Dying Light (6 page)

‘Blah, blah, blah. You opened the suitcase yet?’ Not bloody likely was the loud reply. You never knew which pathologist you were going to get these days, and if it was that MacAlister woman you’d get your testicles in a jar for messing up her crime scene. So that suitcase was going to stay locked until she, or the duty doctor, got here. Steel stared at the red fabric case. ‘Just like Christmas Eve, isn’t it?’ she said to Logan. ‘The present’s right there under the tree, you know what’s in it,
but you’re not allowed to open it till Santa’s been. Don’t suppose a small peek would hurt though, would it…’ She made for the tent’s open door, but Dirty Moustache stopped her on the threshold.

‘No,’ he told her. ‘Not till the pathologist gets here!’

‘Oh come on, it’s my crime scene! How the hell do you expect me to catch the bastard if you won’t let me have a poke about?’

‘You can poke about all you like when the pathologist says so. Until then this area will remain sealed. And anyway,’ he pointed at the cigarette bobbing away in the corner of the inspector’s mouth, ‘there’s no way you’re getting in there with that!’

‘Oh for God’s sake…’ And with that DI Steel scuffed off to smoke her fag and sulk in peace. Ten minutes, one and a half cigarettes, later there was a cry of ‘Hello?’ and the crunch and snap of someone pushing their way through the branches.

It was the new deputy PF, already done up in her scene-of-crime boiler suit, complete with matching blue shoe covers, even though the rest of her party was still in their regular clothes. The real PF followed her, deep in conversation with Dr Isobel MacAlister – the Ice Queen cometh – while Doc Wilson stomped along at the rear of the group, not talking to anyone and scowling at Isobel’s back.

The PF gave them a grim smile, asked to be brought up to speed, then suited up and disappeared into the SOC tent, taking Isobel and a
reluctant Doc Wilson with her, leaving her deputy to fidget at the entrance to the stinking blue plastic grotto as Dirty Moustache refused to let her into the crime scene. ‘You’ve trailed every bit of grit and dirt and God knows what else in from wherever you got changed!’ he said, pointing at her protective suit and booties. ‘You’ll have to get on a new set.’ Blushing furiously she stripped off, revealing a sombre black suit and canary-yellow blouse. The outfit, combined with Rachael’s beetroot face and curly red hair, made her look like an angry bee. DI Steel left her to it, dragging Logan with her into the crime scene.

There were hundreds of flies in the SOC tent, buzzing and swooping in the foetid air, making Logan’s skin crawl. The sunlight, stronger in the clearing than it had been in the forest proper, made the plastic sheeting glow, tainting everything a sickly blue. Looking a bit like Smurfs in their white over suits, the IB technicians kept a respectful distance from Isobel. Just in case. The video operator went in for a couple of long panning shots before settling down behind her left shoulder so that he could get a good view of the case’s contents when it was opened. The photographer flashed away, the sudden
clack
and whine making everything jump into full colour, before fading back to shades of blue. There was a rustle of plastic and Rachael, dressed in a brand-new set of coveralls, poked her head into the stench then joined
Logan and Steel at the back of the tent, looking on as Isobel examined the case.

‘It appears to be a mid-range suitcase. Relatively new,’ said Isobel, for the benefit of the tape recorder whirring away in her pocket. She tried the catch: it was locked so she made one of the IB team cut the thing out. Telling him, at least seven times, to be careful. At last the lock was sitting in an evidence pouch and Isobel grasped the lid of the suitcase. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got…’

The smell was instant and overpowering. Logan had thought it was bad before, but with the suitcase opened it was a hundred times worse. The thing was relatively watertight and half-full of viscous, stinking liquid, surrounding what looked like a torso. Two foot long. That meant it was an adult. Logan couldn’t see any breasts, so it was probably male. Unless they’d been cut off. The skin was black with hairy mould, slick with slime.

There was a sudden movement at his side as Rachael slapped a hand over her mouth and nose and scrambled out of the tent. Logan couldn’t blame her. His stomach was rapidly working its way to the same conclusion.

And then Isobel spoke: ‘Son of a bitch…’

Logan was almost afraid to ask, ‘What?’

She sat back on her heels. ‘Literally. This torso.’ She pointed at the swollen, rotting lump of meat, crammed into a suitcase and hidden beneath a tree in the middle of a forest in the middle of nowhere. ‘It’s not human.’

There was silence in the tent, broken only by the buzzing of flies. Thick, fat bluebottles that settled on the decomposing torso. Feeding. It was Logan who asked the obvious question, ‘What do you mean, “It’s not human”?’

‘Well, for a start it’s completely covered with hair.’

Logan peered into the stinking suitcase. Isobel was right: what he’d taken for black, furry mould, was, in fact, fur. Genuine, bona fide fur. ‘If it’s not human, what is it?’

Isobel prodded the torso, less careful with it than she would have been with human remains. ‘Has to be a dog. Maybe a Labrador? Whatever it is, the SSPCA can deal with it.’ She stood, wiping twin trails of slime down the front of her boiler suit.

‘But why is it here? Why go to all this trouble to hide a dead dog?’

‘You’re the detectives, you tell me. Whatever
the motivation, these remains aren’t human. Now if you’ll excuse me I have
real
work to do.’ She swept out.

Logan watched her go, bemused. ‘When did this become my fault?’ he asked Steel. The inspector just shrugged and buggered off outside for a cigarette, closely followed by the Procurator Fiscal. Logan shook his head. ‘Doc? You want to hazard a guess?’

Doc Wilson scowled. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said, ‘it’s beneath the great
pathologist
to examine a dead dog, but it’s OK for me to do it, is it? I’m a doctor, no’ a sodding vet!’

Logan gritted his teeth. ‘I just want someone to tell me what the hell is going on! Do you think you could get off your prima donna horse for five bloody minutes and actually help for a change?’

Everyone else in the tent suddenly took an all-consuming interest in their shoes as Logan and the duty doctor scowled at each other. It was Logan who folded first. ‘Sorry, Doc.’

Dr Wilson sighed, shrugged, then hunched down in front of the suitcase, beckoning Logan over to join him. As it was no longer a murder enquiry, they didn’t have to pussyfoot about with the evidence. Grunting, the doctor dragged the suitcase free from its prison of roots and dumped it on the forest floor, the foul-smelling liquid slopping out onto the fallen needles.

Coughing and spluttering against the stink, Doc Wilson prodded at the hairy torso, turning it over
in the suitcase. The underside was saturated with liquid decay. The head, legs and tail had all been cut away, leaving dark purple, swollen flesh behind. ‘I’m no pathologist, mind,’ he said, ‘but it looks like these cuts have been made by some sort of very sharp, medium-length blade. Could be a kitchen knife? Cuts are fairly solid, not a lot of hacking going on. So whoever it was knew what they were doing: slice around the joint then separate the limb from the socket. Very economical.’ He turned the body over onto its back again. ‘Cut marks around the head are a bit more muddled. No’ an easy thing to do, get a head off a body. Tail’s just been chopped off…’ Doc Wilson frowned.

‘What?’

He pointed at the base of the torso, where the fur was a mess of fluid and flies. Gingerly, he poked and prodded at the rotting carcass. ‘Genital area: multiple stab wounds. Poor little sod’s had his bollocks hacked to pieces.’ And that was when Logan knew.

Standing back upright, he told the IB team to get going with the bagging and tagging. This was to be treated as a murder scene, even if it was just a dead dog. Puzzled, the bloke with the moustache started to argue, but Logan was having none of it. Everything was to be taken seriously: trace fibres, fingerprints, tissue samples, post mortem, the whole nine yards.

‘What’s the point?’ demanded the moustache. ‘It’s just a bloody Labrador!’

Logan looked down at the dismembered torso, stuffed in a suitcase, hidden in the woods. ‘No,’ he said, getting that old familiar sinking feeling. ‘It’s not just a Labrador. It’s a dress-rehearsal.’

DI Steel had Rennie drop Logan off on the way back to the station, so he could get a few hours’ sleep before reporting for duty at ten that evening. As they drove off up Marischal Street, Logan cursed his way in through the communal front door and up the stairs to his flat. Neither Steel nor the Procurator Fiscal had been happy to hear his theory about the torso, but they had to agree it looked a hell of a lot like a pre-murder. Someone testing the waters before diving in. So the PF had authorized a full post mortem; Isobel was going to love that, hack up a dirty, rotting Labrador in her nice clean morgue? She’d throw a fit. And then she’d blame him. Grumbling, Logan climbed into the shower, trying to wash off the stench of decaying dog, and half an hour later he was sitting in the lounge, tin of beer in one hand, cheese toastie in the other, watching daytime television, trying to bore himself to sleep.

Jackie had made a big difference to Logan’s flat when she moved in – it wasn’t half as tidy as it used to be. The woman was chaos with boobs. Nothing in the kitchen made sense any more. Whenever she used anything, it went back in a completely different place to where she’d found it: it had taken him ten minutes just to find the
toastie machine. Magazines spilled over the side of the coffee table, newspapers were heaped on the floor, unopened letters mixed with takeaway menus and assorted scraps of paper. Her collection of pigs had also taken up residence: porcelain pigs, pottery pigs, little pink cuddly pigs. They festooned the lounge, gathering dust. But Logan wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

Soon he was well into his second tin of beer, the sunlight spilling in through the lounge window, making the room soft and warm. He was actually starting to drift off: sleep washing in and out, like the approaching tide, bringing dismembered corpses with it…

Logan sat bolt upright on the couch, eyes bleary and wide, heart hammering in his ears, trying to figure out where he was. The phone went again and he swung round, cursing, grabbing the handset as the dream rotted away. ‘Hello?’

A Glaswegian voice boomed happily into Logan’s ear.
‘Laz, my man. How you doin’?’
Colin Miller, golden-boy reporter on the
Press and
Journal
, Aberdeen’s main daily newspaper.

‘Sleeping. What do you want?’

‘
Sleepin’? At this time of the day. Been up to a bit
of the old afternoon delight with the lovely WPC Watson,
eh?
’ Logan didn’t dignify that with an answer. ‘
Anyway, listen, I got a call from some woman says she
found a body in the woods today
.’ Christ, thought Logan, that Mrs Hendry didn’t waste any time,
did she? ‘
Come on, man, spill the beans! Who is it?
’

Logan frowned. ‘You’ve not spoken to Isobel yet, have you?’

An embarrassed pause and then, ‘
Aye, well, she’s
no’ answerin’ her mobile, and her office
phone’s
on
voicemail
only
.’ In addition to being a golden-boy reporter, Miller was also Isobel’s bit of rough, the one who’d taken her fancy when she was finished with Logan. It should have been more than enough reason for him to dislike the pushy wee shite, but for some bizarre reason it wasn’t. ‘
Come on, Laz,
spill the beans! Bloody media
office
’s
givin’ the usual
“no comment” bollocks. You was there wasn’t you?
’

Sighing, Logan slumped back to his chair. ‘All I can say is that we found some remains in Garlogie Woods today. You want more details, you’re going to have to go through the media office. Or wait for Isobel to get home.’

‘
Shite…
C’mon
, Laz, give me somethin’ to work
with here! I’ve been a good boy, no’ printed a thing
she’s told me without goin’ through you first – give us
a break, eh?
’

Logan couldn’t help smiling, it was nice to have the upper hand for a change. If Miller printed a word of what his pathologist girlfriend told him between the sheets without getting the OK from Logan, she was finished. Logan would go straight to Professional Standards and tell them all about Isobel’s former “indiscretions” with the media. Her career would be over.

‘
Tell you what, I’ll bring round somethin’ tasty for
tea and you and me can have a chat. Maybe I’ve got
something you need to know. We could do a swap, like
.’

‘What, like last time? No bloody thanks.’

‘
Look, I’m sorry about that, OK? He told me the place
was full of stolen property
…’ There was a small pause. ‘
Listen, you workin’ on that big fire?
’ Logan said no, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested

– after all, a lead on Insch’s arson case might help speed his way out of the Screw-Up Squad. ‘
Perfect,
how does eight sound?
’

A rattle of keys in the lock and the front door opened. It was Jackie, back from work and carrying a pizza box from the place up the road, using her plaster cast as a tray. She saw him, and held up a bottle of Shiraz.

‘Hold on a minute,’ he said, slapping a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Colin Miller wants to come over for tea.’

Jackie snorted. ‘Not a bloody chance. Pizza, wine and bed. Maybe all at the same time.’ She put the pizza box down on the coffee table and started stripping off her trousers.

Logan smiled. ‘Erm… Sorry, Colin, something’s come up. Got to go.’

‘
Eh? What? What’s come up?
’

Logan put the phone down.

Yawning, Logan strolled up Marischal Street, making for Force Headquarters. Nine forty-five and the sun was beginning to think about going home for the night. The day’s heat slowly leached out
of the granite buildings, keeping the temperature up as the evening drifted away. There was a lot to be said for a naked WPC Watson, wine and pizza. And he didn’t even have to get all togged up in his work suit either. Tonight was a strictly plainclothes operation.

Force Headquarters was busier than Logan had been expecting; groups of uniformed officers bustling about the place. Big Gary – looking like an overstuffed sofa in an ill-fitting uniform, clutching a Tunnocks Tasty Caramel Wafer in one oversized paw – sat behind the desk taking notes. ‘Evenin’, Lazarus,’ he said, dropping little flakes of chocolate onto the duty roster.

‘Evening, Gary, what’s with all the rush and scurry?’

‘You know there’s been all these drugs comin’ in? Well, big bust tonight: huge! Half the shift’s off to play cops and robbers.’ He frowned for a moment and flicked through the chocolate-coated roster. ‘How come you’re in? Supposed to be on days…’

The happy smile slid from Logan’s face. ‘Night shift today and tomorrow. But I’m only on till two tonight, because I was in most of the day.’

‘Bastard…’ Big Gary scribbled away at the roster with a biro. ‘How come no one ever tells me anything? Who decided this?’

‘DI Steel.’

Big Gary grunted and ripped a bite out of his wafer. ‘Bloody typical.’ He shook his head. ‘Ever
since that Cleaver trial got fucked up…’ The phone went and so did Big Gary.

After signing in, Logan turned round and went back out the way he’d come in, strolling down Marischal Street, over the bridge and straight past his own front door. The harbour lights were flickering on, picking out a handful of supply vessels, their huge bright-orange hulls glowing as the sun slowly set. The water was already a deep shade of violet, reflecting back the darkening sky. At the bottom of the hill Logan took a left, popping his head around the corner of Shore Lane, seeing if anyone was open for business. It was empty.

Hands in his pockets, he strolled down the quay, visiting every alley, street and parking lot along the way. Most of the working girls he spoke to were helpful enough, once he’d sworn on his mother’s grave that he wouldn’t arrest them. They knew Rosie, they were in the same line of business, they were sorry she was dead. But not one of them had seen anything.

He was on his second circuit when his phone exploded in a cacophony of bleeps and whistles. Colin Miller again. ‘
Just a wee call to say you’ve blown
it, man. Press office says the
torso’s
no’ human. Just a
dog. So yer bargainin’ position for
info’s
shot to shite
.’

Logan swore quietly, so much for his ticket out of the Fuck-Up Factory.

‘
Laz? You still there, man?
’

‘Yeah, just thinking.’ There had to be something he could give Miller… and then it dawned
on him: he told Miller about his pre-murder theory.
‘Bastard, we’ve gone to sodding press with it
as a fuckin’ sidebar
.’

‘So come on then – spill the beans on the fire.’

‘
The name “Graham Kennedy” mean anythin’ to you?
Does a bit of dealin’ on the side in Bridge of Don, blow
mostly, but harder stuff when he gets his hands on it?
’ Logan had never heard of him. ‘
He’s one of yer crispy-
baked squatters
.’ Perfect: rumour had it DI Insch still hadn’t identified the bodies. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Logan thanked him and hung up. Today was turning out to be not so bad after all.

By the time he’d worked his way back to Shore Lane it was getting on for half eleven. There’d been no improvement in the streetlight situation since the night before last: the darkness barely punctuated with pools of wan yellow light. At the far end, where the cars would turn off the dual carriageway, a single figure plied her trade. Hands in his pockets, Logan stepped into the alleyway and the heady aroma of decomposing rat; thankfully it wasn’t nearly as bad as rotting Labrador. The girl touting for business outside the Shore Porters’ warehouse couldn’t have been much more than sixteen. If that. She was dressed in a short black skirt, low-cut top, fishnets and black patent-leather high heels. Very classy. Her hair was up in a 1980s-style rock-star perm, her face layered with enough make-up to coat the Forth Bridge. She turned at the sound of Logan’s footsteps, watching him warily.

‘Evening,’ he said, voice nice and neutral. ‘You new?’

She looked him up and down. ‘What it to you?’ Not a local. Her accent was somewhere between Edinburgh and the Ukraine. The words slightly fuzzy round the edges, as if she was on something.

‘You here Monday?’ he asked. She backed away a couple of steps. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, holding up his hands, ‘I just want to talk.’