"Dying light" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacBride Stuart)

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The press conference was held at five thirty, set up in a rush so there would be time to get it on the Six O' Clock News.

The Chief Constable, his deputy, DI Steel and an attractive blonde woman from the press office faced the media from behind a row of flat-pack tables draped with the Grampian Police logo. Steel had somehow managed to tame her feral hair; that and the newish suit made her look like a competent and determined police officer, rather than her usual cross between a tramp and a startled Cairn Terrier. Logan stood at the back of the conference room, behind the sea of cameras and journalists, as the Chief Constable told the world they'd found the body of a woman in the Tyrebagger Woods… Isobel had been true to her word – her report was on DI Steel's desk in under an hour. There were only small differences between the two killings, this was probably the work of the same man.

As soon as the CC's statement was finished every hand in the place shot up: 'Is this the work of a serial killer?' 'Have you any suspects?' 'What about the man already in custody?'

'Have you identified the victim yet?' 'Why have you put DI Steel in charge of the investigation?'

The Chief Constable leaned forward and told the assembled crowd, 'Inspector Steel has my complete confidence.'

'Sarah Thornburn, Sky News. After the inspector's performance on the Gerald Cleaver trial, is that wise?'

Logan could see DI Steel bristling, but she managed to keep her mouth shut as the CC once more told everyone what a solid, dependable and experienced officer she was and how she had his complete confidence. Absolute and complete confidence. Logan grimaced: that was what Prime Ministers always said when someone high up in the government was caught with their hand in the till, or someone else's knickers. Right before they were, regrettably, let go.

There were more questions, but Logan wasn't really listening.

Instead he let his eyes drift over the assembled journalists and pundits, looking for a wee Glaswegian in an expensive suit… Colin Miller was sitting between a chisel-jawed woman from BBC News and a saggy man from the Daily Record, scribbling away furiously into a palmtop computer, not bothering to stick his hand up and ask questions. As soon as the CC stood, indicating that the press conference was at an end, Miller was out of there.

Logan caught up to him in the car park. 'What,' he asked, 'you not speaking to me any more?'

'Hmm?' Miller looked up, saw Logan and started walking again. 'Got things taste do…' He fumbled in his trouser pocket and pulled out his car keys.

Logan frowned. 'You all right?'

Miller marched straight up to his fancy-looking dark grey Mercedes. 'Don't have time for this…'

Logan grabbed his shoulder. 'What's got into you?'

The? What's got into me? Well, let's have a fuckin' think about that one shall we? Every fuckin' thing! OK? I've had enough!' He wrenched the car door open and threw himself in behind the wheel. 'Every fuckin' bastard in the whole fuckin'…' The engine growled into life and he slammed the door, twisted the wheel and put his foot down. Logan stood in the car park, watching as the car screeched to a halt at the junction before roaring off into the traffic, disappearing in the mist. 'Something I said?'

Tuesday morning started at quarter past seven with the flat's phone blaring out its electronic warble – on and on and on … Logan peeled open an eye, grumbled and curled back up under the duvet. The answering machine could take care of it. Today he was supposed to be starting on the back shift.

Three days of working from two in the afternoon through till midnight. Technically he should have started yesterday, but after putting in a full day with the search team, DI Steel had given him time off for good behaviour. So today he was going to stay in bed until Jackie came home, share a bit of breakfast and invite her back to bed for some under-the duvet fun. He smiled and wriggled deeper beneath the covers as the answering machine in the lounge dealt with the call.

Maybe he and Jackie could – an explosion of electronic bleeps, whistles and buzzing as Logan's mobile went mad.

'Oh for God's sake!' He poked a hand out of the tiny cave he'd made with the duvet, fumbled about blindly on the bedside cabinet, grabbed the phone and dragged it into the warmth with him. 'What?'

'Where the hell are you?'

Logan groaned: it was DI Steel. 'Do you know what time it is?'

'Yes. Where the hell are you?'

'In bed! I'm-'

'In bed?' The inspector put on a sleazy voice. 'What you wearing?'

'A frown. I'm on the back shift today, you said-'

'Stop buggering about. We've got a serial killer out there knocking off tarts – get your backside in gear!'

Logan closed his eyes and counted to ten while the inspector banged on about a sense of duty and how shift patterns were for the weak. 'OK, OK!' he said at last. 'I'm coming in. Give me half an hour.' He hung up, swore, sprawled out on the bed limbs akimbo, scowled at the blind, swore some more, got up, stubbed his toe on one of Jackie's boots, swore, and limped his way off into the bathroom for a shower.

When he finally made it into Force HQ DI Steel's briefing was in full swing. There were a lot more people here than usual – the Screw-Up Squad had been supplemented with some real police officers for a change. Unlike the normal rambling shambles, everyone was in ordered rows, uniform and CID sitting to attention as the inspector took them through the events of the last twenty-four hours. The handbag discovered at the scene was covered with fingerprints, but they all belonged to the newly identified victim:

Michelle Wood. That was the woman whose face had been peeled off yesterday, so Isobel could get a good look at the damage to the underlying musculature and bones. Logan shuddered at the memory. What with that and the arson victims last week he was spoilt for choice when it came to nightmares.

He tuned back in just as DI Steel was setting up the various teams and doling out their assignments. She wrapped the briefing up and sent them on their way with a rousing chorus of 'We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!'

When there was no one left except Logan, she cracked open a window and sparked up a cigarette with trembling hands, inhaling like a suffocating man. She closed her eyes, sighed happily then lurched into a rattling cough. 'Jesus, I've been bursting for a fag!' She took another deep drag, shuddering in pleasure as the nicotine and smoke filled her lungs.

When she breathed out it hung around her head like her own private fog bank. 'You see the papers?' she asked. Logan said no, so she dug a copy of that morning's P amp;J from the bin and tossed it over. Shore Lane Stalker Strikes Again! right across the front page, By Colin Miller. It wasn't his best work. 'I suppose,' she said as Logan read, I'd better go tell Michelle's dad she's dead…' Sigh. 'You know, you wouldn't think it to see her on the slab, but she was a pretty girl when she was little. Before spots and boys and underaged drinking. I brought her in about a dozen times when she was younger: shoplifting. Baby clothes, food, shoes, booze, stuff like that…' her voice trailed off. 'Arrested her all those times and I didn't even recognize her, not with her face all smashed up like that. Only IDed her this morning when the prints on the handbag came back… She was only twenty-four. Poor wee bitch.'

'She been on the game long?'

The inspector shook her head. 'Not that I can tell. No arrests for soliciting on her record. Not even a warning.'

Logan didn't say anything, but he couldn't help thinking of the woman he'd spoken to down the docks: the one with the PVC raincoat, black lace bustier and all the bruises. The minute she realized he was a policeman she'd offered him a bribe, or a free ride on the venereal express. Maybe there was a reason Michelle Wood hadn't received so much as a caution. Maybe one of Aberdeen's fine, upstanding boys in blue had been getting freebies.

'Right.' Steel dropped her cigarette butt and ground it into the carpet with a scuffed shoe. 'While I'm gone I want you to make sure everything's up and running properly. I don't trust any of these bastards to get it right.'

Logan was surprised. 'You don't want me to come with you?'

She shook her head. 'Her dad's going to have enough to deal with without a house full of bloody policemen.'

Logan was on his way down to the incident room when a familiar, hawk-nosed, ginger-haired bastard stuck his head out into the corridor and asked for a moment of his time. Inspector Napier smiled like a scar as Logan settled uncomfortably into the; rickety plastic chair in front of the desk. 'So, Sergeant McRae.' The inspector leaned back in his seat and smiled his post-surgery smile again. 'I take it you are familiar with the nature of the case now being headed up by DI Steel?' Logan carefully admitted that he was, wondering where this was going. 'Well,' said Napier, 'I'm sure I don't have to tell you the importance of a quick and decisive result. One that will stand up in court. You see,' he picked up a silver pen, slowly twisting it back and forth in his fingers, 'I know that you have … "friends" in the media. These people will try to protect you should things go wrong.' The smile became colder. 'It might be wise for you to ensure that they do not use Inspector Steel as a scapegoat.' Significant pause. 'In the interests of teamwork.'

An uncomfortable silence filled the space between them.

'What if it's her fault?'

Napier waved a hand, as if shooing a troublesome fly. 'Are you aware of the fable about the fox and the chicken? The chicken burns down the farmer's barn and blames the fox.

The farmer shoots the fox and then eats the chicken…' He pointed the silver pen at Logan's chest making it clear who the poultry was in this scenario. The inspector's chilly, unsettling smile disappeared. 'I will supply the sage and onion.'