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

of sun, sand, sangria, and S.E.X. She’s like no one I’ve ever met before. I mean, you know? She’s brilliant and funny and goes like a bunny! I’m giving serious thought to settling down.’

      ‘Met her parents yet?’

      ‘Christ, no.’ He stuck his hands deep in his pockets. ‘So, fireworks? You up for it?’

      Logan said he’d think about it.

      ‘Hello?’ Heather stood with her hands wrapped around the bars, staring out into the blackness. ‘Hello? I’m thirsty …’ Silence.

      Darkness.

      ‘Hello?’

      She felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t think he’s there.’

      ‘But I’m thirsty…’ The water had lasted longer than last time, but now it was all gone.

      ‘I know, Heather, I know. But it’ll all be over soon.’ Duncan wrapped his arm around her shoulders, the faint light of his blood halo just strong enough that she could make out the bars. ‘And then you’ll be with Justin and me forever.’

      She looked at him, feeling the tears start to well up again. ‘But I don’t want to die …’

      ‘Shhhh … it’s OK – everyone dies, don’t they?’ He gave her a squeeze. ‘Justin misses his mummy.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘Trust me, it’ll all be OK. You just lie down and go to sleep.’

      Heather tried to do what she was told, but it was impossible. ‘It stinks in here.’

      ‘Shhhh … sleep.’

      ‘What if he never comes back?’

      ‘It’ll only hurt for a while.’

      Silence.

      ‘Duncan, I’m scared …’

       19

      They’d arrived early to get the best spot – down on the beachfront, right up against the crowd barrier. A bitter wind whistled in off the North Sea, making everyone shudder as they waited for the fireworks to start. Colin Miller pulled out a hip flask, took a swig, then offered it to Logan: rusty nail, the mixture of whisky and Drambuie going down like alcoholic central heating.

      ‘He’s getting a bit fussy,’ said Isobel, wiggling something brightly coloured in front of her son’s pushchair. Sean had been OK in Pizza Hut – smearing cheese and tomato all over himself, the table, and anyone daft enough to pass within reach – but they’d been standing out here in the cold for at least half an hour. Logan was surprised the kid wasn’t screaming the place down by now.

      All around them people waved luminous blue lightsaber things – sparklers without the sparkle – taking photos of each other on their mobile phones.

      Colin checked his watch. ‘Should’ve started by now, but.’

      The display had been set up in the lee of what looked like a Victorian concrete bus shelter, sitting below the level of the road, halfway between the Beach Ballroom and the arcades. On the other side of the barrier, people in luminous yellow jackets were fiddling with a long table of boxes and wires.

      ‘Maybe no one remembered to bring matches with them?’

      ‘Aye, or they’ve run out of milk bottles for the rockets.’ Miller passed the flask over again.

      Someone tapped Logan on the shoulder, and he turned to find a grinning DC Rennie. ‘Don’t look so surprised,’ said the constable, pulling his girlfriend through the crowd behind him, ‘we were speaking to McInnis: he said he’d told you this was the best spot to watch the show.’ Rennie pointed at the girl beside him. ‘You remember Laura?’

      The natural blonde who went like a bunny gave Logan a little wave. ‘Hi.’

      Behind her a few more familiar faces from the station worked their way to the front, all looking as if they’d just come from the pub. Rennie wrapped his arm around the love of his life. ‘And you’ll never guess who we ran into …’ He pointed into the mass of lightsabers – a figure bundled up in a black padded jacket and black woolly hat was squeezing through, her face framed with dark curls, her nose and cheeks bright red. PC Jackie Watson.

      She took one look at Logan and frowned. ‘What happened to your face?’

      He dragged on a smile. ‘Didn’t know you were back in town.’

      ‘Got in half an hour ago. I phoned?’

      ‘We—’

      Swwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwoooooosh! And the first rocket leapt into the indigo night, exploding in a vast ball of golden sparks that fizzed and crackled.

      ‘Why didn’t you call back?’

      Swwwwwwwwwwwwwooooooooosh! … BANG! More sparks.

      ‘What?’

      ‘I said, why didn’t you—’ BOOOOM! ‘—call back?’

      ‘I’ve been out since—’ CRACKKKLE!

      The rockets were going off in a constant stream, turning the air into an iridescent rainbow of colour.

      ‘Two months and you’ve not called once!’

      ‘That’s not true. You know that’s not true!’

      There was a little circle of embarrassed space forming around them. The press of bodies lessening as everyone made a point of staring at the display above, rather than the argument below.

      ‘If you didn’t want me to come home, why didn’t you bloody well say so?’ Jackie’s face was lit for a moment in a glitter of gold, her eyes shining bright as daggers.

      ‘Please, Jackie, let’s not do this here. I—’ BOOOOOM!

      ‘It’s not my fault I miscarried! It’s not my fucking—’ CRACKKKKKKLE!

      Logan grabbed her by the arm, pulling her round so they had their backs to the clump of police officers. ‘That’s got nothing to do with it!’

      ‘You think it wasn’t hard for me?’ She shook him loose. ‘It was my fucking baby too!’

      ‘It’s not about the baby, OK? It’s about you!’

      She froze, and Logan … Logan wished he could take the words back, but it was too late for that – he’d lit the blue touchpaper and now it was all going to blow up in his face. Jackie stared at him. ‘You don’t love me, do you?’

      BOOOOOOOOM!

      ‘Jackie—’

      ‘No, come on, let’s hear it. Let’s—’ BANG! ‘—hear you say it.’ She prodded him in the chest with a rock-hard finger. ‘Have the fucking guts to say it!’

      A huge rocket exploded, a circle of red and green and silver, lighting up the beach for a second. A snapshot of summer on a cold November night. The crowd ooh-ed and ahhh-ed.

      A heartbeat of silence.

      ‘I don’t love you.’

      Jackie slammed her fist into his face.

      From up here the fireworks were beautiful – perfect spheres of fire that hung in the night sky, before fading away into darkness. Ken Wiseman took another mouthful of beer then crushed the empty can in his leather-gloved hand.

      The flat was virtually empty, just a couple of cardboard boxes full of junk, a carpet that stank of dust and cats. Kitchen worktops that would never be clean again. An abandoned flat on the fifteenth floor of a tower block on Castlehill,