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    Dying Light
    Dying Light
    Dying Light
    Ebook458 pages8 hours

    Dying Light

    By Stuart MacBride

    4/5

    ()

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    About this ebook

    The second crime thriller in the No.1 bestselling Logan McRae series from Stuart MacBride.

    Even the darkest crimes will come to light…

    ‘Stuart MacBride is a damned fine writer’ Peter James

    Crime never sleeps.

    Down by the docks, in the dead of night, a woman is hunted down and killed. For DS Logan McRae, it’s just the beginning of another nightmare.

    Neither does this killer.

    As the day dawns and the body count rises, Logan realises that this isn’t just an isolated murder. It’s far more disturbing than that.

    A killer is on the loose and wreaking havoc – and Logan is running out of time to stop them.

    And the clock is ticking …

    Praise for ‘Dying Light’:

    ‘Another brilliant, riveting police procedural. I'm green with envy!’ R D Wingfield

    

    ‘The story is violent and bloody; some of the crimes are vicious and MacBride doesn’t hold back on the details. But there is plenty of dark humour, and a warmth to the portrayal of the police officers which lightens an otherwise grim tale by this very talented writer’ Susanna Yager, Sunday Telegraph

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins UK
    Release dateSep 4, 2008
    ISBN9780007279456
    Author

    Stuart MacBride

    Stuart MacBride is the Sunday Times No. 1 bestselling author of the Logan McRae and Ash Henderson novels. His work has won several prizes and in 2015 he was awarded an honorary doctorate by Dundee University. Stuart lives in the north-east of Scotland with his wife Fiona, cats Grendel, Onion and Beetroot, and other assorted animals.

    Read more from Stuart Mac Bride

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    Reviews for Dying Light

    4/5

    284 ratings26 reviews

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    • 3/5
      Good story.
    • 4/5
      After an operation gone awry, DS McRae is sent to the "Screw-Up Squad" to work a series of arsons and the murder of a prostitute. The storyline is a little messier than its predecessor, mainly because McRae has to navigate office politics as well as investigating the crimes. McRae is his usual "normal" self, though; it's quite rare to have a fictional detective character who doesn't drink too much, who is in a healthy relationship, and who is clever without having extrasensory insights when it comes to crime solving. McRae is quite entertaining as well, even if he's not straight-out funny, and I'm enjoying the series tremendously. I also appreciate that MacBride (like in Cold Granite) apologizes to the Aberdeen Tourist Board for showing the city in such a poor light. :)
    • 4/5
      I enjoyed this novel because of it's different setting, Aberdeen in Scotland, and not too perfect characters. It all come together so well.

      This is the first book by Stuart MacBride I've read but it certainly won't be the last.
    • 4/5
      Good Plotting - excellent holiday read. Glad I do not live in Aberdeen
    • 5/5
      Another winner from Mr. MacBride. No second novel slump here. Just more of the same intricate plotting, wicked dark humor and motley cast of great characters. Please, please keep 'em coming.
    • 4/5
      This book has been sitting on my shelf for quite sometime. I don't know why I strayed away from the series, I really liked the first one. I did though but lately I have been on a Scotland and Ireland mystery binge so I went and grabbed it up. There isn't anything groundbreaking in the story but I didn't care. It checked all the boxes for a fun summer read. Plus, I am a sucker for Scotland mysteries. I will be back to this series much faster than last time.
    • 4/5
      This is the second Logan McRae book I have read I enjoyed both. Maybe as a Scot living abroad it makes me feel a little homesick. Good stories and a likeable policeman. Funnily enough, I didn't really like any of the female characters, not even Logan's girlfriend.
    • 4/5
      funny and grim... DI Steele seems more villainous than the villains, and it is refreshing to read of officers who just want to go home at the end of a shift rather than being brilliant and driven all the time
    • 4/5
      One botched raid, one severely injured uniformed PC and DI Logan MacCrae has gone from Police Hero to a “Screw-Up” squad led by D. I. Roberta Steel. Steel, a somewhat lazy but nonetheless shrewd taskmaster, establishes an unlikely kinship with MacCrae as they investigate the brutal murder of a prostitute. MacCrae and Steel apprehend the likely perpetrator fairly quickly but when the first victim is followed by a second, it appears that a serial killer is at work. At the same time, MacCrae is working off the books with his old squad on an arson that resulted in multiple deaths.

      Dying Light is a solid, twisting police procedural with some short-lived sequences of quite graphic violence. This violence and the pitch perfect gallows humor that the author uses remind us that there is some real substance to the world being written about. The characters are very real. You feel like all of them would be instantly recognizable if you walked into the Aberdeen police station or the local bar.

      What elevates Dying Light above similar books in this genre is the author's willingness to take risks in style, tempo, and characterization. The result is a memorable mystery. This is the second book of what appears to be a very compelling series.
    • 5/5
      There is a lot happening in this 2nd book of the Logan McRae series and Stuart MacBride manages to pull off a dark and gritty tale of crime in Aberdeen Scotland. This book was a page turner up until the last page where a twist awaits the reader and shows us just why MacBride is an award winning author. If you haven't read Stuart MacBride, then I suggest you should pick up his first book in the series, Cold Granite, and enjoy the ride. I am looking forward to the 3rd installment in order to see what Logan and friends are up to.
    • 5/5
      The second MacBride thriller is even better than the first in my opinion. The characters are developed nicely and Logan Macrae is vying with John Rebus as the top Scottish detective. I particularly like the lesbian Detective Inspector Steel, who barks like a Rottweiler but is Macrae's biggest supporter.
    • 5/5
      The imagination that created such varied and pithy descriptions of simple cold.
    • 3/5
      I have read this series it seems since time began. I enjoyed the first book of the series which this is a part of...but as the series progresses some of the characters began to become more than slightly annoying and progressed to nearly unreadable. My trouble with the characters actually started with this one. The story begins with Logan McRae in trouble with his squad commander and going through disciplinary actions. This becomes a common occurrence. He finds himself being sent down to D.I. Steele’s squad, (horrible character by the way) also known throughout Aberdeen law enforcement as the “fuck-up squad.” I had forgotten how much I had always hated the character of D.I. Steele. She has no integrity, the manners of an untrained chimp, talks like a drunken sailor, and smokes like a chimney. She thinks nothing of miss-treating or “using” members of her squad. This is what our super cop, Logan McRae, enters into. D.I. Steele has every intention of using Logan for whatever means is at her disposal to get herself some fame and glory and on to better pastures than the “fuck-up squad.” Logan, on the other hand will do just about whatever it takes to get out of this squad and back into his former squad. The book is filled with flawed characters and bad habits. Then there are the bad guys and the REALLY bad guys. A lot of losers. There is plenty of action going on. You will never figure out what is happening in this story before it ends. I've read it before, and I still couldn't do it. There are fire bombings, prostitutes galore that have seen their better days, unfaithful men by the truck load, drug dealers, murdered girls, and even a dog. The dog is innocent. Well good people...we're not in Mayberry anymore that's for sure.
    • 1/5
      Dying Light
      1 Star (DNF)

      Unfortunately, this is a very poor follow up to a promising debut.

      The build up to the various mysteries proceeds at a snail's pace, and the protagonist, DS Logan McRae, who has such potential in the first book, spends most of hist time complaining about his commanding officer and whining about his girlfriend.

      In addition, there is a nasty undercurrent of misogynism in the way the female characters are portrayed, and there is an excessive amount of profanity. I usually don't mind the occasional swear word, especially in police procedurals, but hardly a sentence is uttered without someone swearing or cursing.

      Finally, the best murder mysteries are ones in which the reader cares about the victims an/or the investigators and/or is interested in the twists and revelations. Sadly, none of these are compelling enough to warrant continuing with the book. I simply could not care less and there are better books waiting on my TBR.
    • 3/5
      Good story - a bit slow at times and a bit gruesome. Ties in nicely at the end.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 4/5
      I liked this, although I found it a bit long and repetitive - the IB unit set up so many tents. Then there was the violence- I skipped an entire chapter at one point. There was a lot going on, although I thought the author kept control over all the different threads well. I still don't get Logan's friendship with Colin and I really don't buy Colin and Isobel as a couple.
    • 4/5
      In Aberdeen, Scotland, one of the police officers working under Det. Sgt. Logan MacRae is critically wounded in a botched raid. MacRae is assigned to the "Screw-up Squad." He had success in past cases but a chief inspector disliked MacRae and would do anything to ruin MacRae's career.

      MacRae is placed in Det. Inspector Steel's unit. She's a cigarette smoking, glory stealing woman who must have some information on the chief inspector because she never gets criticized by him.

      The main case they are working on is to find out who is killing and dismembering prostitutes.

      There is another supervisor who Logan is helping in return for a chance to be reassigned to a better unit. The main case this unit is working on is about arson fires that end up in death.

      The novel succeeds with excellent dialogue and humorous banter that is necessary for police authorities to relieve the horror of what they have to deal with, burned bodies and dismembered bodies.

      I enjoyed reading about MacRae, he's a good protagonist who isn't perfect. He's rambunctious and yet respected by the police officers who work under him. He's a successful investigator and a regular cop who hates the politics that accompany his job.
    • 4/5
      This is the second of what looked like being an excellent series: I loved Cold Granite. Dying Light, however, though it still represents a superior example of the genre, fails to live up to the standard set by its predecessor. This is for various reasons, but especially two: the humour which characterised the first book is either absent, or perhaps just less refreshing; and the narrative is simply too long. The plot concerns at least three separate investigations (naturally coming together by the end), which prove, I think, one too many.

      Also, while I am not so irritated as at least one other reviewer by the portrait here of DS Steel, nevertheless: we get it already! Find another joke.

      Better than most, but not better enough.
    • 5/5
      Protagonist: Detective Sergeant Logan MacRae
      Setting: present-day Aberdeen, Scotland
      Series: #2

      First Line: "The street was dark as they entered the boarded-up building: scruffy wee shites in their tatty jeans and hooded tops."

      If maniacs who wait until houses are filled with people, seal the buildings up tight, set fire to them and hang around to get their jollies is not your cup of tea, pass this book by. It is not for the faint of heart.

      DS MacRae's star has fallen after a botched raid. Now he finds himself demoted to the "Screw-Up Squad" which is led with a droll lack of enthusiasm by Detective Inspector Steel. Steel decides her best ticket out of the SUS is to attach herself to MacRae like a limpet and have him solve the other serial crime in Aberdeen--prostitutes being beaten to death. Steel drove me nuts, but MacRae finally found out how to deal with her. The contrast between the witty descriptions and dialogue and the brutal crimes being committed on the mean streets of Aberdeen can be as jarring as a slap upside the head with a new brick, but I loved every page.
    • 4/5
      This is the second in the series about Scottish Detective Sergeant Logan MacRae, and though I struggled a bit with the first book, I sailed through this one with no problems at all.

      Logan MacRae is a genuinely good, law-abiding cop who at times feels overwhelmed by his job -- as do so many of us out in the real world. He's not tortured in the way American writers portray their "noir" detectives, but simply a man struggling to get done all he feels he should. He screws up plenty, and has the grace to feel guilty when he does. A trait, I might add, that's sorely missing in the characters of many American fictional detectives. They agonize over the state of the world, but MacRae, though deploring the ills human beings inflict on each other, grapples more with the things he can fix -- his relationships with his girlfriend, his bosses, and his friends.

      It is MacBride's ability to portray his antagonists as human that I most enjoy about this series. MacBride shows a spark of humanity in even the most unregenerate of his villains -- which is a refreshing change of pace from most thrillers. And MacBride also shines in drawing his fairly large cast of characters as real individuals, with both distinctive character quirks and that all important glimmer of goodness. Too many authors allow their secondary characters to stay as cardboard cutouts -- stock caricatures from Hollywood Central, as it were. ("Wanted: one nasty-tempered, roaring boss-type".) MacBride deftly avoids this pitfall.

      I enjoyed this book a great deal -- so much so that I'm now on the prowl for the third book in the series.

      Highly recommended.
    • 4/5
      DS McRae has been sent to work with DI Steele of the “fuck-up” squad after a raid gone wrong in which a constable was badly wounded. Everyone is looking at him askance. Jackie, his WPC squeeze is mad at him for not standing up to Steele who never seems to recognize his time off.

      Steele, who never goes by the book and thinks nothing of destroying evidence if it doesn’t seem to match her prior conception of guilt or innocence.

      Written with a sardonic and often sarcastic wit, this series has become a favorite and I have bought them all. Not to be read by the squeamish.

      On to the next one.
    • 4/5
      The seond in the Logan McRae series and another excellent read: some might argue that the combination of circumstances is unrealistic but it makes for a very satisfying read when all the loose ends come together. MacBride's villains are always really nasty pieces of work, psycho sickies, my favourite kind, and Dying Light is no exception as someone goes around abducting and raping prostitutes, then battering them to death.
      After a bad tip from his journalist friend Colin Miller [boyfriend of McRae's ex the lovely Dr Isobel McAlister] Logan is no longer the Grampians golden boy and has been relegated to Inspector Steel's 'Stuff Up Squad' . Steel is a vulgar and predatory chain-smoking lesbian who grabs every ounce of glory for herself in an attempt to better her status but is actually slightly less black than she's painted. Only slightly.
      Steel is working on the prostitute case but Logan is also helping out the sweet-munching Inspector Insch with a particularly nasty arson case. He has moved in with Constable Jackie 'Ballbreaker' Watson and is trying to make their relationship work - a tall order in view of the hours Steel is demanding of him.
      In addition he is curious about gangsters about whom Miller is, uncharacteristically, writing puff pieces but when he persuades the journalist to tell him more, the consequences are disasterous as the thugs torture Colin and cut off several of his fingers.
      Despite all the cruelty there are many laugh-out loud moments, especially those regarding the two inspectors, Insch and Steel, both of whom are ruthless in their pursuit of justice despite their often ridiculous behaviour. All in all another grand and gripping book from MacBride but be warned, he is not for the lily-livered or sensitive reader...
    • 5/5
      Hilarious yet simultaneously gruesome! This is the second outing for the embattled Detective Sergeant McRae, one of the stalwarts of Aberdeen C.I.D., who finds himself struggling to investigate what appears to be the work of a serial killer selecting his victims from Aberdeen's prostitute community. Meanwhile one of Edinburgh's hardmen is seeking to establish himself as the leader of the burgeoning drugs underworld in the city, and is not reluctant to resort to extreme violence to bolster his claims.
      Following a disastrous error-ridden previous operation McRae finds himself assigned to D.I. Steel, a foul-mouthed lesbian with a grotesque sense of humour (probably destined for "national treasure" status!), from whose generally unconventional patronage he is desperate to escape.
      Though this novel is often hilarious, MacBride never compromises the integrity or plausibility of his plot, and the book was thoroughly gripping throughout.
    • 4/5
      Not quite as good as the first one. Pretty much more of the same though. It's always grim in Aberdeen even during what the locals laughably call summer. This time there's a mix of beaten dead prostitutes, house fires and a few otehr bits and pieces. DC McRae our hero, isn't feeling particularly heroic because an undescribed raid went wrong, ntohign was found, but one of the officers was shot, and hasn't yet recovered. McRae recieved the tip-off from his old mate Colin the jurno (who's still with McRae's ex), and so isn't feeling that well disposed towards the press either. Fortunately it looks like his current girlfriend still likes him, even though she's got a broken arm.

      Lots of to-nig and fro-ing plus the internal politics made it a bit hard to follow at times. The grimness was unrelieved by the police banter and grim humour that had enlightened the previous book. Even the appearance of a new deputy didn't make matters much better. The over exagerated DIs continued in their previous vein unfortunetly which didn't add to the believability. However I did like that even set a few months later on there was still continuity with ideas from the previous book, and Mcrae does now have an arch-villain to persue through the series. Whether or not his personal life will keep up, is something that I'm not that bothered by - MacBride doesn't quite manage to make me care.

      Readable, but not brilliant. If this had been the first I'd not have botherered looking for the sequel, but as it is I'll give the third a try.
    • 4/5
      Second book in the Logan McRae series, Logan is as usual in trouble. He’d lead a botched raid into a warehouse and a PC has been shot. But that is the least of his worries as he’s assigned to the F*&^& up squad as they find prostitutes who have been beaten then killed.  Oh, and there appears to be a drug war going on in Aberdeen.

      Gritty, gruesome at times, but with the gallows humor I’ve come to love in his characters, MacBride takes us on a wild ride through the gritty parts of his city.
    • 4/5
      DS Logan McRae has been put in 'the screw up squad' for messing up a raid and getting a constable shot. To get out he must help solve multiple murders, one a string of beaten to death prostitutes and the other house fires where families are trapped inside. All throughout Logan tries to keep his new girlfriend happy while also trying to please his bosses.

      A good exciting read, I will continue with the series.

    Book preview

    Dying Light - Stuart MacBride

    1

    The street was dark as they entered the boarded-up building: scruffy wee shites in their tatty jeans and hooded tops. Three men and two women, nearly identical with their long hair, pierced ears, pierced noses and pierced God knew what else. Everything about them screamed ‘Kill Me!’

    He smiled. They would be screaming soon enough.

    The squat was halfway down a terrace of abandoned two-storey buildings – dirty granite walls barely lit by the dull streetlights, windows covered with thick plywood. Except for one on the upper floor, where a thin, sick-looking light oozed out through the dirty glass, accompanied by thumping dance music. The rest of the street was deserted, abandoned, condemned like its inhabitants, not a soul to be seen. No one about to watch him work.

    Half past eleven and the music got even louder; a pounding rhythm that would easily cover any noise he made. He worked his way around the doorframe, twisting the screwdriver in time with the beat, then stepped back to admire his handiwork – three-inch galvanized wood-screws all the way round the door, holding it solid against the frame, making sure it stayed irrevocably shut. A grin split his face. This would be good. This would be the best one yet.

    He slipped the screwdriver back into his pocket, pausing for a moment to stroke the cold, hard shaft. He was hard too, the front of his trousers bulging with barely concealed joy. He always loved this bit, just before the fire started, when everything was in place, when there was no way for them to escape. When death was on its way.

    Quietly he pulled three glass bottles and a green plastic petrol can from the holdall at his feet. He spent a happy minute unscrewing the bottles’ caps, filling them with petrol and popping the torn rag fuses in place. Then it was back to the screwed-shut front door. Lever open the letter box. Empty the petrol can through the slot, listening to the liquid splash on the bare, wooden floorboards, just audible through the pounding music. A trickle seeped out under the door, dribbling down the front step to form a little pool of hydrocarbons. Perfection.

    He closed his eyes, said a little prayer, and dropped a lit match into the puddle at his feet. Whooooomp. Blue flame fringed with yellow raced under the door, into the house. Pause, two, three, four: just long enough for the blaze to get going. Throw a half brick in through the upstairs window, shattering the glass, letting the throbbing music out. Startled swearing from inside. And then the first petrol bomb went in. It hit the floor and exploded, showering the room with burning fuel. The swearing became screaming. He grinned and hurled the remaining bottles into the blaze.

    Then it was back to the other side of the road, to lurk in the shadows and watch them burn. Biting his lip, he pulled his erection free. If he was quick he could come and go before anyone arrived.

    He needn’t have hurried. It was fifteen minutes before anyone raised the alarm and another twelve before the fire brigade turned up.

    By then everyone was dead.

    2

    Rosie Williams died the way she’d lived: ugly. Lying on her back in the cobbled alley, staring up at the orange-grey night sky, the drizzle making her skin sparkle, gently washing the dark red blood from her face. Naked as the day she was born.

    PC Jacobs and WPC Buchan were first on the scene. Jacobs nervously shifting from foot to foot on the slick cobbled road, Buchan just swearing. ‘Bastard.’ She stared down at the pale, broken body. ‘So much for a quiet shift!’ Dead bodies meant paperwork. A small smile crept onto her face. Dead bodies also meant overtime and Christ knew she could do with some of that.

    ‘I’ll call for backup?’ PC Steve Jacobs fumbled for his radio and called Control, letting them know the anonymous tip-off was for real.

    ‘Hud oan a mintie,’ said Control in broad Aberdonian. There was a pause filled with static and then, ‘You’re goin’ ta have ta hold the fort oan yer own for a bit. Everyone’s off at this bloody fire. I’ll get ye a DI soon as one ’comes available.’

    ‘What?’ Buchan grabbed the radio off Jacobs, even though it was still attached to his shoulder, dragging him off balance. ‘What do you mean, as soon as one becomes a-bloody-vailable? This is murder! Not some sodding fire! How the hell does a fire take precedence over—’

    The voice of Control cut her off. ‘Listen up,’ it said, ‘I dinna care what problems you’ve got at home: you bloody well leave them there. You’ll do as you’re damn well told and secure the crime scene till I can get a DI to you. And if it takes all bloody night that’s how long you wait: understood?’

    Buchan went furious scarlet, before spitting out the words, ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

    ‘Right.’ And the radio went dead.

    Buchan started swearing again. How the hell were they supposed to protect a crime scene with no IB team? It was raining for God’s sake; all the forensic evidence would be getting washed away! And where the hell were CID? This was supposed to be a murder enquiry – they didn’t even have an SIO!

    She grabbed PC Jacobs. ‘You want a job?’

    He frowned, suspicious. ‘What kind of job?’

    ‘We need a Senior Investigating Officer. Your mate lives around here doesn’t he? Mr Police Bloody Hero?’

    Jacobs admitted that yes, he did.

    ‘Right, go wake the bastard up. Let him deal with it.’

    WPC Watson had the nastiest collection of bras and pants that Logan had ever seen. All of her underwear looked like it had been designed by World War One zeppelin manufacturers on an off day – uniform baggy-grey. Not that he got to see a lot of Jackie’s underwear these days, but for a brief spell their shifts were in synch. Logan smiled sleepily and rolled over, the light from the hallway spilling through the open door, illuminating the rumpled bed.

    He squinted at the alarm clock: almost two. Still another five hours before he had to report for work and yet another bollocking. Five whole hours.

    Click, the light in the hall died. A soft silhouette filled the doorway, having a bit of a scratch as it scuffed its way back into bed. WPC Jackie Watson wrapped her unbroken arm around Logan’s chest and settled her head against his shoulder, unfortunately sticking the curly ends of her hair up his nose and into his mouth. Discreetly spitting them out, he kissed the top of her head, feeling the cool length of her body pressed against him. She ran a finger over the inch-long trails of scar tissue that crisscrossed his torso and Logan thought: maybe five hours wasn’t so long after all…

    Things were just getting interesting when the doorbell went.

    ‘Damn it,’ mumbled Logan.

    ‘Ignore it, probably just drunks.’ The doorbell rang again, more insistent this time. As if the sod on the other end was trying to drill his way into the building with his thumb.

    ‘Bugger off!’ Logan shouted into the darkness, causing Jackie to dissolve into a fit of the giggles, but it didn’t deter the phantom ringer. Then Logan’s mobile phone joined in the noisy pre-dawn chorus. ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ He rolled off, provoking a groan of displeasure, and grabbed the phone from his bedside cabinet. ‘WHAT?’

    ‘Hello, sir? DS McRae?’ PC Steve Jacobs: the Fabled Naked Swordsman of Old Aberdeen.

    Logan let his head slump, face first, into the pillow, still holding the phone to his ear. ‘What can I do for you, Constable?’ he asked, thinking that this had better be damned important if it was going to distract him from a naked WPC Watson.

    ‘Er … sir … We’ve kinda got a body … an—’

    ‘I’m not on duty.’

    WPC Watson made a noise that said, yes he bloody well was, but not one that concerned Grampian Police.

    ‘Aye, but everyone else is off at some fire and we’ve no SIO, or IB or anything!’

    Logan swore into the pillow. ‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘Where are you?’

    The doorbell went again.

    ‘Er … that was me…’

    Sodding hell.

    Logan grunted his way out of bed and into some clothes, before lurching out of his flat, down the stairs and out the main door, looking rumpled and unshaven. PC Steve, infamous for his striptease rendition of Queen’s A Kind of Magic, was standing on the top step.

    ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, looking sheepish. ‘Across the road: naked woman. Looks like she’s been battered to death…’ And any thoughts Logan had of having fun in the wee small hours disappeared.

    At quarter past two on a Tuesday morning the harbour was pretty much deserted. The grey granite buildings looked unnatural and jaundiced in the streetlights, their edges blurred by the drizzle. A huge supply vessel, painted luminous orange, was tied up at the bottom of Marischal Street, its lights bright haloes as Logan and PC Jacobs made their way round the corner to Shore Lane. It was a narrow one-way street at the heart of Aberdeen’s red light district: one side a five-storey wall of dirty granite and darkened windows, the other a collection of random-sized buildings. Even at this time of night, the smell was something special. Three days of torrential rain followed by a week of blazing sunshine had left the sewers full of drowned rats, rotting fragrantly. There were sodium lights bolted to the buildings, but most of them were buggered, leaving small islands of yellowed light in a sea of darkness. The cobbles were slick beneath their feet as PC Steve led Logan to a dark pool halfway down, where a WPC crouched over something white sprawled across the lane. The body.

    The WPC stood at the sound of their approach, shining her torch full in their faces. ‘Oh,’ she said, without enthusiasm. ‘It’s you.’ Stepping back, she played her spotlight over the naked corpse.

    It was a woman, her face battered and broken, one eye swollen nearly closed, the nose mashed flat, broken cheekbone, broken jaw, missing teeth. She wore a necklace of dark red bruises and nothing else.

    She was no spring chicken: the thick white flesh of her thighs rippled with cottage-cheese cellulite; stretch marks making sand dune ripples across her stomach; and in between, short rough stubble: long overdue for another homemade Brazilian wax. A rose and a bleeding dagger were emblazoned on the milk-bottle skin just above her left breast, the tattooed blood refusing to wash away in the rain.

    ‘Jesus, Rosie,’ said Logan, dropping to one knee on the cold, wet cobbled street so he could get a better look at her. ‘Who the hell did this to you?’

    ‘You know her?’ This from the unfriendly-looking WPC. ‘You one of her regulars?’

    Logan ignored her. ‘Rosie Williams. Been working the streets down here for as long as I can remember. God knows how many times she’s been done for soliciting.’ He reached forward and felt for a pulse on her neck.

    ‘Believe it or not, we already did that,’ said the WPC. ‘Dead as a doornail.’

    The drizzling rain muffled the sound of drunken voices singing and shouting somewhere back along the docks. Logan stood, looking up and down the alley. ‘IB? PF? Duty doctor?’

    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 pockets. ‘I want one team going door-to-door two streets either side of the scene: anything you can get on the squatters, particularly names. I want to know who they were. Team two is going to pick through the surrounding buildings, gardens and waste ground. You,’ he said in a merry sing-song, children’s-television voice, ‘are looking for clues. Who was the chef at last night’s indoor barbecue? Get me something.’

    As the teams filed out of the room, Logan stayed put, trying not to look as tired and hacked-off as he felt.

    ‘Well,’ said Insch when the room was emptied, ‘what time you off to see Dracula?’

    Logan sagged even further into his chair. ‘Half eleven.’

    Insch swore and shifted his attention to his jacket pockets. ‘What kind of a bloody time is that? Why couldn’t he drag you in at seven if he was going to chew a strip out your arse? Waste of a bloody morning…’ A grunt of satisfaction as he finally found what he was looking for: a packet of fizzy dinosaurs. He stuffed one in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘He tell you to bring a Federation rep with you?’

    Logan shook his head.

    ‘Well, probably not going to sack you then.’ He levered his bulk down from the desk. ‘If you’ve not got the Spanish Inquisition till half eleven, you can go pay your last respects to Rosie Williams. Post mortem’s at eight. I’ve got to do a press conference on this bloody fire. With bastard McPherson off on the sick, again, I’ve got more than enough on my plate without watching the Ice Queen hack up some murdered tart as well. I’m sure you can hold the fort without me. Go on.’ He made little shooing gestures. ‘You’re making the place look untidy.’

    Rosie was already washed by the time Logan slumped his way out across the rear car park and down the stairs to the morgue. It was a collection of odd-sized rooms, buried away in the basement of FHQ, not quite part of the building proper. The cutting room was spacious: clean white tiles and stainless steel tables sparkling in the overhead lighting, disinfectant and room freshener fighting a losing battle against the reek of burnt meat. A row of six trolleys sat against the far wall, their occupants sealed in white plastic body-bags. Locking in the freshness.

    Logan was only five minutes early, but he was still the only living person there. He let loose a huge yawn and tried to stretch the knots out of his shoulders. No sleep, followed by six hours in a cold, stinking alleyway was beginning to take its toll. Grunting, he slouched over to Rosie’s naked body. She lay on one of the glittering cutting tables, beneath the massive extractor hood, ready to give her all one last time. Rosie’s skin was even paler than it had been in the alley. Her blood had succumbed to gravity’s embrace, slipping slowly through the tissue to pool along her back and the underside of her arms and legs, making her porcelain flesh dark purple and bruised where it touched the table. Poor old Rosie. Her death hadn’t even merited front-page treatment, just a sidebar in this morning’s Press and Journal. ‘SIX MURDERED IN ARSON ATTACK!’ was the main story.

    There was a strange protrusion bumping the skin over her ribcage and Logan was leaning in for a closer look when the door burst open and the pathologist swept in.

    ‘If you’re about to get romantic,’ said the newcomer with a grin, ‘I can come back later.’ Dr Dave Fraser, overweight, going on fifty-five, bald head, hairy ears. ‘I know you have a thing for the colder lady.’ He grinned and Logan couldn’t help smiling back. ‘Speaking of which: you will be disappointed to hear that Her Imperial Majesty the Ice Queen will not be joining us for this little funfest. Doctor’s appointment; not feeling well after last night.’ Logan breathed a sigh of relief. He was in no rush to see Isobel again after her foul mood at the crime scene this morning. Doc Fraser pointed at the six trolleys in the corner. ‘You can take a peek if you like, while I get set up.’

    Against his better judgement, Logan walked across to the collection of trolleys in the corner. Up close the smell was worse: burnt meat and rendered fat. One of the body-bags had been carefully folded up in quarters, the resulting package held in place with silver tape, making it small enough to take a nine-month-old child. Taking a deep breath, Logan picked one of the other bags, standing motionless in the antiseptic room for a moment, wondering if this was really such a good idea, before pulling the zip down. There wasn’t much of a face left: nose and eyes gone, the teeth yellow-brown shards poking through scorched-black flesh. The mouth open in a final, silent scream. Logan took one look, gagged, and zipped it back up again. He shuddered his way back to the cutting table.

    ‘Good, isn’t it?’ asked Dr Fraser, smiling at him from behind his surgical mask. ‘Tell you, I did one when they brought them in: all crispy on the outside and raw in the middle. Like every time my wife tries to barbecue.’

    Logan closed his eyes and tried not to think about it. ‘Shouldn’t they be in the fridges, instead of lying out there?’

    Dr Fraser nodded. ‘Yup, but the winch is buggered, and I’m not doing it: bad back. Brian can shift them when he gets here.’

    The aforementioned Brian – the mortuary’s senior Anatomical Pathology Technician – arrived bang on eight o’clock, along with the Procurator Fiscal, her assistant, a police photographer, and the corroborating pathologist: there to make sure Dr Fraser didn’t screw up the post mortem and cost them a conviction. He was a cadaverous man with eyes like an unwell fish and a handshake to match. The PF’s sidekick was the same one who’d attended the crime scene in the wee small hours, a brand-new substantive depute, two years out of law school and moving up the career ladder. She was dressed in full surgical get-up, complete with mask and hat, her eyes shining with a mixture of fear and excitement. Logan got the distinct impression this was her first time at a real post mortem.

    ‘Everybody ready?’ asked Dr Fraser when they’d all clambered into the ubiquitous SOC over suits so as not to contaminate the body.

    ‘Er … before we begin,’ said the new girl, looking at her boss for permission before continuing. ‘I’d like to know where the victim’s clothes are: have they been examined?’

    Logan shook his head. ‘She was naked at the scene. No sign of any clothing. I had two uniforms search the alley and the surrounding ones as well.’

    She frowned. ‘So whoever killed her took her clothes,’ she said, not noticing as Logan and Dr Fraser exchanged a pained look. ‘Has she been raped? Is there any sign of recent sexual congress?’

    Dr Fraser screwed up his face and Logan could tell he was looking for a polite way to tell her to shut up and sod off. ‘We’ve not got that far yet, but as she was on the game I’d be pretty shocked if we didn’t find evidence of recent shagging.’ He told Brian to start the tape. ‘Now, if you’re sitting comfortably, we’ll begin.’

    Logan tried not to watch too closely as Fraser finished the external examination and went in with the knife – seeing someone’s innards getting hauled out in four big chunks and rummaged through always made his stomach churn. From the looks of things the deputy PF’s breakfast was doing the post mortem dance too. Her eyes had gone a watery pink and all the colour had drained from the small part of her face on show between the hat and the mask. Nice to see it wasn’t just him.

    When at last it was all over, and Rosie’s brain was floating in a bucket of formalin, Dr Fraser ordered Brian to stop the tape and go put the kettle on. It was time for tea and edited highlights.

    They stood in the small office, waiting for the kettle to boil, listening to Dr Fraser translate the medical-speak into English. Rosie Williams had been beaten to death: stripped, punched, kicked, stomped on and strangled. Not necessarily in that order. ‘But,’ he said, ‘she didn’t die from manual asphyxiation. Left lung was punctured; the rib severed the vein on the way in so she basically drowned in her own blood. But it would only have been a matter of time before her other injuries killed her anyway. Oh and she was pregnant too. About eight weeks.’

    The PF’s beeper went off, eliciting a small round of genteel swearing as she pulled out her mobile phone, couldn’t get a signal, and had to go outside. As soon as her boss was gone, the new deputy PF tried to take charge. ‘We should get a DNA analysis done on the foetus: we may have to prove a link between the death and the child’s father.’ Now that there wasn’t a butchery exhibition going on under her nose she was a lot more confident. She’d stripped off her surgical gear to reveal a severe black suit with sensible boots. Her long hair was the colour of stale beer, frizzy at the ends, her face pretty in a long-nosed, girl-next-door kind of way, a smattering of freckles marking the recent sunshine. ‘What about the sexual assault angle?’

    Fraser shook his head. ‘Plenty of recent sexual activity – all three entrances – but nothing forced. Signs of lubricant in all orifices, probably spermicidal condoms, but we won’t know for sure until we get the lab results back. No semen.’

    ‘Right, Sergeant,’ she said, turning to Logan, ‘I want you to search the alley for any discarded contraceptives. If we can…’ she caught sight of Logan’s expression and stopped. ‘What?’

    ‘Shore Lane is one big open-air knocking shop. There’ll be hundreds of used condoms down there, and we’ve no way of telling how long they’ve been there for, who was wearing them, or who they’ve been inside.’

    ‘But the DNA—’

    ‘For DNA to count, first you’d have to prove it’d been inside her, then that it was worn by the killer and not just one of her regulars. Not to mention the whole was it used at the time of her death thing. And we don’t even know if her attacker had sex with her first.’ Something horrible occurred to Logan. ‘Or after?’ He cast a worried glance at Dr Fraser, but the man shook his head.

    ‘No fear of that,’ he said. There had been a nasty case a year ago when little boys were being abducted, strangled and then abused and mutilated. At least this wasn’t going to be one of those.

    ‘I see.’ She furrowed her neatly trimmed eyebrows. ‘I suppose there would also be considerable expense involved in getting DNA extracted from all those contraceptives.’

    ‘Considerable!’ said Logan and Dr Fraser at the same time.

    ‘I want them collected anyway,’ she said. ‘We can store them in deep freeze in case a suspect emerges.’

    Logan couldn’t see the point, but what did he know? He was just a lowly detective sergeant. Just as long as he didn’t have to be the one telling the search teams to rummage about looking for old condoms, preferably filled. ‘Will do,’ he said.

    ‘OK.’ She reached into her immaculate suit and pulled out a slim black wallet, handing each of them a freshly minted business card. ‘If anything comes up, day or night, let me know.’ And then she was gone.

    ‘Well?’ asked Dr Fraser when the morgue door had swung shut. ‘What do you think?’

    Logan looked down at the card in his hand: ‘RACHAEL TULLOCH LL.B, PROCURATOR FISCAL SUBSTANTIVE DEPUTE’. He sighed and stuck it in his top pocket. ‘I think I’ve got enough to worry about.’

    Twenty-five minutes past eleven and Logan was getting twitchy. He’d arrived at the offices of Professional Standards early, not wanting to make a bad impression, even though he knew it was way too late for that. Inspector Napier didn’t like Logan. Had never liked him. Was just itching for a chance to throw him out on his scarred backside. It was twenty to twelve before Logan was finally summoned through to the inspector’s lair.

    Napier was an unhappy-looking man by nature and had managed to select a career in which his miserable face, thinning ginger hair and hooked nose were a distinct advantage.

    The inspector didn’t stand as Logan entered, just pointed a fountain pen at an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair on the opposite side of the desk, and went back to scribbling down something in a diary. There was a second, uniformed inspector sitting on the other side of the room with his back to the wall, arms crossed, face closed. He didn’t introduce himself as Logan looked nervously about Napier’s office. The room echoed the man, everything in its place. Nothing here was without function, nothing frivolous like a photograph of his loved ones. Presuming he had any. Finishing his entry with a grim flourish, Napier looked up and flashed Logan the smallest and most insincere smile in the history of mankind.

    ‘Sergeant,’ he said, smoothing out a razor-sharp crease in his tailored black uniform, the buttons winking and shining away in the fluorescent lighting like tiny hypnotists’ pocket watches. ‘I want you to tell me all about PC Maitland and why he is now lying in Intensive Care.’ The inspector settled back in his chair. ‘In your own time, Sergeant.’

    Logan went through the botched operation, while the silent man in the corner took notes. The anonymous tip-off: someone selling stolen electrical goods from an abandoned warehouse in Dyce. Getting the officers together, fewer than he’d wanted, but all that were available. Piling out to the warehouse in the dead of night when there was supposed to be some big delivery happening. Getting everyone into position. Watching as a grubby blue Transit Van appeared and backed up to the warehouse door. How he’d given the go to storm the building. And then how it had all started to go wrong. How PC Maitland had been shot in the shoulder and fallen from a walkway, twenty feet straight down to the concrete floor below. How someone had set off a smoke grenade and all the bad guys escaped. How, when the smoke cleared, there wasn’t a single piece of stolen property in the whole place. How they’d rushed Maitland to A&E, but the doctors didn’t expect him to live.

    ‘I see,’ said Napier when Logan had finished. ‘And the reason you decided to use an unarmed search team rather than trained firearms officers?’

    Logan looked down at his hands. ‘Didn’t think it was necessary. Our information didn’t say anything about weapons. And it was stolen property, small stuff, nothing special. We did a full risk analysis at the briefing…’

    ‘And are you taking full responsibility for the entire…’ he hunted around for the right word, settling on: ‘fiasco?’

    Logan nodded. There wasn’t anything else he could do.

    ‘Then there’s the negative publicity,’ said Napier. ‘An incident like this gathers media interest, much in the same way as a mouldering corpse gathers flies…’ He produced a copy of the previous day’s Evening Express. The headline was something innocuous about house prices in Oldmeldrum, but the inspector flicked past that to the centre-page spread and handed it across the desk. TO MY MIND … was a regular column, where the paper got local bigwigs, minor celebrities, ex-police chief inspectors and politicians to bang their gums about something topical. Today it was Councillor Marshall’s turn, the column topped with the usual photograph of the man, his rubbery features stretched wide by an oily smile – like a self-satisfied slug.

    Police incompetence is on the rise: you only have to look at last week’s botched raid for yet more evidence! No arrests and one officer left at death’s door. While our brave boys in blue patrolling the streets are doing a sterling job under difficult circumstances, it has become clear that their superiors are unable to manage the proverbial drinks party in a brewery…

    It went on for most of the page, using Logan’s screwed-up warehouse raid as a metaphor for everything that was wrong with the police today. He pushed the paper back across the desk, feeling slightly sick.

    Napier pulled a thick file marked ‘DS L. MCRAE’ from his in-tray and added Councillor Marshall’s article to the pile of newspaper cuttings. ‘You have been remarkably lucky not to have been pilloried in the press for your involvement in this, Sergeant, but then I suppose that’s what happens when you have friends in low places.’ He placed the file neatly back in the tray. ‘I wonder if the local media will still love you when PC Maitland dies…’ Napier looked Logan straight in the eye. ‘Well, I will make

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