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

said Steel, watching as the IB packed their kit back into the filthy Transit van, ‘that was a waste of time and money.’ It was cold and dark outside, just a sliver of moon poking out between the clouds as everyone locked up and got ready to go home.

      The lead tech peeled off his SOC suit. ‘Nothing left to find – the whole place’s been bleached to buggery and back, half the carpet’s missing, any evidence is so compromised it’s not funny.’

      Steel turned and poked Logan in the shoulder. ‘Well, Poirot, you figured out how you’re going to explain this one to the ACC?’

      ‘But it’s a copycat, it has to be.’

      ‘Blah, blah, blah.’

      A loud bleeping noise came from inside the house, closely followed by the wailing alarm and a uniformed PC’s head. ‘It’s not working properly!’

      Logan rolled his eyes. ‘Did you enter the alarm code?’

      ‘Course I entered the alarm code: one, nine, nine, three.’

      ‘Five. One, nine, nine, five.’

      The PC disappeared back into the house muttering, ‘Bloody handwriting’s appalling …’

      Logan turned back to the IB team-leader. ‘Is there anything we didn’t search?’

      ‘House, garden, garage, cars – we did the lot.’

      ‘Come on, Laz,’ said Steel, ‘give it up, eh?’

      He pulled out the last search report again, flipping through to the photocopied map at the back – reading by the glow of the Transit van’s headlights. They’d gone over every nch of the property, twice, and still not turned up anything. Logan took one last look around him: house, front garden, flash cars, road, field, other field, garage, and back to the house again. The nearest neighbours were a faint yellow flicker through trees. Miles from anywhere.

      ‘You think they’re on mains water?’

      Steel shrugged. ‘Probably.’

      ‘What about sewage?’ Clutching at straws.

      ‘How the hell would …’ She drifted to a halt and stared at him. ‘Oh, you’re kidding… Tell me you’re kidding!’

      ‘It’d have to be downhill from the house, but close enough to the road so the tanker can get in and drain it.’ He started walking round the garden, Steel hot on his heels.

      ‘If you think I’m rummaging through someone else’s jobbies in my good work suit, you’ve got another think coming!’

      There was no sign of a septic tank cover anywhere in the front garden. ‘OK, the road runs downhill to the right. We just have to see if we can find one there.’

      ‘I’m warning you, Sergeant, if I get shite on my suit—’

      But he was already out of the front gate, wandering down the road in the dark, probing the field next to the house with a torch. Mud, grass, mud, sheep … He switched his attention to the grass verge: more mud, patch of dead nettles, brambles, a roadkill rabbit, yet more mud. A rectangular shape poked out between tufts of grass. Logan squatted down and rapped on it with his knuckles. Solid.

      He ran the torch round the edges of the slab. It was overgrown with grass and weeds, bedded in with a thick layer of mud.

      Steel stood beside him, staring down at the septic tank lid. ‘There you go: no bugger’s moved that for ages. No need to go guddling about in crap after all. Oh dear, what a shame.’ She consoled herself with one last cigarette. ‘Time to call this little disaster to a halt and bugger off to the pub.’

      ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right.’ He stood, torch grazing across the lid one last time. There was a faint glimmer of something white… Logan bent down and peered at it – a scrape in the side of the concrete, pale cream in the torch’s yellow glow. It was the only thing not clarted in mud.

      ‘Come on then, I’m parched.’

      He took a handful of grass and pulled – it came away from the lid in a slab of spiky green, like a punk toupee. ‘It’s been peeled off and slapped back on again, so no one would know. Look.’

      Steel did. ‘So, maybe they had it emptied recently, and …’ She stood there, smoking furiously. ‘Ah bugger it, we’re going to have to search the bloody thing, aren’t we?’

      ‘Yup.’

      Mr New’s voice was a painful whisper in the darkness: ‘That’s him! Are you ready?’

      Heather shrank back against the wall. ‘I don’t feel well …’

      A rattle and clunk from the door to the prison.

      ‘It’s our only chance!’ And then Mr New was silent as a shaft of light rushed across the rusty floor. He was lying on his side, arms and legs arranged as if he were still unconscious. As if he weren’t dangerous.

      Enter the Flesher, carrying a bucket of soapy water; the smell of pine disinfectant cutting through the bitter reek of Mr New’s vomit. One step, two steps, three steps…

      She glanced at Mr New who was mouthing, ‘Now. Scream now!’ at her.

      Heather moaned. Clutched her stomach.

      Mr New glared at her, forming words without sound: ‘Please!’

      She screamed.

      The Flesher ran to her, water and foam slopping out of the bucket. Mr New lurched to his feet and charged, lips curled back in a snarl, exposing missing teeth and bloody gums, his face covered in bruises. He slammed into the Flesher’s back and they both crashed into the bars. The metal room reverberated with the sound of flesh and bone against metal.

      The bucket hit the rusty floor and bounced, end over end, the contents spraying out.

      Mr New reeled backwards, and charged again. BOOOOM! The Flesher staggered. Mr New grabbed the back of the rubber Mrs Thatcher mask and rammed the Flesher’s head into the bars.

      ‘Grab his hands! Grab the fucker’s hands!’

      Duncan was right behind her.‘Don’t do it, Heather.’

      ‘I …’

      ‘GRAB HIS HANDS!’

      ‘He can’t beat him. No one can beat him.’

      Mr New smashed the Flesher’s head off the bars again. ‘GRAB HIS FUCKING HANDS!’

      The Flesher looked up, hollow eyes latching onto Heather’s. He was the Dark and he knew. This was a test.

      ‘No.’

      ‘HEATHER: GRAB HIS FUCKING HANDS!’

      ‘I can’t …’

      ‘Don’t get involved.’

      The Flesher turned and grabbed a handful of Mr New’s shirt. Then buried a fist in his face.

      Mr New staggered, slipped in the puddle of vomit, and fell back against the wall. BOOOM… He lay there, groaning, and the Flesher kicked him in the head. Mr New’s skull clattered off the metal wall. A spray of blood burst from his lips, spattering down onto the rusty floor.

      ‘No one can beat Him. He’s eternal.’

      The Flesher lurched back a couple of steps, and kicked Mr New again. Then grabbed him by the throat, dragged him upright, and slammed him against the bars. Mr New’s arms hung limp at his sides, and then his knees gave way. He slid sideways down the bars, his head bouncing off the floor.

      Two minutes later the Flesher was hauling the tin bath into the prison – Heather nearly wet herself. She scrambled back into the far corner, biting her lip, trying not to cry, trying not to draw attention to herself. She’d been good, she’d been good, she’d