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

the little furry unicorn to his chest. ‘No it’s not. It’s never going to be OK again.’

      The kitchen light seemed harsh and artificial after the soft glow of Sophie’s bedroom. They sat at the kitchen table, Insch hunched over a glass of whisky and a mug of sweet, milky coffee, the steam curling up around his bald head. Logan slid the opened box of All Gold back across the tabletop.

      Insch didn’t look up. ‘Has he confessed?’

      ‘Denying everything: says I beat him up. You imagine that? He’d have me for sodding breakfast. Besides Alec got the whole thing on camera.’

      Insch took a Caramel Nectar and stuck it in his mouth, followed by a sip of whisky. ‘Did he … is Sophie on it?’

      Logan didn’t want to answer that one, but he didn’t see that he had any choice. ‘Yes.’

      The inspector nodded. And helped himself to another chocolate. ‘I want you to do something for me.’ His voice was a dark rumble, colder than the November night howling against the kitchen window. ‘I want you to go to Craiginches and you tell Wiseman that I’m sorry.’

      Logan nearly choked. ‘Did you say—’

      ‘I should never have assaulted him. I was a policeman, he was a prisoner, I had no right.’ Insch downed half his whisky in one go. ‘I looked up to Brooks. He was everything I wanted to be: he got the job done. Put people behind bars. He bent the rules, but it … it took me a long time to realize he was wrong. The ends didn’t justify pounding the crap out of suspects. Made us no better than they were.’ The last of the whisky disappeared. ‘You’ll tell him?’

      ‘Are you sure?’

      The inspector held the cut crystal glass in his huge hand, twisting it so that little diamonds of light sparkled on the tabletop. ‘And then you tell that piece of shit I’m going to be waiting for him.’

      ‘Sir, you can’t do that. He’s—’

      ‘I don’t care how long it takes: I’m going to rip his balls off with my bare hands and feed them to him.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘No bastard is ever going to find his body.’

      ‘It’s over. Even if we can’t pin the Flesher killings on him, after what he did to you and Miriam and Sophie, they’ll never let him out. He’s going to die in Peterhead Prison.’

      Insch looked up, his eyes dangerous and black. ‘I know. And I’m going to be there when he does, with my hands round his throat.’

       33

      Thursday morning lashed against the tiny window of the Flesher history room, the wind and rain playing counterpart to the ping and groan of the solitary anaemic radiator. Logan stuck his finger in his ear and tried again, shouting into the phone: ‘No, not McKay, McRae: Mike, Charlie, Romeo, Alpha, Echo.’

      Static. A high-pitched buzzing noise.

      ‘Is this Detective Superintendent Danby? Hello? You left a message about the Flesher’s Newcastle victims?’

      More buzzing, and then: ‘… know what I’m sayin?’ The DSI’s voice was like a Geordie foghorn.

      ‘Sorry, I can barely hear you.’

      ‘Look, I went through the files, right? There’s nothin’ in there about them bein’ in Weight Watchers.’

      DI Steel slouched into the room, but Logan got his hand up before she could open her mouth. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a copy ofthe investigation reports here. But did anybody ask the families? I mean, if there wasn’t any reason—’

      ‘So what are you expectin’ me to do? Go round and ask the poor bastards’ relatives if they were tryin’ to lose weight? It was nearly twenty years ago: know what I mean?’

      ‘Look, I wouldn’t ask, but we’ve got some victims here who were members and—’

      ‘And you think this is how he finds them.’

      ‘Well—’

      ‘I’ll stick a couple of woodentops on it, OK? Can’t say fairer than that, know what I mean?’

      ‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.’

      ‘You can thank us by catching the bastard.’

      Steel waited for Logan to hang up, then plonked herself on the corner of his desk and peered at his notes. ‘Oh for God’s sake: you were supposed to chase up this Weight Watchers thing days ago. What the hell have you been doing?’

      ‘I did. That was Newcastle getting back to me. And how come you’re so bloody cheery this morning?’

      She scowled at him. ‘Don’t start, I’m no’ in the mood. Where’s Defective Constable Rennie?’

      ‘Bain’s got him going through more of those INTERPOL reports.’

      ‘Yeah, like that’s going to help.’ She stuck her hands into her armpits and turned to face the death board, in all its bloodstained glory. ‘Susan proposed last night.’

      ‘Congratulations?’

      ‘’Cos I don’t have enough to worry about. Last year it was all, “Let’s get a cat!” now it’s, “Let’s get married!” You know what’s next, don’t you? Bloody babies.’ She shuddered. ‘Creepy little bastards…’

      The inspector started rummaging through the paperwork on Logan’s desk. ‘So come on then: how is he? Insch.’

      Hunched up and crying at the kitchen table. Planning revenge. Depressed. Dangerous. Destructive. Drinking away his pain. Grieving… ‘He’s OK.’

      Steel nodded. ‘Thought so. Hard as nails is our Inschy.’ She stopped at the plastic wallet containing Wiseman’s second – better typed – confession and skimmed through it. ‘This is appalling …’

      ‘Got a call from Craiginches – Ken Wiseman beat the living hell out of Richard Davidson last night. Thought I should go up, have a word. Maybe ask him about that,’ He pointed at the confession.

      ‘What, Wiseman won’t speak to Faulds, or Bain, or me, or that Liverpudlian psychologist toss-pot, but police hero DS Logan McRae’ll get him to talk?’

      ‘I only meant—’

      ‘Ah, like I care.’ She dropped the confession back on Logan’s desk. ‘It’s the mighty DCS Bain’s investigation now. You can do whatever you like, I’m off for a fag.’ She stood. ‘I’d say take Alec with you, but he’s got his camera glued to His Holiness DCS Bain’s arse.’ Putting on a whiny voice for: ‘Oh Detective Chief Superintendent, you’re so big and clever!’

      Probably just as well – Logan didn’t really want a BBC film crew there while he passed on Insch’s message.

      ‘But don’t forget we’ve got that bloody case peer-review with Strathclyde at half twelve.’

      ‘But I’m not—’

      ‘If I have to be there, so do you. And you’re no’ wriggling out of it, so don’t even try. Half twelve: if you’re late I’m going to … do something nasty to you. Can’t be arsed thinking what at the moment, but it won’t be pleasant.’

      Wiseman coughed, then spat whatever he’d brought up onto the scuffed linoleum floor. The interview room wasn’t exactly straight out of Better Homes And Prisons magazine, but the glob of glistening phlegm didn’t help. The butcher’s face was a mass of bruises, Elastoplasts, little white butterfly stitches, and scabs.

      Logan took another