Dying Light by Stuart MacBride Page A

toothpaste commercial. Five minutes later the man handed over a large brown A4 envelope and Miller smiled ingratiatingly, but handled it like it was a dirty nappy. The conversation seemed to be winding to a close, so Logan got up from his seat and wandered over to the specials board, placing himself between their table and the exit, ‘accidentally’ bumping into the man as he finished shaking Miller’s hand and made to leave. The reporter’s eyes went wide with alarm as he watched Logan apologize profusely, call the facilitator ‘mate’ half a dozen times and offer to buy him a drink. The response was a curt: ‘Fuck off.’ Not shouted. Not emphasized, just quiet, cold and very, very clear. Logan backed away, hands up. Those two words were enough to tell him the guy wasn’t from around here. An Edinburgh lad, up on a jolly. The man straightened out his suit, scowled in Logan’s direction and left.
    Miller stood on tiptoes, watching the grey-suited figure hurry across the road in the rain and jump into the passenger seat of a massive silverMercedes. Logan didn’t get a good look at the driver – moustache, shoulder-length black hair, suit – before the door slammed shut and the car pulled away. As soon as it disappeared from view Miller ran a hand over his forehead and demanded to know what the fuckin’ hell Logan thought he was playing at? ‘Did I no’ tell you the man would break your fuckin’ legs? Are you lookin’ to get me disfingered?’
    Logan smiled. ‘You mean disfigured—’
    ‘I know what I bloody well mean!’ Miller pulled up a barstool and ordered a large Macallan whisky, throwing it back in one.
    ‘So,’ said Logan, ‘you going to tell me what that was all about?’
    ‘Am I fuck. You want to piss in someone’s soup? Piss in your own. Mine tastes bad enough as it is.’
    Logan watched the reporter storm off, Cuban heels stomping up the stairs two at a time, before turning back to the bar to finish his pint and pay for his half-eaten breakfast.
    Quarter past eleven and he was loitering without intent in front of Force Headquarters. He’d tried to speak to DI Insch about Graham Kennedy, but the inspector wasn’t in – according to the admin officer he was off buying a big box of Sherbert Dib-Dabs from the cash and carry in Altens. Would Logan like to leave a message? No, he bloody would not. If there was any credit to be had for identifying Graham Kennedy, Logan wanted it. Inperson. So he slouched about in front instead, waiting for DI Steel. The daylight was pre-autumn amber, turning the grey granite to glittering gold. Up above the clouds were a rolling mass of dark purple and white. The air smelled of rain.
    Sure enough, the first light drops started as DI Steel’s car purred into the main car park. Cursing and swearing, she struggled with the soft-top, shouting at Logan to get his finger out and help. They got the roof up just before the heavens opened. Logan sat in the passenger seat, looking around. ‘Very swish,’ he said, as the inspector revved the engine and pulled out onto Queen Street.
    ‘Best mid-life crisis I ever had, buying this thing: it’s a bloody babe-magnet…’ She flicked on the windscreen wipers, squinting at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘You been on the piss?’
    Logan shrugged. ‘Keeping an eye on a friend in the pub. Shifty wee bugger’s up to something.’
    ‘Oh aye? Anyone I know?’
    He paused for a long moment, before simply saying, ‘No.’ They cruised up Union Street in silence, the growl of the engine and the drumming of rain on the car’s soft roof the only noise. Steel was obviously desperate for Logan to tell her more, but he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. After all, it was her fault Jackie had stormed out this morning.
    The rain sparked off the windscreen, catching the golden sunlight as the traffic crawled pastpavements packed with pedestrians. A few were hurrying along under umbrellas, but most of them just marched