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

now: killing peoples.’

      ‘You’re pished.’

      ‘Pished like a FOX!’

      Steel banged her hand on the table, making all the empty glasses rattle. ‘Karaoke!’

      That was it – definitely time to go home.

      A clunk, and Heather sat bolt upright on her stinky mattress, eyes straining in the dark. Heart hammering against her ribs. Maybe he’d come back? Maybe he’d come back with more food and water?

      Her stomach growled again: a huge angry animal clawing its way through her innards. She’d never been so hungry in her life.

      Another clunk, and a thin sliver of yellow light raced across the rusty metal floor. Heather scooted forwards on her hands and knees, peering through the bars.

      The Butcher’s shadow blocked out the light for a moment, then he stepped inside, walked over to the bars and placed a bottle of water and another tinfoil parcel where Heather could reach them.

      She didn’t even wait for him to back away this time, just grabbed the plastic bottle. The water was cool and sweet in her mouth. Like the tears of angels. She drank half of it in one go before ripping the foil package open. There was a paper plate inside, full of breaded escalopes, so hot she nearly burned her fingers.

      God it was delicious. The best veal she’d ever tasted.

      The Butcher stood and watched her eat. Nodding.

      She chewed and swallowed. ‘Can … can I have more water? Please? I get so thirsty.’

      There was a moment’s silence, and then the Butcher turned his back and walked out, closing the door behind him. The darkness closed around her.

      Heather started to cry. All she wanted was some water. She just wanted some bloody water! She screwed up her face, fists curled over her eyes, rocking back and forth. Just some fucking water …

      Worthless, stupid bitch can’t even ask for water properly. Can’t do anything properly. Can’t die with her family, has to get herself trapped in the dark, all alone.

      She pulled one of the fists from her face and punched herself in the stomach as hard as she could.

      Stupid.

      Punch.

      Useless.

      Punch.

      BITCH!

      CLUNK and the door opened again. Heather froze. The Butcher was back, with a multi-pack of bottled water. He put it on the floor, then tore it open and started passing the individual plastic bottles through the bars.

      He came back.

      ‘Thank you …’ She was crying again. He came back. ‘My … my name’s Heather.’ She reached out and took one of the bottles from him. The Butcher froze for a moment. Then snatched his hand back. ‘Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to …’

      He backed up against the wall, staring silently down at her.

      ‘I’m sorry! Please, don’t leave me in the dark! Please! I—’

      But he was gone, slamming the door. BOOOM.

      Alone in the dark, Heather curled up in a little ball and screamed herself hoarse.

       14

      Hot water, soothing away a hangover brought on by too many beers and too many vodkas. Logan stood with his forehead against the cool tiles and let the shower wash over him. What the hell had he been thinking? ‘Summer Nights’ from Grease was not a good song to duet with DI Steel, no matter how drunk you were. His arse was still tender from where she’d pinched it during the caterwauling finale.

      Woman had fingers like bloody pliers—

      The phone’s shrill ring invaded the steamy peace of the bathroom. Logan shouted, ‘Go away!’ at it, but it just kept going. Only stopping when the answering machine picked up.

      He strained his ears, trying to tell who it was, but the ringing just started up again. ‘Oh, for God’s sake …’

      Logan wrapped himself in a towel and dripped his way through to the lounge, snatching the phone out of its cradle. ‘What?’

      DI Insch’s voice blared in his ear: ‘You were supposed to be at work hours ago!’

      ‘It’s my day off. So’s tomorrow. I’ve been on since—’

      ‘Listen up and listen good, Sergeant: you want a nine to five, Monday to Friday job? Go work in a bloody office. You’re supposed to be a police officer!’

      Logan closed his eyes and tried counting to ten.

      ‘Hello? You still there?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Good. We’ve had a call from an old friend of yours: Angus Robertson.’

      Logan froze. ‘What does that little shite want?’

      ‘Says he’s got information about Wiseman. Said he’ll only talk to you.’

      ‘Tough: I don’t want to talk to him. Little bastard can rot in his—’

      ‘Get your arse up to the station, we’re going to Peterhead whether you like it or not.’

      The inspector’s Range Rover had developed an overwhelming reek of dog. Lucy, the spaniel responsible, lay behind the grille that separated the boot from the rear seat on a tatty tartan blanket, snoring and twitching as Insch drove them up the A90 to Peterhead. Logan in the passenger seat, Alec in the back, fiddling with his camera.

      ‘So …’ Alec plugged in a couple of radio mikes. ‘I know this is just meant to be you and him, one-to-one, but think Robertson will let me film it?’

      Logan scowled at the scenery drifting past. ‘It’ll all just be bollocks anyway. He’s a nasty, ignorant, murdering wee shite; he doesn’t know anything. This is a complete waste of time.’

      Alec scooted forwards, till his head was poking between the driver and passenger seat. ‘But he’s the Mastrick Monster! This’ll make a brilliant scene for the documentary. Fancy doing a quick piece to camera when we get there? Go over the background: why he’ll only speak to you?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Oh, come on, please?’ The cameraman turned to Insch for backup. ‘Inspector, you understand dramatic narrative, we—’

      Insch just growled at him: ‘Sit back and put your bloody seatbelt on. I won’t tell you again!’

      ‘And how come,’ said Logan, poking the dashboard, ‘Robertson suddenly has information about Wiseman? Why should we believe anything he says?’

      ‘Because they were on the same wing for nearly a year.’ The inspector was starting to go red, but Logan didn’t care.

      ‘Doesn’t mean they were friends!’

      ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ said Insch, biting off the words, ‘You’re so wrapped up in your petty little world—’

      ‘The fucker stabbed me twenty-three times: I died on the operating table!’ Logan wrapped his arms around himself and glowered out the window. ‘Sorry if you think I’m being irrational, but that sort of thing kind of puts a shitter on your day.’

      An uncomfortable silence settled