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

of DI Steel.

      The DCS nodded. ‘Good point. I don’t need to tell you all how dangerous Ken Wiseman is. No one is to take any chances, but I want him in a cell, not a body bag. Now, any questions?’

      Logan stuck his hand up. ‘He called the BBC at quarter to eleven to make an appointment for two. That’s over three hours. He’s got to know they’d tell us about it, why give us so much notice?’

      It was Faulds who answered. ‘Wiseman has a serious persecution complex. This is his chance to go down in a blaze of glory, and he gets to do it all on national television.’

      The DCS cleared his throat. ‘As I was saying: no one is to take any chances.’ He pointed at one of the firearms officers. ‘Yes, Brodie?’

      ‘Where’s DI Insch?’

      ‘The inspector is taking some personal time. Any other questions?’

      Back in the history room, Logan peered at Faulds over a pile of crime scene reports. ‘I still say he should be there.’

      The Chief Constable sighed. ‘As your DCS says, Insch has been under a lot of stress lately, he just needs some time—’

      ‘I’ve called his house and his mobile a dozen times, what if something’s happened?’

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘What if Wiseman’s gone after him too? Insch was part of the team that put—’

      ‘So was I. So were a lot of people. We had about a hundred officers working the case at one point. Insch was just a constable back then, your DCS was more influential in the prosecution than Insch.’ He paused. ‘But if it makes you feel any better, get a patrol car to swing past.’

      Logan called the Oldmeldrum station – little more than a couple of rooms bolted onto the secondary school – and listened to the phone ring … the call was diverted to an Airwave handset that hissed and crackled, with the faint sound of yelling and mooing in the background. ‘Hullo?’

      ‘This is DS McRae from FHQ, I need you to get a car round to DI Insch’s house, South Road, number—’

      ‘Aye, I ken where he lives. But I canna go roond there the noo. We’ve hid a fatal RTA – poor bugger in a Fiesta hit a coo on the road tae Turra. Some feel left the gate open: I’ve got coos and blood all ower the place.’ Which explained the cattle noises in the background.

      ‘How soon do you think you could—’

      ‘God knows. Like a bloody abattoir out here.’

      ‘Well … do what you can, OK?’ Logan hung up and fidgeted for a bit.

      ‘You really are worried, aren’t you?’ said Faulds. ‘How long would it take you from here? There and back?’

      Logan checked his watch. ‘If we floor it, about an hour and a half.’

      ‘Right.’ Faulds stood and grabbed his coat. ‘But if we’re not back before Wiseman’s TV slot, I’ll personally strangle you, OK?’

      ‘Deal.’

      They hurried down through the building, making for the rear podium. A small clump of cameramen loitered at the back door, smoking cigarettes and talking about focal lengths. Alec waved as Logan and Faulds pushed through the back doors.

      ‘This is going to be so cool!’ he said, following them to a pool car speckled with rust and seagull droppings. ‘Can I ride with you guys? I’ve got a great idea for a travelling shot, all the way through Torry and up to the Battery, we—’

      ‘Sorry, Alec.’ Logan wrenched open the driver’s door. ‘We’ve got to go pick up Insch.’

      ‘But …’ The cameraman looked at his watch, his colleagues, back to Logan and then at his watch again. ‘But isn’t he all the way out—’

      ‘Yes, that’s why we can’t hang around talking to—’

      ‘Shite …’ Alec clambered into the back seat. ‘Come on then, let’s roll!’

      Logan put his foot down – the dual carriageway flashing past as they took the quick route through Bucksburn, past the airport, and out into the countryside, Bennachie looming vast and purple in the distance.

      ‘So …’ Faulds watched the fields go by. ‘I was talking to DI Steel this morning.’ He left a pause, but Logan didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

      ‘That’s nice.’

      The Chief Constable pointed at Logan’s bruised face. ‘She says your girlfriend beat you up.’

      Gossipy old cow. ‘Ex-girlfriend. And she didn’t beat me up. It was an accident.’ Lie. ‘Do you really think Wiseman’s going to be stupid enough to show up?’

      ‘Don’t change the subject.’

      ‘There’s nothing to tell, OK? We broke up. End of story.’

      Alec peered through from the back. ‘I dumped this girl once – law student – two weeks later she lets herself into my flat with a spare set of keys and craps in the bed. Then she covers it with the duvet and fucks off. Course, I come back steaming that night, with a quantity surveyor called Daphne. We tear each other’s clothes off and jump into bed… Fucking horrible it was. Went everywhere.’

      An embarrassed silence settled into the car.

      ‘What? I was just saying, OK?’ Alec slumped back into his seat. ‘Honestly, some people would find that kinky. I used to know this guy—’

      Faulds turned and stared at him. ‘Better leave it there, Alec. Don’t want to spoil the magic.’

      In the end Wiseman had to stuff a dishtowel in the fat bastard’s mouth to get him to shut up. Insch didn’t look well, sat there, strapped to his armchair, face all covered with bruises and tears and snot. Trembling and furious.

      Wiseman glanced at the clock – the telly people were expecting him at two – he had to get a shift on. ‘Well, Fatso, I’ve got to go. It’s been fun, but tempus fugit, and all that.’ He grabbed Insch’s nose and pinched the nostrils shut, watching him struggle for oxygen. He could kill him with two fingers. Just like that… But it would be a waste.

      He let go and Insch dragged a shuddering breath in through his podgy nose. ‘But before I leave,’ Wiseman wiped his fingers on the fat bastard’s shirt, ‘have to decide what to do with you.’ He picked up the boning knife and rested the point on that disgusting, huge stomach. ‘I could open you up like the fat fucking piggy you are, gut you right here. Would you like that, Fat Boy?’

      Insch glared at him, furious hissing noises coming from his flared nostrils.

      ‘Thought so. But know what I’m going to do instead? I’m going to hurt you.’ He slammed his fist into the bastard’s face, rocking that angry scarlet head back on its huge pink neck. ‘Made an appointment with the BBC – stupid bastards actually think I’m going to turn up, when I know the whole place will be swarming with cops.’ He smiled. ‘You know where I’ll be while they’re looking the other way, Fat Boy?’

      Wiseman went upstairs and came back carrying a wriggling piglet with blonde pigtails, tied hand and foot.

      The little girl took one look at her parents, and froze. He dumped her on the floor at Daddy’s feet. ‘Three daughters. That’s one for you, one for me, and one for the pot.’ Wiseman picked up the frying pan again, and poured the last of the fat and gravy over Insch’s head. ‘She was tasty, wasn’t she?’

      The bitch moaned and wailed behind her gag, but the fat man looked ready for murder.

      ‘What will I do with my one? Hmm?’ Bending down to stroke the piglet’s hair. ‘What will I do with my little girl?’ He looked up into Insch’s terrified face, then backhanded him again.