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

the Flesher standing on the top step. How everything was covered in blood…

      Still, the calm had been nice while it lasted.

      ‘Kelley?’

      ‘Shh … I’m here, Heather. It’s OK. You just need a bit of sleep, that’s all.’

      ‘I think there was something wrong with the meat …’

      Silence.

      ‘What? What was wrong with it?’

      ‘Maureen. The new girl. She said her sister was diabetic. She’d be injecting herself with drugs … I thought it tasted funny… Oh God …’

      Kelley reached through the bars and gave Heather’s hand a squeeze. ‘They inject with insulin. It occurs naturally in the body. I doubt it’d even survive the cooking process. Maybe you got concussion when you banged your head?’

      ‘Maybe.’

      The screaming settled down for a minute and Heather breathed a sigh of relief. Then it started up again. ‘That bloody racket isn’t helping.’

      She waited for Mr New to appear and tell her she was being cruel, but nothing happened. Maybe he was off giving Duncan’s ghost a hard time? The sulky sod had barely showed his dead face since Kelley arrived. Or maybe it was Heather’s fault? Maybe Duncan wasn’t coming round so often because she was getting a little bit less mad every day? Now that she wasn’t trapped in here on her own any more, maybe she was going slowly sane.

      Heather laughed. Then groaned. Then thought about throwing up.

      ‘You should take some of your medicine. He made me promise to give you your medicine if you weren’t feeling well.’

      ‘I don’t feel well.’

      Kelley let go of her hand and there was a scrabbling sound. Then a package was pressed into Heather’s palm: tinfoil, wrapped around two small pills. ‘You have to take these and get better. If you don’t he’ll come back and hurt me. Don’t make him hurt me …’

      Heather didn’t want to take them.

      ‘Now, Honey—’ Duncan poked her in the shoulder.

      ‘Where have you been?’

      ‘Heather? I’m right here.’

      ‘Just take your medicine.’

      ‘But it could be anything.’

      ‘Honey, if He wanted to hurt you He could turn you into veal chops any time he liked, couldn’t He?’

      ‘But—’

      ‘But nothing. You’re not feeling well, remember? You banged your head? And if you don’t take them He’s going to hurt Kelley. You want to make Him hurt her?’

      Heather ran a finger over the pills. ‘No.’

      ‘So take your medicine and nobody has to die.’

      Operator: Emergency services, which service do you require?

      Caller (female): It’s him! From the papers and the telly! The Flesh bloke!

      Operator: It’s OK, madam, we—

      Caller: I saw him! I was looking out the window and I saw him! He climbed in over the back fence!

      Operator: He’s in your back garden?

      Caller: Not my garden, next door! I saw him – he had the mask and the apron. He went in the back door!

      Operator: Can you confirm your address for me?

      Caller: Seventy-three Springhill Crescent, Northfield. Hurry!

      Operator: I need you to stay inside and lock all your doors and windows. The police are on their way.

      Anderson Drive flashed by the car’s windows, the city’s lights glowing in the indigo night. Logan kept his foot flat to the floor, following in the wake of blaring sirens and flashing lights. Sitting in the passenger seat, Faulds turned the radio up.

      ‘Alpha Mike Three, this is Alpha Sixteen, what’s your ETA, over?’

      ‘Just coming up to the roundabout onto Provost Frazer Drive so about—’ the sound of a horn blaring in the background. Jesus! LEARN TO DRIVE YOU WANKER! Did you see that? Get the bastard’s number plate…’

      ‘Still waiting on that ETA, Alpha Mike Three.’

      ‘Oh, right. Five, six minutes tops.’

      ‘OK,’ said Faulds, as they flew through a set of red traffic lights, ‘who’s had firearms training?’

      Steel shouted through from the back seat. ‘Don’t look at me.’

      ‘Alec?’

      The cameraman shrugged. ‘Not the sort of thing they do in the BBC.’

      ‘Logan?’

      ‘Last Christmas, but I’ve never been on an actual—’

      ‘Good enough for me.’ He picked up the radio handset.

      ‘Control, this is Chief Constable Mark Faulds. Tell the Senior Firearms Officer he’s to stay put till I get there.’

      ‘But, sir—’

      ‘I’ve handled dozens of these situations before. You don’t get to be Chief Constable by hiding under a desk.’

      There was some muffled conversation, and then the voice on the other end said, ‘Yes, sir.’

      Faulds winked at Logan. ‘You and I are going to be in at the kill.’

      That was what Logan was afraid of.

      Springhill Crescent was a strange conglomeration of semidetached houses: some were harled, but others were clad in dark brown wood, looking like something out of a Norwegian housing estate. Number Seventy-two was the left-hand side of a pair, its exterior in need of a good coat of creosote. The upstairs lights were on, glowing in the cold night.

      Logan ducked back behind a people carrier two doors down. ‘Are you sure about this?’

      Faulds grinned. ‘You ready?’

      ‘How the hell did you talk them into it?’

      ‘Rank has its privileges.’ Faulds ejected the magazine from his borrowed Heckler and Koch MP5 automatic machine pistol, checked the load, and slapped it back into place. Then did the same with his Glock 9mm. He squeezed the airwave handset attached to the shoulder of his black, bulletproof jacket. ‘Team Three, we are good to go.’

      A click. ‘Roger that, Team Three… Sir, are you sure I can’t—’

      ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ He peered round the side of the huge car. ‘Any movement?’

      ‘Negative. Target is still in the building.’

      Logan adjusted the strap on his borrowed helmet, pulling it tight under his chin, then wrapped the black scarf around the lower half of his face, like the bad guy in a cowboy film. It smelt of stale cigarette smoke and onions.

      Faulds did the same. ‘You nervous?’

      ‘Bricking it. You?’

      ‘Stay behind me; you’ll be fine.’ He patted Logan on the back. ‘Flesher’s got a knife and a bolt gun, neither’s going to go through your vest. OK?’

      ‘All teams – positions for entry.’

      ‘Here we go …’

      They ran for the front door, staying low through the gate and up the concrete