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

swore. But the inspector was right: he owed Insch that much. ‘OK, OK, I’ll go see him.’

      ‘Good lad.’ Steel hauled herself out of the chair and headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, ‘But for God’s sake don’t tell him I sent you! Got my reputation as a hardnosed bitch to think about.’

      Half four and Steel still wasn’t back. Logan sat with a fresh cup of tea and the old Media Office file on Ian and Sharon McLaughlin – all the press releases, the follow-up articles culled from the newspapers, speeches written for whoever was Chief Constable at the time. One of the newspaper clippings included a photo of Ex-DSI Brooks outside the Sheriff Court, a thin and hirsute DC David Insch standing off to one side.‘SUSPECT REMANDED IN CUSTODY’.

      He laid the article out on the desk and sat back, staring at the death board. How many of them died because Brooks couldn’t get over his Wiseman-focussed monomania?

      Logan called Colin Miller and asked for a favour.

      ‘What, again? You still owe me lunch from last time.’

      ‘Do this one and we’ll call it dinner – takeaway Thai?’

      ‘I’m listening…’

      ‘Need you to go through the paper’s archives. Missing persons, housebreakings, outbreaks of food poisoning, CJD … that kind of thing. 1987 to 1990.’

      There was silence on the other end.

      ‘You gonnae tell me what this is all about?’

      ‘Nope.’

      ‘You expect me to go huntin’ through three years’ worth of pish, and you’re no’ gonnae tell me anythin’?’

      ‘Look we—’

      ‘Exclusive. I get the scoop on whatever it is, or I’m no’ liftin’ a finger.’

      ‘I’m just trying to put the original investigation into context.’

      ‘No exclusive, no deal.’

      Logan said he’d see what he could do. ‘It’s up to the inspector.’

      ‘Which one: Fatty or Wrinkly?’

      ‘Steel. Insch is on compassionate leave. His daughter—’

      ‘Fuck – sorry, man, I forgot. Look, I’ll do what I can, but I’ve got to go interview some scientist at the Rowett this afternoon. “HEPATITIS C IN THE FOOD CHAIN: HOW SAFE IS YOUR DINNER?” kind of thing.’

      Just what they needed, the papers stirring up more panic.

      ‘Tell you what: the Howff, eight o’clock, buy us a pint and we’ll talk about that exclusive.’

      ‘OK, we …’ Logan closed his eyes and swore quietly. ‘I can’t tonight, I’ve got a thing. Tomorrow?’

      ‘Fine, but you’re buying.’

      ‘Deal.’ Logan hung up and went back to the McLaughlin case file – putting off the inevitable, until guilt and hunger got the better of him. Like it or not, he had to go see the parents of the little girl he’d got killed.

      Logan pulled the CID pool car up to the kerb and killed the engine. Then sat there, looking out at the night-shrouded countryside. Psyching himself up. Two deep breaths. Count to ten.

      Count to ten again.

      ‘Come on …’ Logan grabbed the plastic bag from the passenger seat.

      There were no lights on at the front of the house, but a dented Renault Clio with ‘I’M DRIVING COURTESY OF TAM’S TURRIFF MOTORS!’ emblazoned down the side, was parked in the drive where the inspector’s Range Rover usually sat. Logan tried the bell.

      Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrringggggggggggg…

      It was cold out here. The faint yellow glow of streetlights filtered through the trees, making the autumn leaves shine like reptile skin. A gust of wind sent a couple swirling to their death, adding to the greasy slick that littered the front garden.

      He pressed the bell again.

      One more time, then he was going to give up and go home.

      Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrringggggggggggg…

      A light blossomed above the door.

      ‘Inspector?’

      Clunk, jingle, and the door drifted open a crack. Then came the sound of someone shuffling off back into the house.

      ‘Inspector? Hello?’ Logan put one hand on the wood and pushed. The hallway was in darkness, but down at the far end he could just make out Insch’s rounded bulk as he placed a foot on the stairs and began to climb.

      Logan stepped inside and closed the door behind him. ‘Are you OK?’

      Insch just kept on climbing, the stairs creaking as he disappeared from view.

      ‘Oh God …’ Logan peered into the lounge: it was a disaster area. The settee and armchairs upturned, stuffing ripped out, wooden frames buckled, coffee table a heap of twisted metal and broken glass. The dining room was just as bad: chairs broken, table on its side – a perfect circle of scorched varnish just visible in the gloom.

      Insch must have run out of steam by the time he’d reached the kitchen. Logan backed out into the hall and crept up the stairs.

      He found the inspector sitting on the floor in the corner of a small bedroom, surrounded by stuffed animals. The faint orange glow of a plug-in nightlight glittered back from dozens of black plastic eyes. A hand-painted sign on the door said, ‘SOPHIE’S SECRET PALACE – BEWARE OF THE DRAGON!!!’

      Logan stopped at the threshold. ‘How’s Miriam?’

      Insch sniffed, wiped his nose on the back of his hand, then picked up a fluffy unicorn. His voice was small and ragged: ‘She was going to be a doctor. Or a ballerina. Or an astronaut. Depended on what day it was …’ He hadn’t showered or shaved in a couple of days; his jowls covered in dark-blue stubble, heavy black bags under his eyes, clothes rumpled and stained. The smell of stale alcohol oozed out of him.

      Logan picked his way through the furry minefield of bears and dinosaurs and pigs and dragons, then sank down with his back to the unmade bed. ‘Everyone at the station’s asking for you. They’re getting up a collection. Going to get a park bench dedicated to Sophie.’ It had sounded so appropriate when Steel had told him about it yesterday, now it just sounded hollow and crass.‘… I’m sorry.’

      ‘She left me. Miriam. She got out the hospital, took the girls and went to her mother’s.’ Another sniff. ‘Said she couldn’t bear to look at me anymore. That it was my fault.’

      ‘Sir, I—’

      ‘Wiseman was after me, and they paid for it.’ He wrapped his huge arms around the little unicorn, buried his face in its fur.

      Logan closed his eyes and stepped off the cliff: ‘I wasn’t your fault, it was mine. If I hadn’t chased Wiseman—’

      ‘He was going to sell her to a paedophile. Right now, she’d be …’ The huge man shuddered. When he looked up his eyes sparkled with tears. ‘How do you explain to a child’s mother that her little girl’s better off dead?’

      ‘I’m so sorry…’ Logan pulled open the carrier bag, and dragged out four tins of Guinness. ‘Got them at that wee supermarket in Newmachar. Still cold.’ He held one out.

      Insch took the tin, clicked the ring pull and drank deep.

      ‘Here,’ Logan went back into the bag for a family-sized packet of jelly babies and a box of Terry’s All Gold, ‘The chocolates were for Miriam.’

      The inspector stared at the bag of little pink, red, green, purple, and yellow