Dying Light. Stuart MacBride

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 my recommendations to the Chief Constable. You will no doubt hear in due course what action is to be taken. In the meantime, I’d like you to consider my door always open, should you wish to discuss matters further.’ All the sincerity of a divorce lawyer.

      Logan said, ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

      This was it: they were going to fire him.

      4

      Lunchtime, and Logan was still waiting for the axe to fall. He sat at a table in the corner of the canteen, pushing a congealing lump of lasagne around his plate. There was a clatter of dishes and Logan looked up to see WPC Jackie ‘Ball Breaker’ Watson smiling at him. Bowl of Scotch broth followed by haddock and chips. The plaster cast on her left arm made unloading the tray kind of tricky, but she managed without asking for help. Her curly brown hair was trapped in its regulation bun, just the faintest scraps of make-up on her face, every inch the professional police officer. Not at all like the woman he’d gone to bed with last night, who dissolved into fits of giggles when he blew raspberries on her stomach.

      She looked down at the mush on his plate. ‘No chips?’

      Logan shook his head. ‘No.’ He sighed. ‘Diet, remember?’

      Jackie raised an eyebrow. ‘So chips are out, but lasagne’s OK is it?’ She dug a spoon into her soup and started to eat. ‘How was the Crypt Keeper?’

      ‘Oh you know, same as usual: I’m a disgrace to the uniform, bringing the force into disrepute…’ He tried for a smile, but couldn’t quite make it. ‘Beginning to think Maitland might just be one cock-up too many. Anyway,’ change the subject: ‘how about you? How’s the arm?’

      Jackie shrugged and held it up, the cast covered in biro signatures. ‘Itches like a bastard.’ She reached over and took his hand, her pale fingertips protruding from the end of the plaster like a hermit crab’s legs. ‘You can have some of my chips if you like.’ That produced a small smile from Logan and he helped himself to one, but his heart wasn’t in it.

      Jackie made a start on the haddock. ‘Don’t know why I bothered talking the bloody FMO into letting me come back on light duties: all they’ll let me do is file stuff.’ Dr McCafferty, the Force Medical Officer, was a dirty old man with a permanent sniff and a thing for women in uniform. There was no way he could refuse Jackie when she turned on the charm. ‘Tell you: no bugger here has the faintest clue about alphabetization. The amount of things I’ve found under “T” when it should be…’

      But Logan wasn’t listening. He was watching DI Insch and Inspector Napier enter the canteen. Neither of them looked particularly happy. Insch hooked a finger in the air and made ‘come hither’ motions. Jackie gave Logan’s hand one last squeeze. ‘Screw them,’ she said. ‘It’s just a job.’

      Just a job.

      They went to the nearest empty office, where Insch closed the door, sat on the edge of a desk, and pulled out a packet of Liquorice Allsorts. He helped himself and offered the packet to Logan, excluding Napier.

      The