Dying Light. Stuart MacBride

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      The WPC snorted. ‘You must be bloody joking. They’re all sodding about at that fire. Much more important than some poor cow who got battered to death.’ She folded her arms. ‘Wouldn’t even send us a proper SIO, so we had to make do with you.’

      Logan gritted his teeth. ‘You got something to say, Constable?’ He stepped close enough to smell the stale cigarette smoke on her breath. She stared back at him, her face a thin line of displeasure.

      ‘How’s PC Maitland?’ she asked, her voice as cold as the corpse at their feet. ‘Still alive?’

      Logan bit back the reply. He was her senior officer; he had a responsibility to behave like a grown-up. But what he really wanted to do was find one of those greasy, rotting, bloated rats and shove it right up her—

      Shouts sounded from the other end of the alley, where it connected with Regent Quay. Three men staggered round the corner, lurching into one another, fumbling with their trousers, laughing as streams of steaming urine splashed against the alley walls. Logan turned back to the smug, defiant WPC. ‘Constable,’ he said with a thin smile, ‘you’re supposed to be securing the crime scene. So why can I see three men pissing all over it?’

      For a moment it looked as if she was going to answer back, then she stormed off up the alley, shouting ‘Hoy! You! What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?’

      That left Logan and PC Steve with the battered remains of Rosie Williams. Logan dragged out his mobile phone and called Control, asking for an update on the duty doctor, Identification Bureau, pathologist, Procurator Fiscal and the rest of the circus that was meant to roll up whenever a suspicious death was discovered. No joy: everyone was still tied up at the big fire in Northfield, but DI McPherson would be with them as soon as possible. In the meantime Logan was to stay where he was and try not to get anyone else killed.

      An hour later there was still no sign of DI McPherson, or the IB, but the duty doctor had arrived. At least it had stopped raining. The doctor struggled his way into a white paper scene-of-crime suit before trudging down Shore Lane, ducking under the blue ‘POLICE’ tape WPC Buchan had grudgingly stretched across the alley.

      Doc Wilson wasn’t at his best at half past three in the morning, a fact he made abundantly clear by dropping his medical bag in a ratty-smelling puddle and swearing a blue streak. The bags under his eyes were family sized, his nose red and raw from a late summer cold.

      ‘Morning, Doc,’ said Logan, getting nothing but a grunt in reply as the doctor squatted down over the corpse and felt for a pulse.

      ‘She’s deid,’ he said, stood, and started back for his car.

      ‘Hold on a minute.’ Logan grabbed his arm. ‘Is that it? “She’s deed?” We know she’s dead: care to hazard a guess when and what of?’

      The doctor scowled. ‘That’s no’ my job; ask a bloody pathologist.’

      Surprised, Logan let go of the old man’s arm. ‘Rough night?’

      Doc Wilson ran a tired hand across his face, making the stubble scritch. ‘Sorry. I’m just knackered…’ He cast a glance over his shoulder at Rosie’s naked body and sighed. ‘Best guess: blunt trauma. The bruisin’s no’ that advanced, so circulation must’ve stopped pretty quickly. Given the lividity I’d say you’re lookin’ at three, maybe four hours ago.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘Beaten to death.’

      It was twenty past four before anyone else turned up, and by then Doc Wilson was long gone. The sun was already on its way, the sky a soft lemon stain wisped with grey, but Shore Lane remained shrouded in shadow.

      The Identification Bureau’s filthy white Transit Van reversed up the alley from the dual carriageway, a lone IB technician in white SOC coveralls guiding it in. Both rear doors opened and the ritual fight with the crime scene tent began: wrestling metal poles and blue plastic sheeting up over Rosie Williams’s body. A generator roared into life, chugging blue smoke out into the early morning – diesel fumes fighting with the stench of rotting rat – setting a pair of arc lights crackling. The Procurator Fiscal appeared not long after, parking at the far end of the alley where it emptied out onto Regent Quay. She was an attractive blonde in her early forties, looking almost as tired as Logan felt, smelling faintly of smoke. A serious-looking younger woman trailed along behind her: all frizzy hair, wide eyes and clipboard. Logan brought them up to speed as they struggled into a matching set of white paper over suits, then had to go through the whole thing again when the pathologist turned up. Dr Isobel MacAlister: tired, irritable and more than happy to take it out on Logan. Nothing like an ex-girlfriend to take all the fun out of a crime scene. And there was still no sign of DI McPherson. Which meant Logan was still responsible if anything went wrong. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about. The only upside was that it wouldn’t be his problem for long: there was no way they’d leave him in charge of a murder enquiry. Not with his recent track record. Not after he’d almost got PC Maitland killed in a botched raid. No, this case would go to someone who wouldn’t screw it up. He checked his watch. Almost five. Still another two hours to go before his day shift was supposed to start and he’d already been at it for half the night.

      With a tired sigh, Logan stepped from the cold light of dawn into the SOC tent. It was going to be a long day.

      3

      Grampian Police Force Headquarters was a seven-storey concrete-and-glass tower block in broad bands of black and grey, hidden down a small road off the east end of Union Street. Topped with a thorny crown of communications antennae and emergency sirens, FHQ wasn’t exactly Aberdeen’s crowning architectural achievement, but it was home.

      Logan grabbed a cup of coffee from the machine and pilfered a bourbon biscuit from the media office. There was no sign of DI McPherson. Not in his office, not in his incident room, not in the canteen, nowhere. Logan tried the dispatch office, but they’d not heard from McPherson since he’d called in from the hospital at quarter to six that morning. Broken leg, fractured wrist and concussion. He’d fallen down two flights of stairs. Logan swore. ‘Why didn’t someone tell me? I’ve been waiting on him since half two this morning!’ But the dispatcher just shrugged. Wasn’t his job to act as a secretary. If Logan was looking for someone to hand the case over to, DI Insch was probably the best bet. Even if he did have that arson attack to look after.

      DI Insch’s morning briefing was a sombre affair. The inspector perched at the front of the room, dressed in a smart grey suit, his considerable bulk straining its seams. The man just seemed to get larger every year, his round features and shiny bald head making him look like an angry pink egg. There was silence as he told the crowded room that PC Maitland’s condition hadn’t improved – they’d managed to remove the bullet, but he still hadn’t regained consciousness. There was going to be a whip-round for the family.

      Next up was a spate of drug-related violence. Some new pushers had moved in, kicking off a mini turf war. Nothing fatal yet, but it was likely to get worse.

      Then Logan had to give a five-minute rundown on Rosie Williams’s battered body before Insch took over again to talk about the previous night’s fire, his voice booming out in the crowded incident room. It had started in one of the older buildings off Kettlebray Crescent: a run-down, boarded-up street of council housing deemed too scabby for human habitation. Number fourteen had been used as a squat for the last couple of months, three men, two women and a nine-month-old baby girl, all of whom had been at home on the night of the fire. Which explained the unmistakable burnt-pork smell when the fire brigade finally managed to break down the door. There were no survivors.

      The inspector shifted, making the desk groan as he ferreted about in his trouser СКАЧАТЬ