Free Dying Light by Stuart MacBride Page A

dawnedon him: he told Miller about his pre-murder theory. ‘Bastard, we’ve gone to sodding press with it as a fuckin’ sidebar .’
    ‘So come on then – spill the beans on the fire.’
    ‘ The name “Graham Kennedy” mean anythin’ to you? Does a bit of dealin’ on the side in Bridge of Don, blow mostly, but harder stuff when he gets his hands on it? ’ Logan had never heard of him. ‘ He’s one of yer crispy- baked squatters .’ Perfect: rumour had it DI Insch still hadn’t identified the bodies. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Logan thanked him and hung up. Today was turning out to be not so bad after all.
    By the time he’d worked his way back to Shore Lane it was getting on for half eleven. There’d been no improvement in the streetlight situation since the night before last: the darkness barely punctuated with pools of wan yellow light. At the far end, where the cars would turn off the dual carriageway, a single figure plied her trade. Hands in his pockets, Logan stepped into the alleyway and the heady aroma of decomposing rat; thankfully it wasn’t nearly as bad as rotting Labrador. The girl touting for business outside the Shore Porters’ warehouse couldn’t have been much more than sixteen. If that. She was dressed in a short black skirt, low-cut top, fishnets and black patent-leather high heels. Very classy. Her hair was up in a 1980s-style rock-star perm, her face layered with enough make-up to coat the Forth Bridge. She turned at the sound of Logan’s footsteps, watching him warily.
    ‘Evening,’ he said, voice nice and neutral. ‘You new?’
    She looked him up and down. ‘What it to you?’ Not a local. Her accent was somewhere between Edinburgh and the Ukraine. The words slightly fuzzy round the edges, as if she was on something.
    ‘You here Monday?’ he asked. She backed away a couple of steps. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, holding up his hands, ‘I just want to talk.’
    Her eyes went wide. Left, right, then she ran for it. Logan grabbed her arm and pulled her to a halt.
    ‘You hurting me!’ she whined, struggling.
    ‘I just want to ask you a few questions. It’s OK—’
    A shape stepped out of the shadows. ‘No it fuckin’ isn’t.’ Big bloke, dressed in leathers and jeans. Shaved head, goatee beard, fists. ‘Let the bitch go, or I’m goin’ tae break your fuckin’ head open!’
    Logan smiled at him. ‘No need to get physical. Just a couple of questions and then I’m on my way. You here Monday night as well?’
    The man cracked his knuckles and advanced. ‘You fuckin’ deaf? I told you: let the bitch go!’
    Sighing, Logan dug out his wallet and flipped it open, exposing his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Logan McRae. Still want to break my head open?’ The man froze, looked from Logan’s ID to Logan to the struggling girl and back at Logan again. Then legged it.
    Logan and the girl watched him disappear – for a big man he moved pretty fast. She stood open-mouthed, forgetting to struggle, before hurling a string of foreign-language abuse after her scarpering pimp. Logan had no idea what the words meant, but the general gist was clear enough. ‘Well,’ he said, when she’d run out of breath and inspiration, ‘it’s OK: I’m not going to arrest you. I really do just want to talk.’
    She looked him up and down again. ‘I talk very good dirty. You want talk dirty?’
    ‘Not that kind of talking. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.’
    The Regents Arms was a little bar on Regent Quay with a three am licence. Not the smartest place in Aberdeen: it was dark, dirty, missing an apostrophe, and smelled of spilt beer and old cigarettes. Popular with the kind of people that hung around the docks after sundown. Logan took one look at the clientele and spotted at least three he’d arrested before – bit of aggravated assault, bit of prostitution, bit of breaking and entering – so there was no way he was going to risk using the toilets here. Wander into a