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

scowled at him. ‘Don’t you bloody start.’

      ‘Aye, and a happy Christmas to you too. You look like shite, byraway. C’moan, shift over, curry’s no’ gettin’ any warmer here.’

      ‘Colin, I …’

      But the reporter had already shouldered his way past. Sighing, Logan closed the stairwell door and followed him up. Colin Miller: even dressed casually, the wee man looked like a deranged, muscle-bound clothes model. God alone knew what Isobel saw in him.

      ‘You seen those arseholes on the news, but?’ Miller stuck his plastic bags on the kitchen table, then dug into one and tossed a cold bottle of Kingfisher beer in Logan’s direction.

      Logan caught it just before it hit the kitchen floor. ‘Don’t you ever ring first?’

      ‘Aye, you’re right,’ said the wee man, pulling a plastic takeaway container out of the second bag, then stacking another five beside it, topping them off with a bag of poppadoms, ‘what was I thinkin’? You could’a had a hot date!’

      ‘Very funny.’

      ‘Ah come on, Laz, lighten up. I’ve got the evenin’ off. She Who Must’s catching up on her beauty sleep, her mum’s got the wean till tomorrow, an’ you’re all on yer tod. So: boys’ night in!’ He rummaged in Logan’s cutlery drawer and produced the bottle opener, fumbling the top off his beer with stiff, gloved fingers. ‘Get blootered, curry-out from the Nazma, watch some footie on the telly, and break wind to our hearts’ content.’

      Logan popped the top off his Kingfisher, then helped himself to a poppadom. ‘You do know I can’t talk about the Wiseman case, don’t you?’

      The reporter froze. ‘Wiseman case? Never crossed my mind! I’m no—’

      ‘Oh come off it Colin, you’re trying to bribe me into talking about an ongoing investigation with Indian beer from …’ Logan checked the label. ‘Kent?’

      Miller grinned. ‘And curry. Don’t forget the curry.’

      ‘Fat chance.’

      ‘Oh come on, man! Throw a freelancer a bone, eh? Those BBC bastards’ve got exclusive access to everythin’.’

      ‘Thought you were going back on staff.’

      The reporter shrugged. ‘Nah, freelance pays better. Doing a fair chunk for the Examiner though.’

      ‘Bet the Journals like that.’

      ‘All’s fair in love and journalism. Lime pickle?’

      ‘Cupboard above the kettle. Anyway, it’s an observational documentary, not a news programme. Not even going to be out till next year.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘And it’s a pain in the backside. Everywhere you turn someone’s sticking a camera up your nose. You try it for a week, see how you like it.’

      ‘Chicken Jalfrezi, Lamb Biryani, Prawn Rogan Josh, or a bit of everything?’

      ‘Everything.’ He watched Miller serving up, the reporter’s leather gloves struggling with the clear plastic containers. It would have been much easier to just take the gloves off, but Miller was too vain for that.

      Logan scowled into his beer. ‘I mean they didn’t even ask if I wanted to be in it—’

      ‘I get it. Fuck’s sake: enough!’ He licked a dob of bright red sauce from his leathered thumb. ‘Every time I come over here …’

      ‘I was only saying—’

      ‘And would it kill you to get some decent cutlery? Izzy carves up deid people with better silverware than this.’

      There was a noise in the darkness, like metal scraping on metal. Heather froze, lying on her side on the cold floor.

      Count to a hundred.

      Silence.

      She went back to wriggling along the invisible line of steel bars. It wasn’t easy with her hands tied behind her back; the cable-ties round her wrists and ankles dug into the skin as she felt her way to the end wall. There was something square here, a plastic box with a lid … Heather retreated when she realised what it was: a chemical toilet – its harsh disinfectant reek overlaid with something altogether less pleasant. The bars stretched all the way across the little metal room, dividing the pitch-black prison in two. Her on one side, Duncan on the other.

      ‘Duncan?’ She sounded like a frog, her throat dry and sore. ‘Duncan, can you hear me?’

      There was some shuffling, then Duncan moaned. Coughed. Hissed in pain.

      ‘Duncan, we need to get out of here!’

      A grunt, then his voice, sounding thin and weak. ‘I … I’m not …’ Another cough: wet and rattling. ‘Ahhh … Jesus …’ He was moving: she could hear him struggling along the floor on his side, like a dying caterpillar. Making sounds of pain all the way.

      ‘Duncan, are you OK?’

      ‘I’m so tired …’ He coughed again in the darkness, and she heard him spit. Then gurgle. Then swear. And then he was still. Panting in the darkness. Weeping quietly. ‘I’m so tired, Heather. I … I’m …’

      ‘You’re going to be fine! You hear me?’ She was sobbing now, the words burning out of her. ‘You hear me Duncan Inglis? You’re going to be fine. Stay awake!’

      ‘I love you. I just wanted you to know before …’

      More ragged breathing.

      ‘Duncan! DUNCAN, WAKE UP!’

      Something brushed her hands. ‘Duncan?’ It was his hair, matted and sticky. ‘Duncan, you can’t leave me. Please don’t leave me!’

      ‘I’m so sorry …’ Sounding far away, even though he was just on the other side of the bars.

      ‘Don’t leave me.’

      When Miller was gone, and there was nothing left but the smell of old curry and stale beer, Logan stood in the lounge, in the dark.

      ‘MESSAGE ONE: Hi Logan, it’s me … I miss you, OK? I do. I miss you…’ The swell of background noise as she took another drink. ‘Just thought you should know.’ Beeeeeeep.

      He hit delete and went to bed.

       8

      Hanging about in Court One, waiting to be called, wasn’t exactly Logan’s idea of a good time: an endless procession of Aberdeen’s dispossessed, unlucky, or downright stupid, being hauled into the dock to find out if they’d be going home with a fine, or a getting a few weeks free B&B at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. In a strange way it was a bit like a dentist’s waiting room – unhappy people sitting about waiting for something nasty to happen – only without the ancient copies of Woman’s Realm and dog-eared Reader’s Digests.

      At least it was better than humping dusty file boxes up from the archives. And it gave Logan a chance to read some of the old case notes.

      By the time Grampian Police arrested him, Ken Wiseman had eighteen notches on his belt – a string of bodies that stretched all the way across the UK. Eighteen people and the most they’d ever found were a few chunks of meat.

      Logan flicked through the names and dates. All those deaths …

      According to the notes, everyone knew Wiseman was responsible, but couldn’t prove it, so in the end they’d had to settle for the only ones they could prove: Mr and Mrs McLaughlin, Aberdeen, 1987. And even then—

      ‘Sergeant