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

said Rennie, dressed for some unfathomable reason in a dog collar and priestly black, ‘how come whenever the Flesher strikes, our so-called Chief Constable Faulds is nowhere to be seen?’

      Logan consigned his empty pint glass to the drinker’s graveyard that covered the table. ‘You’re not still on about this, are you?’

      ‘Where is he tonight, then?’

      ‘How should I know?’

      ‘Exactly!’ Rennie finished off his Stella and plonked it down with the others.

      Logan shook his head. ‘I don’t know where Steel is either, but that doesn’t make her Jack the bloody Ripper.’ He pointed at the collection of empties. ‘Your round.’

      The constable stood, pulled on an ecclesiastical expression, and marched off to the bar. Blessing random strangers on the way, leaving his girlfriend behind.

      Rennie wasn’t kidding about Laura’s kinky schoolgirl outfit – she was dressed in an exact replica of the Albyn School uniform, only she had her shirt-tails tied beneath her breasts, hoiking them up to create a vertiginous cleavage and exposing her stomach at the same time. The skirt was so short there was a flash of white knickers every time she moved her stockinged legs. She’d even put her long, blonde hair in pigtails and painted freckles on her cheeks.

      Logan had never really got the whole schoolgirl fantasy thing himself – it always seemed a bit paedophilic – but the other men at the table were falling over themselves to laugh at her jokes and ogle her breasts.

      Logan barely heard his phone when it went off. ‘Hello?’ With all the laughing, jiggling and rampant testosterone, he couldn’t make out a word. ‘Hold on, I’ll have to go outside …’

      The front door to Archibald Simpson’s was sheltered by a granite portico, held up by huge Ionic columns, a perfect little haven for all the banished smokers to light up in. He waded through the cigarette smog to the outer edge, looking into the cold, rainy night as Colin Miller said, ‘You in the pub again? Christ knows how your liver copes … Listen, I did a search on all the victims, right? No’ just the Aberdeen ones: every bugger. They all had a wee thing in the papers three or four weeks before they died. It’s like clockwork, but.’

      ‘You sure?’

      ‘Every last one of them. Gonna be all over the front page tomorrow: “HEADLINES SPELL DEATH FOR FLESHER VICTIMS!” Continued page seven, eight and nine.’

      ‘Can you email me all the references you found?’

      ‘What am I, your secretary?’

      ‘Oh come on, you wouldn’t have a story at all if—’

      ‘Aye, aye. Bloody prima donna.’ But he promised to send them straight over. ‘You up for that curry you owe us this week then?’

      ‘Khyber Pass, or Light of Bengal?’ They were still debating the relative merits of sit-in versus takeaway, when someone poked Logan in the shoulder and said, ‘Shift over for God’s sake. I’m bloody drowning out here.’

      DI Steel squeezed in beside him, then dragged her hands through her sodden hair, shaking the water off all over Logan’s trousers as he hung up.

      ‘Hey, watch it!’

      ‘Oh, grow up, you’re no’ going to melt.’ She gave her hair one last pass – leaving it remarkably tidy-looking for a change – then produced a packet of cigarettes from her sodden jacket and lit up. ‘How come you’re looking so happy? Someone polish your truncheon for you?’

      ‘I’ve found a connection.’

      ‘Four hours I waited in that bloody doctor’s surgery.’ The inspector hauled up her trousers. ‘You any idea how many buggers are getting themselves tested for HIV and Hepatitis C right now? Thousands. National Health Service my sharny arse!’

      ‘Should’ve gone to the duty doc.’

      ‘I’m no’ letting that bastard anywhere near me with a needle.’ She smoked her way into a scowl. ‘I liked Doc Wilson better. Might’ve been a miserable cancer-ridden bastard, but at least he could take a joke.’

      Probably not the epitaph the ex-duty doctor had been hoping for. ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I … hold on a minute – what connection?’

      Logan told her about the newspaper clippings.

      ‘Bloody hell …’ She took the cigarette out of her mouth, grabbed his shoulders, and planted a big, smoky kiss on his lips. ‘Laz, I love you! Call the station and let them know, then I’m going to buy you a bloody huge drink!’

      He phoned Control, and by the time he’d finished Steel was waiting for him inside with a double Highland Park. ‘Well?’ She handed him the glass. ‘What did …’ she drifted to a halt, staring at Rennie’s girlfriend as the constable reached the punchline of whatever joke he was telling. Laura threw back her head and laughed, exposing the smooth skin from her throat all the way down into her cleavage. Setting everything jiggling.

      ‘Oooooh,’ said Steel, ‘that can’t be legal.’ She drifted off into a little reverie… ‘Yes, anyway, come on. Can’t spend all night staring at nubile young women’s chests: there’s drinking to be done.’

       45

      ‘All right, all right, settle down.’ Detective Chief Superintendent Bain stuck his mug on the desk at the front of the briefing room and waited for quiet. Logan sat with DI Steel, two rows back, marinating in the aftermath of a well-deserved hangover.

      Nearly everyone in the team had wanted to buy him a drink when Steel told them about the newspaper connection, and Logan had let them.

      ‘You’ll have heard,’ said Bain, ‘that we finally know how the Flesher is selecting his victims.’ He held up a copy of that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner, with Colin Miller’s exclusive splashed all over the front page. A ragged cheer went up and Logan blushed.

      DCS Bain held up a hand. ‘Before anyone breaks out the champagne, think about it: each of the Flesher’s victims was featured in a newspaper article before their death. Press and Journal, Evening Express, Dundee Courier, Glasgow Herald, Daily Mail, Scotsman, Sunday Post… Do you have any idea how many people read those papers?’

      And suddenly Logan’s glow didn’t feel so rosy.

      ‘Exactly. Millions. This tells us how the Flesher picks his victims, but it’s a long way from getting us his name and address.’

      Steel nudged Logan in the ribs. ‘Told you.’ Which was a lie.

      ‘But,’ said Bain cutting through the groans, ‘it might give us an insight into the mind of the bastard. Which brings me to item two on the agenda: Doctor Goulding.’ He pointed and a man in a sharp grey suit stood and joined him at the front.

      ‘Hi, call me Dave, OK?’ Liverpool accent, hooked nose, hair like animal pelt, and a lurid tie that looked as if someone had eaten a whole range of fluorescent paint and then thrown up on it.

      ‘Chief Constable Faulds asked me to come in and present a profile on the Flesher. I’ve worked with sexually motivated violent offenders for fifteen years, attended training courses with the FBI at their Quantico headquarters, worked as a profiler for the Metropolitan Police …’

      Steel leant over and whispered in Logan’s ear, ‘Lived in an octopus’s garden, dressed up in women’s clothing, had sex with a vacuum cleaner, am in love with the sound of my own sodding