were gathered around a fallen figure on the pavement, one of them performing CPR, while others cried and moaned.

‘JACKIE?’

A grubby, soot-stained face looked up at him. It was DC Rennie; he was the one doing the mouth-to-mouth. The victim was a middle-aged woman in an oversize Aberdeen University T-shirt, the fabric riding up to show off a pair of grey pants and a mealie-pudding stomach. ‘Over there,’ he
said, pointing to a figure hunched by the front of the building, while embers fell from the sky like incandescent snow.

‘Jackie?’

She was bent over the still body of a golden retriever lying on its side with a pool of something dark oozing slowly out of its head, gently stroking its fur. A spark drifted down, landing on the dog’s flank, producing the bitter smell of burning hair. Logan dropped down beside her, gently touching her arm. ‘Jackie? Are you OK?’ Her face was filthy, and so was her once-white uniform shirt. She didn’t look up at him, just brushed the smouldering ember away.

‘He wriggled when Rennie was lowering him out of the window,’ was all she said. A newish-looking double mattress lay on the ground less than two feet away.

‘Come on,’ he said, helping her to her feet. ‘It’s not safe.’

She gazed back at the dog as he led her out to the pavement, only snapping back to earth when Alpha Three Six screeched to a halt right in front of her. A huge neon-orange fire engine was next, disgorging its occupants and reams of equipment out into the road, the braying honk of another engine not far behind. ‘He got away!’ she shouted over the din. ‘It was Chib’s mate. He covered the whole place in petrol!’ A fireman charged past, spooling out a length of hose behind him. ‘He got away!’

‘I know: Chib picked him up. We were following him and—’

‘You can’t let him get away! The bastards’ll do a runner!’ She grabbed him by the collar and dragged him towards PC Steve’s fusty old Fiat, abandoning Rennie to deal with the fire scene. ‘You,’ she shouted, jumping in beside Steve while Logan clambered into the back. ‘Drive!’

Steve put his foot down and the car raced to the end of the street, passing an ambulance going just as fast the other way. ‘Left or right?’ Logan had no idea and said so. ‘OK,’ said Steve, squinting in concentration. ‘Right…’ He raced out into the box junction, heading down Holburn Street. A pair of red tail-lights glowed in the distance; no sign of any other vehicle. Steve put his foot down. The Mercedes was almost at the Garthdee roundabout, doing a sensible thirty miles an hour, when they caught up with it. Steve sped past on the wrong side of the road – the Fiat’s ancient engine sounding like an angry hairdryer – and slammed on the brakes. The car squealed round in a fairground pirouette, stopping sideways-on as the Mercedes screeched and juddered to a halt, its ABS kicking in, leaving Morse-code trails of rubber behind. Jackie was first out of the car, with Logan and Steve close behind. She swung her truncheon like a baseball bat at the windscreen, shattering a vast spider’s web into the glass. She was reaching back for another swing when the passenger door exploded open and the Gimp leapt out. There was
something in his hands – Logan got as far as shouting, ‘GUN!’ before a harsh crack rang out and PC Steve went down like he’d been hit by a bus. Screaming.

Logan and Jackie hit the deck. Another shot dug a hole out of the tarmac by Logan’s leg and he scrabbled backwards, getting the tiny Fiat between him and the shooter. Another shot clanged into the bonnet and a fourth into the bodywork, all punctuated by PC Steve’s high-pitched wailing. A squeal of rubber and the Merc shot backwards, paused and roared forwards, sending up a cloud of grey smoke, nearly flattening Jackie on the way past. A final bark from the gun, forcing Logan to scramble out of the way, and the car was gone. Its brake lights flashed hard on and it slithered sideways into the Garthdee roundabout, rear alloy wheels bouncing off the barrier in a flurry of sparks, before the Mercedes fishtailed out onto the Bridge of Dee and raced away into the night.

PC Steve was lying on his back in the middle of the road, already white as a sheet, a huge dark stain spreading out from the right side of his chest, blood bubbles popping and frothing from between his lips. Jackie ran over to him, peered at the hole in his chest, swore silently, then leaned on it hard: trying to staunch the bleeding. Logan called for an ambulance. If they were lucky he’d still be alive by the time it got here.

Jackie looked up from Steve’s pale face. ‘What
the fuck just happened?’ The constable’s screaming had died away to shallow, gasping pants, each one bringing up more blood to spill down his chin.

Logan knelt down next to Jackie. ‘How is he?’

She stared at him, dark red soaking its way up her sleeve. ‘How the hell do you think he is?’ Steve moaned and a cascade of blood rolled down the sides of his face. She tried to wipe the worst of it off, but more kept coming.

‘Come on, Steve: don’t you dare fucking die on me! If you leave me stuck with that bastard Simon Rennie, I’ll kill you!’

‘Did you…’ Logan drifted to a halt then swore.

‘What?’

‘I just figured it out. All of this: it’s a turf war. Malk the Knife making his play for Aberdeen. He sends Chib up here to break into the local market – they find out Karl Pearson’s a dealer so they grab him and torture the poor bastard until he gives up his mates. Then the Gimp burns them alive. Same with Kennedy’s Grandmother.’ He pointed up Holborn Street where the sky glowed a fiery orange. ‘They try to scare her off, but it doesn’t work, so she’s next. Christ knows where the second house fits in – maybe they’re in on the deal, so they get burnt too. Chib and his mate have been getting rid of the competition.’ He pulled out his mobile and called Control, telling them to get a couple of patrol cars down here pronto.

Jackie shifted her grip on Steve’s heaving chest,
trying to find purchase on the blood-slicked fabric. ‘Where the hell’s that ambulance?’

‘They’ll be here soon. Everything will be OK,’ he lied, trying to sound confident – this whole thing was a complete fucking disaster.

‘How’s he doing?’

‘You’re doing great, aren’t you, Steve?’ The jollity was as forced as the smile. Steve just shuddered and bled.

The wailing cry of an ambulance made Logan’s head snap round. ‘About bloody time!’ He grabbed one of Steve’s cold, blood-soaked, trembling hands. ‘Come on, not long now: you’ll be fine.’ But Steve’s eyes were unfocused and his breathing was becoming more laboured and painful. The bloody froth wasn’t just coming out of his mouth any more: it was bubbling out between Jackie’s fingers.