Dying Light. Stuart MacBrideЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Without Whom …

      The truth is a malleable thing, especially when I get my hands on it. So I have to thank the following lovely people for letting me bend their truths, sometimes beyond all recognition: The Procurator Fiscal’s Office in Aberdeen for letting me in on how the Scottish Justice System actually works; George Sangster of Grampian Police for an invaluable heap of police procedure and info; and my ‘first lady of the morgue’ – Ishbel Hunter the Senior APT at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary who is, as always, a star.

      I also owe a debt of thanks to Philip Patterson – who isn’t just a bloody good agent, but a good friend too – and all at Marjacq Scripts; my wunderkind editorial gurus Jane and Sarah; the brilliant cast and crew at HarperCollins, particularly Amanda, Fiona, Kelly, Joy, Damon, Lucy, Andrea, and everyone else who has done such an excellent job in getting this thing out there; Kelley at St Martin’s Press and Ingeborg at Tiden, for their valuable input into this book; and James Oswald for his suggestions and photos of cheese.

      I should probably thank the Aberdeen Tourist Board as well, for not having me lynched when the last book came out. If it’s any consolation: at least this one’s set in summer.

      But mostly I have to thank my naughty wife Fiona (or she’ll thump me).

      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,