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

wasn’t the prettiest of buildings: an old-fashioned Victorian lump of concrete and barbed wire, home to three hundred and twenty of Scotland’s worst sex offenders and other vulnerable prisoners. People who’d get the shit beaten out of them in any other prison. People like Angus Robertson.

      Logan paced back and forth in the little office with ‘THERAPY ROOM – 3’ on the door, trying not to hyperventilate. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. Christ, it was hot in here, even with the window open.

      He turned and looked out through the bars. From here you could see over the high outer wall with its festive topping of razor wire, across the south breakwater of Peterhead harbour, and past that to the North Sea. Dark grey water flecked with white. Sky the colour of ancient concrete. And between the two, seagulls wheeled in lazy circles, waiting for the fishing boats that were becoming rarer every year.

      What the hell was taking so long?

      His hands were damp again.

      Logan nearly jumped out of his skin when the door opened. It was a prison officer with a plastic cup of water. She handed it over. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘I want you to know we don’t approve of this. We’ve worked too long and too hard to get Angus where he is. But I’m agreeing to this meeting because there’s a clear and immediate danger to human life. I need you to understand that if you reinforce his negative behavioural patterns, it could put him back years.’ She paused, giving Logan a chance to say something, but he didn’t. ‘I’ll bring him up from the cell block.’ She paused, halfway to the door. ‘We don’t like to handcuff them when they’re in the treatment rooms. Are you going to be OK with that?’

      ‘Not really. No …’ Logan took a sip of water. ‘We … didn’t get on too well last time we met.’

      ‘I know. He’s still got the scars.’

      Logan tried for a smile, but it wouldn’t stick. ‘Snap.’

      She looked him up and down, her voice softening. ‘He really has made a lot of changes. The STOP programme—’

      ‘I just want to get this over with. OK?’

      She shrugged. ‘You’re the boss.’

      No he wasn’t – because if he were the boss he wouldn’t bloody be here.

      Angus Robertson really had changed. The scruffy man in the boiler suit was gone, replaced by an HM Prison mannequin: blue and white striped shirt buttoned up to the chin, a sharp crease in his jeans, black shoes polished till they shone. He’d even slicked back his thinning brown hair.

      Robertson sat perfectly still in one of the room’s two soft armchairs, hands folded in his lap. Face expressionless. And when he spoke it was as if something dead had slithered into the room. ‘You’re looking well.’

      Logan just stared at him.

      ‘Why thank you,’ Robertson gave a fleeting smile. ‘I’ve been working out.’

      ‘I didn’t say anything.’

      ‘Please, I’ve rehearsed this conversation so many, many times. It would be a shame to waste—’

      ‘What’s with the fake English accent?’

      Robertson smiled. ‘Accent?’

      ‘Fine, I don’t care.’ Logan’s palms were sweating again; the man made his skin crawl. ‘You said you had information—’

      ‘Ah yes, Kenneth Wiseman. He was in the cell next door. Lovely man. We had many interesting chats about …’ Robertson made a tiny hand gesture. ‘Life and death.’

      ‘Where is he?’

      ‘Now, now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. What are you going to give me in return?’

      ‘Do you or don’t you know where Ken Wiseman is?’

      ‘Quid pro quo, Sergeant McRae: I want my own meals. Prepared by someone who understands the needs of a gourmet like me, not the boiled crap they serve—’

      ‘You’re kidding, right? Gourmet? The closest you ever got to being a gourmet was saying “aye tae a pie”. You’re not Hannibal Bloody Lecter: you’re a nasty wee shite from Milltimber.’

      ‘I want my own chef!’

      ‘Get fucked.’ Logan stood. ‘We’re done here.’ He was beginning to tremble – adrenaline priming the fight-or-flight mechanism. And right now ‘fight’ was winning – grab the little bastard by the throat and batter his head off the floor till it burst.

      ‘But … but I made you! I … if it wasn’t for me—’

      ‘You’re pathetic. A slimy piece of shite who had to kill women before you fucked them, because nothing living would have anything to do with you!’

      Robertson clamped his hands over his ears. ‘I didn’t—’

      ‘WHERE’S WISEMAN?’

      ‘Stop shouting at me! Stop shouting!’ The fake English accent was beginning to slip, exposing the Aberdonian underneath. ‘I’m no’ a bad boy! I’m no’!’

      ‘WHERE’S FUCKING WISEMAN?’

      ‘He told me stuff … about the woman he killed … and the man in the showers … at night, when everyone else was asleep …’

      Logan took a deep, shivering breath. ‘I’m not going to ask you again.’

      Insch put his foot down, the windswept countryside flying past in shades of grey and miserable. Gusts of wind raked the trees and hedges outside the Range Rover’s windows, making the car shudder as they flew down the A90 to Aberdeen.

      ‘God, that was bloody brilliant!’ Alec fiddled with his camera and grinned. ‘It’s going to look great when it goes out.’

      ‘Oh Jesus …’ Logan turned round in his seat. ‘You can’t put that on the TV!’

      Alec grinned. ‘They’re going to send me a copy of the treatment room’s CCTV tape.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘And Angus Robertson signed a release.’

      No surprise there: the little bastard would be desperate for another fifteen minutes of fame.

      ‘I’ll look like an arse!’

      Insch nodded. ‘Yup.’

      ‘Nah,’ Alec flipped the camera’s tiny viewing screen round so Logan could see it. It was a shot of the CCTV monitor in the security room – where everyone else had gone to watch the interview. ‘We’ll slap in a bit of narration about how you’re playing “bad cop” to get round his defences … maybe get a psychologist in …’ On the screen a little Logan exploded out of his seat and started shouting, his voice tinny through the camera’s built-in speaker. Then a prison officer barged in, claiming that this was setting Robertson’s rehabilitation back years. Alec shrugged. ‘You’ll be fine.’

      Logan groaned and went back to scowling at the scenery.

      Heather lay back on the smelly mattress and stared up into the blackness. Dark. No sound. No light. No idea of time. Beginning to wonder if she was already dead – if she’d passed away and just not noticed.

      She couldn’t even cry any more. She’d lain for what felt like years, bawling her eyes out, sobbing for her husband and child, until there was simply nothing left. Not even—

      ‘Are you OK?’

      Heather screamed, scurrying back into the corner, flailing her arms around, trying to ward off the voice.

      ‘Jesus, Heather, you look like a complete spaz. Calm down for fuck’s sake.’

      ‘D … Duncan?’ She peered into the dark. ‘But … you can’t be …’

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