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

Sea, washing the granite buildings with gold. ‘Insch and I were supposed to meet Brooks on Saturday night. He was trying to pump us for details on the Wiseman case.’

      ‘Sounds like Basher Brooks. Silly sod could never let it—Arse…’ Her phone was ringing. ‘Hello?… Aye… Did he?… Oh.’ Her face fell. ‘Aye, well, no surprise there… No, no, it’s OK. See you then.’ She hung up. ‘They were doing a quick check at the mortuary, making sure they’d no’ left any bits of Brooks behind. Ligature marks round wrists and ankles.’

      ‘Definitely Wiseman then.’ Not suicide: murder.

      The mortuary smelt like a butcher’s shop, the numerous chunks of Ex-DCI Brooks arranged to make a whole, slightly flattened person, as Isobel dictated her way through the remains.

      Most of the jumpers Logan had seen were from six or seven storeys high – broken bones, internal bleeding – but Brooks looked as if he’d been torn apart, then battered with a sledgehammer.

      ‘You fancy pizza for lunch?’ whispered Steel, while Isobel wrestled with the deflated football that used to be Brooks’ head.

      Logan grimaced.

      ‘OK, OK, not pizza. Curry? Sushi? How about …’ she trailed off when she realised Isobel and the Procurator Fiscal were staring at her. Steel shrugged. ‘Didn’t have any breakfast.’

      Isobel put Brooks’ head back on the dissecting table. ‘Can we all please remain silent while I’m dictating!’

      No one said anything.

      ‘Thank you.’ She picked up the head again. ‘Evidence of severe impact trauma consistent with a fall of eighty to a hundred feet—’

      ‘There’s a surprise.’

      ‘Inspector! I’m not going to—’

      The door flew open and crashed against a trolley full of sterilized implements sending them pinging and clanging to the mortuary floor: DI Insch. His white oversuit stretched nearly to bursting point. His face dark, dark red.

      The PF looked up and frowned. ‘Inspector, you shouldn’t be—’

      The fat man elbowed his way to the dissecting table. ‘He was my friend!’

      ‘That’s why you shouldn’t be here.’ The Procurator Fiscal looked round for support, but everyone had developed a sudden interest in the mortuary walls.

      Everyone except Isobel: ‘For goodness sake! I’m trying to carry out a post mortem and if I don’t get silence I’ll eject the lot of you! This will be a closed session. Do I make myself clear?’

      Insch rounded on her. ‘Don’t you dare—’

      Steel laid a hand on his arm. ‘Come on, David.’

      ‘Get your bloody hands off me! I’m—’

      ‘Let’s no’ burn any more bridges. Eh? Brooks wouldn’t want that. Would he?’

      The fat man’s eyes sparked with tears. ‘He was my friend.’

      ‘I know.’ She pulled him towards the door. ‘Come on, you and me’ll go have a cuppa. Laz’ll look after him. Won’t you Laz?’

      Logan nodded, and the inspector let himself be led out of the sterile cutting room. For a moment everyone relaxed … and then Isobel peeled off DCI Brooks’ face.

      Her head hurt. Pounding. Bang, bang, bang… Throat dry, lips like sandpaper. ‘Thirsty …’

      Duncan squatted down next to her and smiled. ‘I know, but it’ll only hurt for a little bit. Then you’ll be OK. You’ll be with us.’

      ‘So thirsty …’

      Heather curled up on the filthy mattress and tried not to cry. She was going to die in here, in this dark metal box. Forgotten and alone …

      ‘Hey,’ Duncan brushed the hair from her face. ‘You’re not alone. You’ve got me, remember?’

      She kept her eyes screwed shut. ‘You’re not real.’

      ‘I’m as real as you need me to be. Come on, have I ever lied to you?’

      She rolled over onto her other side, turning her back on him. ‘Inverness, three years ago.’

      He groaned. ‘I told you: it was a mistake. I was drunk. She didn’t mean anything to me.’ Duncan’s hand slipped down her body. ‘It’s always been you, you know that.’ The hand caressed her thigh. ‘You were my world.’

      ‘I hated you so much.’

      His fingers wandered north, making her breath catch. ‘Let me make it up to you…’ He kissed her neck, her throat, her breasts, her stomach, her—

      There was a clang from outside and Heather froze. Light flooded the tiny prison.

      He was back.

      She scrabbled her clothes back into place and hurried over to the bars as the door creaked open. ‘Please, I’m so thirsty.’

      The Butcher placed six two-litre bottles of water on the prison floor, then stepped outside again, leaving the door open. Heather grabbed them, cracked one open and drank deep. Coughing and spluttering in her haste. Twelve litres of water!

      And then the smell hit her – meaty and fragrant over the disinfectant reek coming from the chemical toilet. The Butcher was back, carrying a big plastic box. He dropped it at his feet, took a key from his apron pocket, unlocked a heavy brass padlock, and pushed open a gate in the bars.

      Heather could feel her bowels clench. This was it, he was going to kill her…

      But he didn’t. He opened the box and pulled out a tray covered with slices of roast meat, boiled potatoes, green beans, Brussels sprouts, Yorkshire puddings … enough food to feed an army.

      Heather almost wept.

      All this food. All this water!

      She crept forward and grabbed a slice of meat, cramming it into her mouth and chewing, washing it down with deep swigs of water.

      He stood watching her.

      ‘It’s … very good,’ she said, picking up another chunk and a handful of vegetables to go with it. Gravy dribbled down her chin as she ripped another bite out of the tender, juicy flesh. ‘Mmmphnngh …’ More water. ‘Delicious, really nice.’ Desperate not to sound ungrateful.

      The Butcher nodded, then stepped back to the other side of the bars, closed the gate and snapped the padlock back into place. Leaving her with her feast.

      Days’ worth of food and drink …

      ‘Are you … are you going away?’

      He stared silently at her, then pointed at the meat.

      ‘Please don’t leave me …’

      But he did.

      At least DI Insch had calmed down a bit by the time Logan emerged from the post mortem. Whole bodies were bad enough, but Brooks … Logan shuddered. It was like some sort of horrible jigsaw puzzle.

      All the chairs in the inspector’s office were occupied – DI Steel in one, the Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of CID in the other. Everyone waiting for Logan’s edited highlights.

      ‘Preliminary report won’t be out till the end of the day, but there’s a lot of bruising to the head, stomach, thighs and chest – he’d been repeatedly beaten. Looks like Brooks was held somewhere for about forty-eight hours before he …’ Logan tried to think of a tactful way to put it, ‘before he was thrown off the roof.’

      Silence.

      ‘Sorry, sir.’

      The inspector’s