Logan McRae Crime Series Books 4-6: Flesh House, Blind Eye, Dark Blood. Stuart MacBride

      VOICEOVER: If you’re worried about it, I’m sure DI Insch can—

      FAULDS: No, no. Used to do this all the time when I was young. Like riding a bike … OK, let’s take it from ‘joints of meat’. [gives himself a small shake] Every time he struck the papers would give him a new name: the Birmingham Butcher, the Clydeside Ripper. It wasn’t till they found Ian and Sharon McLaughlin’s remains that he finally got his true name: the Flesher.

      [pause]

      Does that sound too melodramatic? It does, doesn’t it? Shit … Sorry, I’ll start again.

      [clears throat]

      There were cases all over the country …

      The room smelt of Pot Noodles. It was a small office at the back of FHQ, half-heartedly converted into a makeshift editing suite. Logan stifled a yawn and gazed out of the tiny window. It wasn’t much of a view – just a small square of waterlogged car park and the stairs down to the mortuary. You couldn’t even see the sky from here.

      He’d managed to grab a couple of hours sleep back at the flat, all alone in a cold and empty bed. The place just wasn’t the same without Jackie.

      There was a strangled vwipping noise as Alec rewound the tape and then Fauld’s voice crackled out of the TV monitor: ‘Shit … Sorry, I’ll start again.’

      Alec hit pause, scribbled something down on his notepad, then shovelled another forkful of rehydrated noodles into his mouth. ‘Mmmph, mmmph, mmm?’

      Logan turned away from the window. ‘You’ve got juice all down your chin, and I can’t understand a word.’

      Alec chewed, swallowed, then went in for another fork-load. ‘I said, “do you want to see the press conference?”’

      ‘Not really.’

      ‘No?’ Alec tapped a couple of buttons on his bizarrely coloured editing keyboard and Fauld’s face was replaced by a crowded room full of journalists. DI Insch, one of the media officers, and Aberdeen’s very own Chief Constable were sitting at the front of the room, fielding questions like, ‘Why was Ken Wiseman ever released?’, ‘How many people has the Flesher killed?’, ‘Why didn’t Grampian Police make a stronger case against Wiseman in 1990?’ and that perennial favourite, ‘Will there be a public enquiry?’

      The camera panned to focus on DI Insch’s big pink head. He did not look happy.

      Alec pointed at the screen with his fork. ‘Look at the expression on his face. Enough to give you nightmares.’

      ‘Welcome to my world.’

      ‘He always been a grumpy fat bastard?’ Alec scraped out the last of the noodles, then upended the plastic container into his mouth, sooking out the juice.

      ‘I’m not answering that on the grounds he’d have my balls if he found out.’

      ‘Is it just me,’ said Alec, ‘or does Insch have a thing for bollocks? Every time he threatens anyone it involves their testicles.’ The cameraman dropped his empty Pot Noodle carton in the bin. ‘Just between you and me, I think he might be a little repressed.’

      ‘Yeah, you tell him that. I’m sure he’ll love to hear it.’

      ‘Spoke to my executive producer this morning: they’re upping my budget. Couple of extra camera crew, more editing time. Think we might even get David Jason to do the voiceover.’

      ‘You must be so proud.’

      Alec sighed. ‘You’re a right ray of bloody sunshine today.’

      ‘So would you be – I’ve got to go tell Insch we’ve no idea where Ken Wiseman is.’

      There were times when living in Fittie was a pain in the backside. Yes it was all quaint and historical – a tiny seventeenth-century fishing village at the mouth of Aberdeen harbour, the little granite homes arranged around three small squares, facing inwards. Huddling together for warmth. A little slice of history, surrounded by warehouses and mud tanks on two sides, the harbour on the third, and the North Sea on the fourth. Beautiful … But not being able to park anywhere near the front door was an absolute sod. Grumbling, Heather lowered her bulging plastic bags to the cobbled street and tried to rub some feeling back into her hands. She should get herself a bike, one of those little-old-lady ones with the basket on the front. Then she could just cycle up to the supermarket and kill two birds with one stone: get the shopping done, and get rid of some of this bloody baby fat. If you were still allowed to call it baby fat three years after giving birth.

      She rummaged around inside one of the bags and came out with a bar of Dairy Milk, taking a big bite out of the chocolate and chewing unhappily.

      Get a bike and go to Weight Watchers. Maybe that would stop her bloody mother banging on about how fat she looked every time the old bag came to visit. Heather picked up the shopping again.

      Tonight she was going to treat herself to a bottle of wine and sod the antidepressants. Maybe there’d even be something good on the telly?

      A loud shout sounded somewhere back along the beach, and she sighed. Stupid kids getting into stupid fights over who had the stupidest car. Out Bouley bashing: racing up and down the Beach Boulevard at all hours, in the souped-up hatchbacks their mummies and daddies bought for them. Like chimpanzees marking their territory to the constant background bmm-tshhhh, bmm-tshhhh, bmm-tshhhh of their stupid car stereos. And there was no point complaining to the bloody police: dispersal zone her arse …

      God, twenty-five and she was already middle-aged. Wasn’t so long ago that she’d been the one out Bouley bashing with her girlfriends, and now look at her: whinging on about loud music and dangerous driving. That was what having a three-year-old did for you. Knackered all the time with no sex-life. Looking forward to Celebrity X-Factor on the TV.

      One more pause to put the bags down – and then she was outside the front door, rummaging through her cavernous rubbish-tip of a handbag for the house keys.

      Justin’s pumpkin was sitting on the windowsill, a tealight flickering between the pointy teeth. Of course, she’d done the actual carving, but he’d drawn the face on in blue biro, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in concentration. Strange how one little person could bring so much joy, and so much misery, into the world …

      One more bite of chocolate then she hid the bar away – not wanting Duncan to know she’d been naughty – and let herself into the house.

      ‘Duncan?’

      No answer, but she could hear the telly on in the kitchen. Maybe he was making tea for a change?

      ‘Duncan, can you give me a hand with these bags? Sodding things weigh a ton.’ She dumped them in the hall and closed the front door behind her. ‘You’ll never guess who I ran into in Asda: Gillian. You remember? The one who married that guy from the radio and went off to live in Edinburgh?’

      Heather shucked off her coat and hung it up, pausing to examine the mess that stared back at her from the mirror. ‘Well, he only upped and left her for that bloke who used to do the weather on STV. And she’s got three kids!’

      She grabbed one of the carrier bags and wandered through into the kitchen. ‘Talk about overcompensating …’

      Heather dropped the bag. It hit the deck with a clattering thud, tins of Cock-a-Leekie rolling out across the tiles.

      Duncan was on the floor, slumped back against the kitchen cabinets, face bruised and bloody, mouth hanging open, dark crusts of red around his lips and nostrils.

      ‘Oh God, Duncan!’ She ran to him, grabbed his shoulders and shook. ‘Duncan, what did you do?’

      His hands were curled in his lap, the wrists held together with cable-ties.

      ‘Duncan? Duncan: where’s Justin? DUNCAN!—’