Flesh House. Stuart MacBride

little more than grey-brown silhouettes against the backdrop of Aberdeen at night. Little blobs of torchlight worked their way across the field behind the house, silent except for the occasional bark of a police dog.

      The view was spectacular – on the other side of the South Deeside Road the lights of Cults, Garthdee, and Ruthrieston glittered. A lone rocket zwipped up into the November sky, exploding in a shower of red. Four seconds later the BANG arrived, but by then the sparks were long gone.

      ‘Can you imagine being up here on Monday? You’d see every firework in the city.’

      The Chief Constable joined him at the rail. ‘God it’s freezing.’ He shivered. ‘If you were Wiseman, would you hang around waiting to speak to the BBC?’

      ‘Would I buggery. I’d be on the first boat out of the UK.’

      ‘Which begs the question: why is he still here?’

      Logan pushed away from the rail as another rocket screeched up into the sky. ‘Unfinished business.’

      Faulds nodded. ‘That’s what worries me.’

      Heather mashed the heel of her hand into her eye, wiping away the tears. It was a nightmare, that’s all. A bad dream. She’d wake up and everything would be OK and they’d have boeuf bourguignon for tea and drink some wine and Duncan would still be alive.

      Duncan … she’d cried till her whole body ached, screamed till she couldn’t breathe. And now there was nothing left, but a dull numb pain that wrapped around her heart like poisoned barbed wire.

      She laid her head back against the dark metal wall and moaned.

      There was a noise outside and light flooded her prison, sparking off the puddles of blood that littered the rusty red floor. All that was left of Duncan.

      Heather closed her eyes. This was it – the Butcher had come back for her. It was her turn to be hung upside down over the tin bath and gutted. In a way it was a relief; at least she’d be with her husband and son again.

      The Butcher stepped into the room and Heather scrabbled back, terrified.

      She tried to plead for her life, but her mouth was too dry, her lips cracked and bleeding. She’d changed her mind: she didn’t want to be with Justin and Duncan. She didn’t want to die!

      But the Butcher wasn’t carrying a knife, he was carrying a hose. Cold water battered against the floor, bouncing off the hard metal surface to shower everything with droplets of pink liquid as the last remnants of Duncan were washed down the drain.

      When there was nothing left, the Butcher disappeared, only to return thirty seconds later with a tinfoil parcel and a bottle of water. He placed both on the floor – just within arms’ reach of the bars – then stood there, staring at her.

      God, she was thirsty.

      Trembling, Heather inched forwards and snatched the bottle, scurrying back till she was in her corner again. The bastard hadn’t even moved. She wrenched the top off the bottle and drank, coughing and spluttering as it went down too fast. Nearly bringing it all back up again.

      The Butcher nodded, then pointed silently at the tinfoil bundle. Then at the mask’s mouth. Then rubbed his stomach.

      Heather stared at the parcel, too scared to pick it up.

      He gently peeled back a corner of the foil and the smell of hot food filled the room. Her stomach growled.

      She peered between the bars. It was just black pudding. Normal, everyday black pudding. And she was so hungry …

      The Butcher backed off to the door again and Heather darted forwards, snatching the parcel back to her side of the bars. Breathing in the heady aroma of hot food. With trembling fingers she crammed the first disc of pudding into her mouth, closed her eyes and chewed. Her family was dead and she was eating black pudding as if nothing had ever happened.

      Heather almost spat it out, but it was food and she was hungry and she felt miserable and she didn’t have any pills with her. So she did what she’d done all her life: self-medication through comfort eating.

      She ate every last scrap, till there was nothing left, but greasy tinfoil.

      And all the time the man watched her in silence. Then, when she was all finished, he nodded, stepped back outside and closed the door. Leaving her to the darkness.

      Logan cupped a hand around his ear and asked DI Steel to say that again. The nightclub was far too busy, far too noisy, and far too hot. That’s what they got for letting that idiot Rennie organize a staff night out. The carpet was sticky; the place stank of stale beer, sweat, aftershave and perfume; and the music was loud enough to make his lungs vibrate.

      ‘I said,’ Steel shouted, ‘I wouldn’t kick that lot out of bed for farting.’ The inspector pointed at the group of girlies up on the dance floor: long blonde hair, short skirts, skimpy tops, the pulsing disco lights glittering off the jewellery in their pierced bellybuttons.

      As Logan watched, Detective Constable Simon Rennie boogied his way past them, doing a pretty good impersonation of a octopus being electrocuted. One of the girlies laughed and joined in, bumping and grinding.

      ‘Jammy bastard.’ Steel took another swig of her vastly overpriced beer. ‘I’m no’ surprised he wanted to come here.’

      Rennie wasn’t the only off-duty police officer up there, strutting his funky stuff – even Faulds had gone up when they’d put on an old Phil Collins number – but Logan wasn’t in the mood. ‘I hate nightclubs.’

      ‘So you keep saying.’

      Three songs later and a sweaty Rennie was back, handing out another round of drinks. ‘Is this not brilliant?’

      Logan scowled at him, but it didn’t seem to dent the constable’s enthusiasm.

      ‘Oh, ’fore I forget,’ Rennie pulled out his wallet and produced a folded-up postcard of a naked bodybuilder with a strategically placed police helmet. ‘This came yesterday.’

      It was from Jackie, telling the muster room what a great time she was having on secondment to Strathclyde Police’s Organized Crime and Gang Violence Unit.

      Rennie nodded in time to the music as one song ground to a halt and another deafened its way out of the speakers. ‘Sounds like a right laugh down there – Ooh, I love this one!’ And he was back on the dance floor.

      Twenty minutes later he was still up there, slow dancing with one of the blonde girlies from earlier, mouths locked, eyes closed, groping away.

      ‘Makes you sick.’ Steel sniffed, watching the detective constable and his friend trying to crawl inside one another. ‘I’m much sexier than he is.’

      Faulds leant on the rail that separated the drinkers from the dancers and fondlers. ‘So,’ he shouted, ‘what’s with all this “Laz” business then?’

      Logan sighed. ‘Just a stupid nickname. It’s nothing—’

      ‘Laz – short for Lazarus.’ Steel grinned and clinked her latest bottle of beer off of the Chief Constable’s pint, ‘DS McRae here came back from the dead, didn’t you?’

      ‘It wasn’t—’

      ‘Oh aye, our wee boy’s a bona fide police hero!’ She wrapped her arm round Logan and gave him an affectionate shoogle. ‘Shame he’s so bloody ugly.’

      EXTERIOR: A graveyard in Aberdeen – Union Street. Church in background. Noises of traffic and seagulls.

      CAPTION: Detective Sergeant Logan McRae

      MCRAE: I’d rather not, to be honest.

      VOICEOVER: But you were instrumental in catching The Mastrick Monster?

      MCRAE: Do we have to do this, Alec?

      VOICEOVER: