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

duty? It’s not as if he’s in any hurry, is it?’

      ‘Yes, and maybe he’ll kill a couple more people while he waits. Wouldn’t that be nice?’

      Logan blushed. ‘I was only saying.’

      Alec pulled a brand-new HDTV camera from its carry case and set it on the table so he could hook up the receivers for a pair of radio mikes. ‘Just because Brooks hasn’t turned up, doesn’t mean the night’s a washout.’ He unpacked two small clip-on microphones and handed one each to Logan and Insch. ‘Noise levels aren’t bad in here: the pair of you can go over developments in the case.’ He switched the camera on, fiddled with the settings, then pointed it at them. ‘And, action!’

      There was an uncomfortable silence.

      ‘That means you have to start doing something.’

      Logan groaned. ‘Bugger off, Alec, eh?’

      The cameraman stared at them. ‘After all that shite this afternoon, you two owe me.’

      ‘It wasn’t shite,’ said Insch with the faintest trace of a smile, ‘it was pish.’ Then he cleared his throat and asked Logan what was happening at the address they’d got from Angus Robertson.

      ‘Nothing.’

      Alec made ‘more detail’ hand gestures until Logan, reluctantly, started talking again. ‘The building’s pretty much derelict. Used to be a halfway house in the seventies, but there was a scandal … look we already know all this.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Alec, never taking the camera off them, ‘but the viewers don’t.’

      Sigh. ‘There was a scandal: two of the “guests” took turns raping their social worker. The investigation turned up some questionable practices, financial irregularities, unsanitary conditions and dodgy wiring. So they shut it down … Aren’t people going to notice I’ve been bashed in the face?’

      Alec gritted his teeth. ‘This is going to be difficult enough to edit as it is!’

      ‘Anyway, I’ve seen the photos – the place is a tip. Half the windows are gone, weeds growing in the lounge, cold, damp. He’d have to be bloody desperate to go back there.’

      ‘He’s desperate. Question is: what’s he up to? He’s got to know we’ll pick him up soon as he arranges his fifteen minutes of fame with the BBC …’ Insch polished off his second pint. ‘What would you do? You’ve only got a few days of freedom left, then you’re going back to prison for the rest of your life.’

      But Logan had already answered that one, back when Faulds asked the same question at the Leith house. ‘What would I do?’ He stood: it was time for more beer. ‘Revenge.’

      The answering machine was lying in wait for Logan when he finally got back to the flat, its little red light winking away, malevolent and devious. He hit the button, still feeling all bunged up and sore, even after two pints of Stella and a nip of Glen Garioch. ‘You have three messages. Message one: Laz? You awake? C’moan man, pick up …’ Pause. ‘You’re no’ in. OK, tomorrow – down the beach, fireworks, half five outside the Inversnecky.’ There was a noise in the background and Colin said, ‘I’m no’ tellin’ him to wear a jumper. I’m no’ his bloody mother …’ Beeeeeeep

      ‘Message two: Logan, it’s your mother—’

      He peeled off his coat, only half listening as she rabbited on about his little brother’s upcoming wedding.

      ‘—so make sure you remember. And would it kill you to wear a kilt this time? Honestly, Barbara’s son—’

      Logan hit delete.

       Beeeeeeep

      ‘Message three: Hey you … it’s me …’ Jackie, sounding drunk again. He settled onto the end of the settee and stared at the dead fireplace. ‘You miss me? I’m … I’m probably a bit thingied … with the vodka … but I miss you, OK? Turnip Head? I miss you. I’m got a … a…’ What sounded like a burp crackled out of the answering machine’s speaker. ‘Oops. I’m got some time off. You wanna … you know … with sex and stuff…’ A garbled voice in the background said something about another round. ‘Gotta go, OK? I—’ Beeeeeeep ‘End of messages.’

      Logan erased the lot, did his teeth and went to bed.

       17

      DI Steel sat in the passenger seat, eating a bacon buttie and slurping noisily at a wax-paper cup of tea from the baker’s in Newmachar, while Logan got himself outside a hot steak pie. Steel didn’t bother swallowing before pointing at the dilapidated house two hundred yards away and saying, ‘Mmmmghmmmf, mmmn nnn?’

      ‘No idea. Half two, I think.’

      She shrugged, and went back to chewing.

      They’d parked on the outskirts of Hatton of Fintray, a tiny village on the back road from Dyce to Blackburn, so far off the beaten track it was practically invisible. Logan had manoeuvred the pool car down a wee side road – little more than a farm track – with a view through a thin stand of trees and gorse bushes to the dilapidated granite building.

      One of the downstairs windows had been boarded over, but the other was an empty black hole. The roof looked as if it had eczema, shedding dark grey slates into the overgrown garden. What an estate agent would call ‘a fixer-upper’.

      ‘How the hell did he find this place?’ Steel mumbled through another mouthful of buttie.

      ‘Wiseman’s sister worked for the Council, property management, probably had keys to half the abandoned buildings in Aberdeenshire.’

      Logan polished off the last of his breakfast pie and started in on his coffee as Alec climbed into the back of the car.

      ‘Morning all.’ Alec pulled out his camera and fiddled with electronic things. ‘Ready for a happy day of sitting about in the cold playing I spy?’

      Steel sooked tomato sauce from her fingers. ‘Anyone been in there yet?’

      ‘Not since yesterday afternoon.’ Logan, pointed at the isolated halfway house. ‘Insch didn’t want to risk spooking Wiseman, remember?’

      ‘So we’ve no idea he’s even set foot in the place.’ She scrunched up the paper bag her buttie had come in and tossed it over her shoulder into the back. ‘Remind me again just how many man-hours we’re pissing away here?’

      ‘Three cars, two CID per car. Eight-hour shifts.’

      Steel did the maths. ‘Forty-eight man hours, every day! Jesus, no wonder Baldy Brian whinges about the overtime bill. And we’ve not even checked there’s anyone home!’ She took a swig of her tea, then stuck the steaming carton on the dashboard, fogging the windscreen. ‘Come on then, get your arse in gear, we’re going over there.’

      ‘But what if Wiseman—’

      ‘If he’s here, we’ll catch him. Medals and dancing girls for everyone. If not, what’s the worst that can happen?’

      ‘He comes back, spots us, does a runner, and we never see him again.’

      She shrugged and picked up the car radio, putting a call out to the three unmarked cars watching the rundown building, telling them to call her on her mobile if they saw Wiseman coming.

      There was a stunned pause from the other end, then: ‘But we’ve got strict instructions from DI Insch—’

      ‘Aye, well now you’ve got strict instructions from me.’ She clambered out of the car and into the blustery morning. The sky was three shades of grey, each one moving in a different direction, the trees and bushes