Dying Light. Stuart MacBride

of his large, pink face like a DNA-shaped cigar. ‘Sergeant.’ He nodded and went back to his reports. Two minutes later he handed them to a harassed-looking, cadaverous WPC and told her she was doing a great job, no matter what anyone else said. The admin officer didn’t bother to thank him. As she stormed off back to the collating, Insch turned and beckoned Logan over. ‘Bit overdressed for bath time aren’t you?’

      Logan didn’t rise to the bait. ‘I was wondering how you were getting on with your fatal arson attack.’

      Insch frowned, the strip lighting gleaming off his bald, pink head. Suspicious. ‘Why?’

      ‘Got a possible ID for one of your victims: Graham Kennedy. Supposed to have been a minor dealer.’ That made a smile blossom on the inspector’s face.

      ‘Well, well, well. There’s a name I’ve not heard in a while. You—’ Insch picked a PC at random and sent him off to phone round the dental practices in Aberdeen. Insch wanted to know who treated Graham Kennedy: dental records, X-rays the whole lot. It was the only way they were going to identify his charred corpse in the morgue. For once luck was actually on their side; the fourth dental practice the PC tried had done a whole heap of fillings on one Graham Kennedy less than eight months ago.

      They couriered the X-rays straight over to the morgue and ten minutes later Doc Fraser confirmed the identification: Graham Kennedy was now officially dead. The enquiry finally had somewhere to start.

      Insch grabbed PC Steve and told him to go get everything Records had on Graham Kennedy and meet them in the car park, then bellowed for a DS Beattie to get his backside in gear: they were going to break the news to Graham Kennedy’s next of kin. And have a bit of a rummage through his things.

      ‘Er, sir,’ said Logan, following in the inspector’s wake, ‘I kinda hoped I could come with you on the shout?’

      Insch raised an eyebrow and mashed the lift button with a fat finger. ‘Oh aye? And what about DI Steel? You’re supposed to be working for her. “More immediate supervision”, remember?’

      Logan opened and closed his mouth. ‘Come on, sir! I didn’t ask to be transferred! And anyway, it’s my day off. I’ve—’

      ‘You’ve got a day off and you want to go on a shout?’ Insch looked at him suspiciously. ‘You gone mental or something?’

      ‘Please, sir. I need to get out of Steel’s team. It’s driving me mad! Nothing gets done by the book: even if we do get a result, it’s going to be so tainted any defence lawyer worth half a fart will tear it to shreds! If I don’t get some sort of success under my belt, I’m going to be stuck there till they fire me, or I go completely off my head.’

      Insch shook his head, a small smile on his face. ‘I hate to see a grown man beg.’ A puffing, bearded detective sergeant appeared at the end of the corridor, dragging on a huge, multicoloured weatherproof jacket. DI Insch waited until he’d run the length of the corridor and come to a screeching halt in front of them, before telling him he wasn’t needed after all. He’d be taking DS McRae along instead. Swearing quietly, the bearded bloke slouched back the way he’d come.

      The inspector grinned. ‘Just like to see the fat wee bugger run for his money,’ he said happily. Logan knew better than to say anything about pots and kettles.

      As they marched downstairs to the car park, Insch quizzed him on DI Steel’s cases, wanting to know everything about the battered prostitute and the Labrador in the suitcase. And by the time they were through all that, a red-faced PC Steve Jacobs was waiting for them by the back door, clutching a small stack of A4 printouts: Graham Kennedy’s rap sheet. Insch pointed his key fob at a muck-encrusted Range Rover and plipped open the locks. ‘Right,’ he said, striding out into the rain, ‘PC Jacobs, you can do the honours. DS McRae, in the back, and don’t stand on the dog food.’

      The inside of Insch’s car smelled as if something wet and shaggy had set up residence. There was a big metal grille separating the back seat from the boot and a soggy, black nose was pressed against it as soon as Logan clambered into place, trying not to tread on the jumbo-sized bag of Senior Dog Mix in the foot well. Lucy – the inspector’s ancient Springer Spaniel – was pretty, in a manipulative, big-brown-eyed kind of way, but every time it rained she stank like a tramp on a bad day.

      ‘Where to, sir?’ asked PC Steve as they cruised slowly up Queen Street.

      ‘Hmm?’ The inspector was already immersed in Graham Kennedy’s file. ‘Oh, Kettlebray Crescent: let’s get our esteemed colleague’s opinion on the scene of the crime before we go tell Kennedy’s granny her wee boy’s dead… And the car does come with an accelerator, Constable: pedal on the floor, next to the big rectangular one. Try and use it, or we’ll be here till bloody Christmas.’

      Fourteen Kettlebray Crescent was a mess. Vacant windows stared out at the street, surrounded by dark streaks of soot. The roof was gone, collapsed in on itself as the flames raged through the building. Now faint, rainy daylight filtered into the house’s shabby interior. The buildings on either side hadn’t fared too badly; the fire brigade had arrived quickly enough to save them. But not the six people who’d been in number fourteen. Insch grabbed an umbrella from the boot and marched off into the fire-ravaged house, leaving Logan and PC Steve to scurry along behind getting wet. A mobile incident room was abandoned outside the building: a cross between a Portakabin and a caravan, only without the windows. The standard black-and-white checked ribbon ran around the outside, with the SEMPER VIGILO thistle logo in the middle. Like a bow on a grubby, unwanted Christmas present.