Читать книгу Dying Light - Stuart MacBride - Страница 13

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.’

Her eyes went wide. Left, right, then she ran for it. Logan grabbed her arm and pulled her to a halt.

‘You hurting me!’ she whined, struggling.

‘I just want to ask you a few questions. It’s OK—’

A shape stepped out of the shadows. ‘No it fuckin’ isn’t.’ Big bloke, dressed in leathers and jeans. Shaved head, goatee beard, fists. ‘Let the bitch go, or I’m goin’ tae break your fuckin’ head open!’

Logan smiled at him. ‘No need to get physical. Just a couple of questions and then I’m on my way. You here Monday night as well?’

The man cracked his knuckles and advanced. ‘You fuckin’ deaf? I told you: let the bitch go!’

Sighing, Logan dug out his wallet and flipped it open, exposing his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Logan McRae. Still want to break my head open?’ The man froze, looked from Logan’s ID to Logan to the struggling girl and back at Logan again. Then legged it.

Logan and the girl watched him disappear – for a big man he moved pretty fast. She stood open-mouthed, forgetting to struggle, before hurling a string of foreign-language abuse after her scarpering pimp. Logan had no idea what the words meant, but the general gist was clear enough. ‘Well,’ he said, when she’d run out of breath and inspiration, ‘it’s OK: I’m not going to arrest you. I really do just want to talk.’

She looked him up and down again. ‘I talk very good dirty. You want talk dirty?’

‘Not that kind of talking. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.’

The Regents Arms was a little bar on Regent Quay with a three am licence. Not the smartest place in Aberdeen: it was dark, dirty, missing an apostrophe, and smelled of spilt beer and old cigarettes. Popular with the kind of people that hung around the docks after sundown. Logan took one look at the clientele and spotted at least three he’d arrested before – bit of aggravated assault, bit of prostitution, bit of breaking and entering – so there was no way he was going to risk using the toilets here. Wander into a small room with only one exit and a bar full of people who’d love to see a policeman with his brains leaking out onto the dirty floor? Might as well smash himself in the face with a claw hammer, save everyone the bother. But no one said anything as he sat the young girl down in a booth and bought her a bottle of Bud. If she was old enough to be selling her body on the streets, she was old enough for a beer.

‘So,’ he said, ‘who was your friend?’

She scowled and hurled another barrage of incomprehensible abuse at her absent protector. When Logan asked what language she was swearing in she told him: ‘Lithuanian.’ Her name was Kylie Smith – likely bloody story thought Logan – and she’d been in Scotland for almost eight months now. First Edinburgh then Aberdeen. She preferred Edinburgh, but what could she do? She had to go where she was sent. And no she wasn’t sixteen, she was nineteen. Logan didn’t buy that one either. The pub’s lighting was murky, but it was still better than the flickering yellow streetlights in Shore Lane. She was fourteen if she was a day. Like it or not, she’d have to go to the station after this. There was no way he could turn a child that age back out onto the streets. She should still be in school!

Her ‘friend’ had told her to call him Steve, but Logan wasn’t to cause trouble for him, because she had to stay with him, and he’d beat her. Logan just made noncommittal noises and asked Kylie where she’d been Monday night.

‘I go with man in suit, he want I do dirty thing, but he pay good. Then I go with other man, smell very bad of chips, skin is all grease. I go with—’

‘Sorry, that’s not what I meant.’ Logan tried not to think of oily fingers pawing away at the schoolgirl. ‘What I meant was: where were you getting picked up from?’

‘Oh, I understand. Same place today. All night. I make good money.’ She nodded. ‘Steve bring me breakfast, I do so good. Happy Meal.’

Last of the big spenders. ‘Did you know a girl was attacked?’

She nodded again. ‘I know.’

‘Did you see anything?’

Kylie shook her head. ‘She stand there all night, only one man come make fuck with her.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘It very dark…’ A frown and then, ‘White hair all spike?’ She stuck her hands to the side of her head, fingers pointing upwards. ‘You know? And beard.’ More hand gestures: this time the left, fingers bunched, right on the point of her chin. ‘He smell of chips too.’

Logan sat back and smiled. That would be Jamie McKinnon, no doubt fresh from robbing another late-night fast-food joint. Goodbye alibi.

‘Did you hear anything they said?’

She shook her head and finished her bottle of beer. ‘I go with other man.’

Logan sat back in his seat and looked at her. ‘You know someone killed her?’

Kylie sighed, her face suddenly much older than its years. She knew. People got hurt all the time. People died. It was the way the world worked.

‘Would you come with me to the station? Look at some photographs? Make a statement? Just what you’ve told me?’

She shook her head. ‘Steve angry if I not making money.’ She rolled up the sleeve of her low-cut blouse, showing him the cluster of cigarette burns in the crook of her elbow. There were needle tracks in amongst the circular scars, just enough to get addiction underway. To make her dependent on ‘Steve’.

‘What if I told you I could make sure Steve never hurt you ever again?’

Kylie just laughed. That was crazy talk. She wasn’t going to come with him, she wasn’t going to police station, she wasn’t going to cause no trouble for Steve. Thank you for beer and goodbye. Logan insisted, but Kylie was having none of it. She jumped to her feet and made a run for the door.

Logan leapt up to follow, and that was when things started to go wrong. A large man with a tattoo the size of a Rottweiler blocked the exit, just after Kylie charged through the door. He was a good foot shorter than Logan was, but more than made up for it in breadth.

Logan screeched to a halt.

‘Lady’s no’ wantin’ your company,’ he said, his accent broad Peterhead.

‘Look, I need to catch her! She’s only fourteen!’

‘Oh, like ’em young do you?’ Through gritted teeth.

‘What? No! I’m a police officer! She…’ And that’s when Logan heard it: the silence. Every conversation in the pub had come to a sudden halt. The only sound in the place was a tatty-looking bandit, bleeping and pinging away to itself.

Fuck…

‘OK,’ he turned around and addressed the bar as a whole, ‘I’m looking for whoever killed Rosie Williams. I don’t want to cause trouble for anyone else.’ More silence. Cold sweat was beginning to run down Logan’s back. ‘Some bastard beat Rosie to death: strangled her, smashed her face in, broke her ribs. She drowned in her own blood!’ Logan turned to face the tattooed thug blocking the door. ‘She deserved better than that. Everyone does.’

He was going to get his arse kicked. He could feel it.

The wee muscleman frowned in concentration. The silence stretched. And then he said, ‘Go on, bugger off.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Mind this, though: it’s no’ healthy for you in here. Don’t come back.’

By the time he was outside there was no sign of Kylie.

Logan didn’t know any Lithuanian, so he swore in good old-fashioned Scottish.