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

OFF TO THE CANTEEN. I'LL BE UP IN A BIT.

He was on his second mug of milky tea and halfway through a bacon buttie when DI Steel finally slouched into the canteen. 'Christ, I'm fucking starving,' she said slumping down on the other side of the table and sighing. 'Right, first things first.' She dragged out a copy of that morning's Press and Journal and placed it on the tabletop. 'Care to explain this?' She pointed at the headline: Dry Run For Suitcase Torso Murderer. Colin Miller had worked his usual magic, weaving Logan's suspicions into a pretty good story. Not surprising he was the newspaper's golden boy.

'I spoke to him last night,' said Logan as he read, groaning at every mention of 'Police Hero Logan "Lazarus" McRae'.

Whenever Miller put him in the bloody paper, Angus Robertson – the Mastrick Monster – was always wheeled out to justify Logan's 'hero' status.

'And the reason you screwed over my investigation?' Steel's voice was level, cold. Dangerous. But Logan didn't notice.

'Whoever it is, they're counting on the dog being a full, proper, dry run, OK?' he said with a smile. 'So the fact we found the body and released details to the press, means our killer-to-be knows we're on to them. It's one thing to kill a dog and dump it, but it's a hell of a lot more difficult to do it to a human being, especially when you know the police are wise to you.'

'Well,' she said, settling back in her seat, giving Logan the benefit of a hyena smile. 'Sounds like you've got it all figured out, doesn't it?' He nodded and she let the smile grow colder.

'Let's get one thing crystal, Mr Police Hero: this is not a fucking democracy I'm running here. You do what I tell you – when I tell you, not whatever you fucking feel like!' Logan flinched as the inspector hammered on: 'And you know what? This time I actually agree with you, but that does not excuse going to the press behind my fucking back to get your name all over the papers!'

Logan dropped his half-eaten buttie back onto his plate.

'I… I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd-'

'No you didn't, did you? But I fucking well do!' She snatched up the fallen buttie and ripped a huge bite out of it. 'I'm getting fucked over enough already,' she mumbled round a mouthful of bacon and bread, 'I don't need you adding to my bloody problems.'

Logan sat quietly in his seat, thinking this was a great way to start a working day: yet another bollocking. 'Sorry,' he said at last.

'Just don't do it again, OK?' DI Steel popped the last of Logan's buttie in her gob and chewed unhappily in silence.

'Right she said when she'd finished. 'On a lighter note: I read your report on last night. Result. Or it would have been if you hadn't lost the tart.' She saw the look on Logan's face.

'I know: you did your best. Keep an eye out for her tonight.

You can take DC Rennie with you; I've shifted him onto nights as well. Keep him out of trouble.' She stood and ferreted about in her pockets for a packet of rumpled cigarettes.

'Oh, and before I forget: I want to interview McKinnon again tomorrow. See what the bleach-blond, spiky-haired, murdering wee shite has to say for himself after a night in Craiginches.'

'I'm supposed to be off tomorrow! Jackie's got plans, I-'

'For God's sake! A woman's been murdered and all you can think about is getting your leg over?' Logan blushed.

'Look,' said the inspector, 'it's not going to take all day to re-interview Jamie McKinnon. You can see your tasty WPC after, OK?' That, on top of his recent bollocking, just made Logan feel even more guilty.

'Yes ma'am.'

'Good boy. And while you're about tonight, go see if they've done a post mortem on that bloody dog yet. And don't spend all night in the arms of some prozzie down the docks. I'm not signing off any expense form with "blowjobs" on it.'

DC Rennie looked so much like a plainclothes policeman it was scary. Even in jeans and a leather jacket something about him just screamed 'LOOK AT ME: I'M A POLICEMAN!'

Not surprisingly they didn't have a lot of luck speaking to the ladies plying their trade around Aberdeen harbour that night. And their punters weren't stopping either, not with DC Conspicuous hanging around. So all Logan and Rennie got for their night's work was several filthy mouthfuls of abuse.

Come half past twelve they'd been around the neighbourhood half a dozen times. There was still no sign of the fourteen-year-old Lithuanian, or her minder. 'Sod this for a game of soldiers.' DC Rennie slumped back against the railing that separated Regent Quay from the docks proper.

'How many times are we going to go round and round in circles, getting shouted and spat at?' He flinched, and slowly looked up into the sky. Thin raindrops were beginning to fall, making little needle streaks in the streetlights. 'Shite, that's all we bloody need.'

Logan had to agree. 'Come on, let's get back to the station.' There wasn't a single tart out tonight he hadn't spoken to yesterday, and he still had an identikit picture to put together and a canine post mortem to chase up. They were getting nowhere here.

She smiles at him as he pulls up in his car. Smiles at him, but stays in the doorway. Keeping dry. Lovely fuckin' day this was turning out to be: first Jason won't eat his Ready Brek, then he's late for school and she's got such a sodding hangover! How's she supposed to deal with Jason's dickhead teacher with a dirty vodka hangover? And then PC Plod and his mate scare off the first nibble she's had all fuckin' night!

Should be out there catching fuckin' crooks, not hassling women trying to make a living!

The window buzzes down and he has to lean across the passenger seat to say hello. She always stands on the passenger side. Some dirty bastard drove up, wound down his window and grabbed her tits once. Didn't ask, didn't pay.

Just grabbed her nipples like a fuckin' vice, and drove off laughing. There's a lot of sick bastards out there. He asks her how much and she gives him the list. Jacking the prices up a bit, 'cos the car looks new and he's obviously not short of cash. He thinks about it as the rain really starts hammering down… Maybe she's hiked the price up too much? Shit.

Not like she doesn't need the fuckin' money; Jason goes through shoes like the things were free. She opens her raincoat a little, letting him see the red lace bra she's almost wearing – two sizes too small and uncomfortable as hell, but it always gets the bastards going – and he smiles. Sort of.

She keeps herself in good shape, and it shows. So what if her complexion's not the best: she makes up for it where it counts.

'You want to get in?' he asks her. And it's her turn to think about it. After all, that old tart got herself beaten to death a couple of nights ago. But it's a nice car, and it's pissing with rain. And she really, really needs the cash…

She jumps in. The car has that lovely new, leathery-plastic smell to it, the upholstery clean, the interior spotless, not like that piece of shit she has to drive. This thing must have cost a fortune. She pulls the seatbelt over her breasts, giving him another flash of red lace, and he smiles. He has a nice smile. For a moment the Julia-Roberts-Pretty-Woman Fantasy flashes through her brain. Just like it does every time she meets a client who's good to her. Doesn't want it too rough, or anything disgusting. He'll look after her and she won't have to fuck strangers for money any more. He tells a joke and she laughs as he puts the car in gear and drives them out into the rainy night. He's really nice, she can tell.

She has a sixth sense about that kind of thing.