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

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pool car’s siren, but Logan wasn’t exactly looking forward to getting there. At least the nose-to-tail traffic put off the inevitable …

      He pushed through into the noisy incident room and everything went silent. Then the Detective Chief Superintendent started a round of applause, uniform and CID standing to join in. The DCS clapped him on the shoulder and told the room how he was a credit to the force. How they’d never have caught Wiseman if it wasn’t for Logan. How everyone was proud of him.

      But Logan didn’t feel very proud. Not when all he could think about was that little girl lying on the tarmac, face white, lips blue. The high-pitched whine of the defibrillator as the paramedics tried to restart her heart. The look on her mother’s face when he told her. Insch in tears. No, he didn’t feel very proud at all.

      Midnight. Two steps to the right … lurch to the left … bang into the thing in the hall, stuff clattering to the floor … Logan fumbled for the light switch, missed, tried again, and finally light blossomed in the little hallway. ‘Honey, I’m home.’ It took three goes to get the key out of the lock. Jacket up on the hook by the door.

      And stumble through to the kitchen…

      ‘Oh … bollocks.’ The place was a mess: flour and eggs all over the work surface and the floor. The bedroom was just as bad – drawers lying open, the contents spewed out over every available inch. The lounge was like a bombsite. CDs and cushions and junk mail strewn all over the carpet. Suddenly Logan felt a lot more sober.

      But the TV and DVD player were still there, and so was his laptop. What sort of burglar, broke in and didn’t steal anything?

      The only things missing were Jackie’s clothes and possessions: the industrial grey underwear; the stuffed and porcelain pigs; the hairdryer; the extensive collection of shampoos, conditioners, moisturisers, and other assorted unguents …

      She’d come past, picked up her stuff and trashed the place. This was going to take forever to clean up.

      Back in the bedroom Logan picked up one edge of the duvet and peered underneath, hoping Jackie wasn’t as vindictive as Alec’s ex. At least the bed was a jobbie-free zone. He sat on the mattress, looking at the devastation. Just to be on the safe side, he wasn’t going to brush his teeth tonight: Jackie might not lower herself to crapping on the fitted sheet, but he wouldn’t put cleaning the loo with his toothbrush past her.

      ‘What a brilliant, fucking day.’

       25

      Interview Room Number Two was stiflingly hot. It stank of stale sweat, stale cigarette smoke, farts, and too much aftershave. None of which were doing Logan’s hangover any favours. Plus, he was pretty certain DC Simon Rennie was responsible for the most offensive of the smells, but the constable denied everything.

      Rennie shifted from one foot to the other, and Logan braced himself for the eggy onslaught.

      ‘Will you stop bloody doing that!’

      Rennie manufactured an innocent expression. ‘I didn’t do anything. Probably Laughing Boy here.’ He pointed at the prisoner.

      ‘Fuck you.’ Ken Wiseman’s voice was like razorblades and gravel. His face wasn’t much better: covered in little sticking plasters, scratches and scabs; bruises spreading across his pale skin; nose squint; right arm in a fibreglass cast. Which had made getting the handcuffs on interesting.

      ‘Ooh, hark at Oscar Wilde.’ Rennie stuck two fingers up behind Wiseman’s back. ‘Shut up, Kenneth.’

      ‘Want to make me?’ The butcher raised his hands, jerking them, making the cuffs creak. ‘Think these’ll stop me ripping your fucking head off?’

      ‘That’s enough. Both of you.’ Logan stared at the ceiling tiles. When the hell was Faulds going to get back? ‘Rennie – don’t goad the prisoner. Mr Wiseman, don’t you think you’re in enough trouble without threatening police officers?’

      ‘And fuck you too.’

      Technically the interview was suspended while Faulds was off talking to the criminal psychologist they’d drafted in, but the cameras were still rolling. Just in case Wiseman did something rash – like kill the pair of them.

      ‘Come on Ken, why don’t you make it—’

      ‘I said, FUCK – YOU!’

      Which was about as cooperative as he’d been all morning.

      ‘Fine. Sit there and sulk.’ It wasn’t as if they needed a confession to put him back in prison. They’d caught him in the act: illegal imprisonment, grievous bodily harm, animal cruelty, criminal damage, abduction, causing death by reckless driving … That and a very good defence lawyer would get him at least another sixteen years. But it was nothing compared with what would happen if they could prove he was the Flesher. The only way he’d get out of Peterhead Prison was in a coffin. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

      A murmur of conversation came from outside the interview room door – too low to make out any words – and Logan breathed a sigh of relief. About bloody time Faulds got back; with any luck he’d have brought a round of coffees with him.

      The door slammed open. It wasn’t Faulds: it was Insch.

      Oh no.

      Logan was on his feet. ‘Sir, I don’t think you should be—’

      ‘You bloody animal!’ The inspector’s voice was a slurred growl, the smell of alcohol coming off him in waves.

      Wiseman smiled and waved. ‘Hey, Fat Boy.’

      ‘Sir, come on, you have to—’

      ‘She was four!’

      ‘Shame, eh? I’d’ve got a shit-load of money selling her.’

      ‘You’re dead.’ The inspector pointed a shaky finger at Rennie and Logan. ‘You and you, go take a walk.’

      ‘Sir, we can’t do that.’

      ‘Fifteen minutes. You leave me and this bastard alone for fifteen minutes.’

      ‘Sir—’

      ‘GET OUT!’

      Rennie flinched and started sidling towards the door. Logan turned on him. ‘Don’t you bloody dare!’ And the constable froze. ‘Sir, we have a duty of care—’

      ‘She was four years old!’

      ‘Hurts, does it?’ Wiseman struggled to his feet. ‘Come on then, Fatty. You show me how much it fucking hurts.’

      ‘Sir, you have to leave. If you lay one finger on him in custody—’

      The butcher took a deep sniff, howched, then spat. A yellow-green glob spattered across Insch’s cheek. And the inspector lunged.

      Rennie squealed, but Logan was already moving, dropping his shoulder into the fat man’s side and heaving – sending them both crashing into the side wall. They landed in a tangle of limbs, pain flaring across Logan’s stomach as the inspector’s elbow landed right in the middle of the scar tissue.

      Then Rennie piled in, dragging the inspector up and off while Wiseman laughed and laughed and laughed.

      Luck was on Logan’s side for once: he actually managed to find a parking space within walking distance of the hospital entrance. He manoeuvred the pool car into it and switched off the engine. They sat there in silence.

      He snuck a glance at his passenger. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

      Insch didn’t look up, just sat there in the passenger seat, staring at his hands. At least he’d stopped crying.

      ‘Sir?’

      The fat man curled his fingers into fists the size

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