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

17

DI Steel didn't want anyone else present while she 'interviewed'

Councillor Marshall, didn't even want to take him into the station until she'd had a chance to talk to him.

In private as it were. So Logan was sent off to swear the rest of the team to secrecy and search the councillor's car, discovering a number of scary-looking marital aids and a couple of specialist magazines so hard-core the pictures made his eyes water. But he'd collected the lot, sealing them away in clear plastic evidence pouches, not wanting to touch anything he'd found.

Steel had commandeered Logan's pool car, parking it further down the docks where she could talk to Councillor Marshall without being disturbed. Now the only signs of life inside the rusty Vauxhall were the fiery-orange tip of the inspector's cigarette and the smoke slowly curling its way out of the open car window. Logan, on the other hand, sat in the councillor's people carrier, bundled up against the cold wind whistling in through the ruined back window. He'd driven it out from the alley to the harbour's entrance, where he could keep one eye on the Vauxhall and the other on Shore Lane.

There wasn't much business being done tonight. The presence of multiple plainclothes police officers had pushed the genuine working girls into the surrounding streets, leaving Shore Lane completely under WPC Menzies' dominion. WPC Davidson had performed a similar trick on James Street, doing more to clear prostitution from Aberdeen's red light district than months and months of community policing. So there was the answer: you want to cut down on the sex trade, don't bother with initiatives and public awareness campaigns, just put a couple of unattractive WPCs out there selling their wares on the streets, and back them up with about two dozen plainclothes CID pimps. Problem solved.

Logan turned up his collar and shivered. Summer was in the process of buggering off and autumn wasn't going to hang about for long. It was going to be another cold, wet end of year. Still, he thought, at least he wasn't done up in stockings, suspenders and a push-up bra that would put Hannibal Lecter off his sausages. Right on cue, WPC Menzies reported in, complaining about the cold and her sore nipple and wishing death and hellfire on every slimy wee bastard out trolling the docks at this time of night. Did they really have another four and a half hours of this to go?

At long last the inspector's passenger door cracked open and a hunched, cowed figure stepped out. He turned and said something before marching, head down, towards the harbour gates and his damaged car. Logan jumped out and held the driver's door open for him, grinning. The man crawled sheepishly in behind the wheel and started the engine, almost squealing in terror as Logan called out a cheery, 'Drive safely, Councillor!'

Eyes darting and fearful, the man raced away from the scene of his disgrace as fast as the speed limit would allow.

Logan stood there, waving, until the car disappeared from view, then picked up the bagful of seized pornographic material and hurried over to the waiting, smoke-filled Vauxhall.

'Christ, it's freezing out there!' he said, cranking the heaters up and wringing his hands over the vent. 'You get much out of Mr Marshall?' DI Steel didn't answer, just asked him what he'd found when he'd searched the councillor's car. Logan held up the plastic bag and started digging evidence pouches out of it, listing the things off as he went, finishing with the piece de resistance: a huge red rubber phallus with separate power motion control, covered with spines and nobbles. Steel set them twitching, vibrating and rotating by playing with the dials and buttons. The whole thing buzzed and throbbed in its clear plastic evidence pouch, like some sort of malevolent insect larva struggling to get free.

'Classy,' said Steel, reading the device's name off the side:

The Anal Adventurer. Fun for all the family.' She pushed another button and the end started to pulse and judder.

'Jesus.' She nearly dropped it. 'It's alive! ALIVE!' Grinning she clicked the thing off and threw it over her shoulder into the back of the car. 'So nothing illegal then, just hella-dodgy?'

Logan agreed. 'What about you? You get anything out of our friend on the council?'

'Yup.' Steel's smile was almost as obscene as the huge, battery-operated rubber willy now lying on the back seat, but she didn't say any more.

'Going to share?' Logan asked at last.

'Nope.'

Half past eleven came and went without much happening.

By the time midnight was sounding on the St Nicholas Kirk bells WPC Menzies had only been propositioned three times, including Councillor Marshall. WPC Davidson hadn't fared much better either, netting a total of four. Not one of the blokes looked like a good fit for the killer, but they'd been detained anyway. Tomorrow morning someone would check out their alibis for the Monday and Friday nights. Logan didn't hold out much hope.

Stifling a yawn, he asked DI Steel if she wanted him to pick up something to eat while they were waiting? After all, they'd been on duty since about eight yesterday morning…

'Eight?' She snorted. 'I started at seven. Mind you, had a couple hours' kip in the afternoon. Makes the world of difference.'

Logan looked at her. 'I wouldn't know. I was at a crime scene with DI Insch for most of the morning and then in a post mortem till half five.'

Steel frowned at him. 'What the hell did you do that for?

You knew we were going to be out here all night!'

'You told Insch I'd help him!'

'Did I?' The inspector shrugged. 'Ah well, never mind.'

She dug a hand into her jacket pocket, coming out with a stained neoprene wallet from which she extracted a twenty.

'Go make yourself useful. White pudding supper with extra salt and vinegar… oh, and a pickled egg. And some tomato sauce if they've got it. And get something for yourself, if it'll wipe that skelped-arse expression off your face.'

Logan had to concentrate very hard on not slamming the car door. He marched up Marischal Street to the Castlegate, grumbling all the way. The sooner they caught this bastard the better. After that he could go back to working for Insch, or DI McPherson. Anyone other than DI Bloody Steel.

This close to midnight the streets were still pretty busy, taxis mostly. Taxis, buses and drunkards. People going on from the pubs to the casinos, or nightclubs, or specialist venues boasting erotic dancing. There was a pool of fresh vomit sitting in the middle of the pavement at the top of the street, steaming gently, and Logan picked his way around it, trying not to get too close to the green-looking young man staggering about next to it. In defiance of the weather the silly sod was dressed in a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved Aberdeen Football Club top, the shiny red material streaked with regurgitated curry.

There was a chip shop not too far down George Street and he placed Steel's order, getting himself a jumbo haddock with pickled onions and a couple of tins of Irn-Bru, munching on the burning-hot chips as he walked back down to the docks. The AFC vomiter was gone, but a group of giggling girlies dressed in miniskirts, cropped tops and high heels filled the void by hurling abuse at passers-by. They staggered across the pedestrian crossing from the other side of the road, swigging at bottles of Bacardi Breezer, asking Logan for some of his chips, and calling him a 'miserable cunt' at the top of their lungs when he refused. Sighing Logan kept on going, over the crest and down the hill. The haddock was good, fresh and flaky and moist and, shit: that was his phone. He juggled his fish supper out of the way, wiping his greasy fingers on the paper it came wrapped in, before pulling the noisy clanging mobile out into the cold night air.

'Hello? This DSMcRae?' A man's voice. Logan admitted that it was. 'Right, right, got a message you wanted to speak to me. PC Taylor?'

Logan had to think for a moment. 'Constable Taylor,' he said at last, trying to fold the paper back over the top of his chips to keep the heat in. 'You patrol the docks, don't you?

Shore Lane, Regent Quay, that kind of thing?'

'Aye.'

'I'm looking for a young girl, fourteen to sixteen, been working Shore Lane. Lithuanian, not been in town long, pretty, hair like something out of an old rock video. Said her name was Kylie Smith. I want her and or her pimp.'

Silence for a moment and then, 'Doesn 't ring any bells, but I can ask around.'

'Good. Next: woman, Caucasian, mid-forties, PVC raincoat, black lace top, long boots. Short permed blonde hair.

Looks like a regular. Recently had the crap beaten out of her – I need to speak to her urgently.'

The answer was immediate this time. 'Sounds like Agnes Walker, Skanky Agnes to her friends. On some sort of methadone programme I think.'

'You got a home address?' PC Taylor didn't have it on him, but he'd find out. Logan thanked him and hung up. DI Steel's chips were still fairly warm by the time Logan made it back to the car. She wolfed the lot without a word while Logan skoofed his way through a tin of Irn-Bru.

'Right said Steel, sooking the last of the salt off her fingers and settling down in her seat. 'Back to the grindstone.' She was snoring within fifteen minutes.

Logan sighed. It was going to be a long night.

Around about half two he roused the inspector. His back was beginning to ache from sitting in the car all night watching nothing happen. While Steel blinked, yawned and lit up yet another cigarette, Logan stepped out into the darkness to stretch his legs, breath misting about his head, caught beneath the harbour's arc lights. A massive blue-and-green supply vessel was docked behind them, the windows dark and empty, reflecting back the silent dtyscape. Distant sounds of clanging came from around the docks, the spark and flash of welding on a Russian boat, its red paintwork streaked with rust and grime. The clatter of a ship's door slamming shut.

The whine of a crane. Drunken singing.

Hands rammed deep in his pockets, Logan set off on a lap of the streets that made up Aberdeen's red light district. The nightclubs would be chucking out soon, one final upsurge in business for the working girls, a drunken knee-trembler in a filthy doorway, or a once in a lifetime opportunity to be battered to death and abandoned in a ditch somewhere.

And it wasn't as if the police had any idea where, when or even if the killer would strike again. Tonight, tomorrow, the day after… And suppose he did strike, how would they know? If he didn't take the bait, grabbed one of the real working girls instead of Operation Cinderella's ugly sisters,