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

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       14

      Hot water, soothing away a hangover brought on by too many beers and too many vodkas. Logan stood with his forehead against the cool tiles and let the shower wash over him. What the hell had he been thinking? ‘Summer Nights’ from Grease was not a good song to duet with DI Steel, no matter how drunk you were. His arse was still tender from where she’d pinched it during the caterwauling finale.

      Woman had fingers like bloody pliers—

      The phone’s shrill ring invaded the steamy peace of the bathroom. Logan shouted, ‘Go away!’ at it, but it just kept going. Only stopping when the answering machine picked up.

      He strained his ears, trying to tell who it was, but the ringing just started up again. ‘Oh, for God’s sake …’

      Logan wrapped himself in a towel and dripped his way through to the lounge, snatching the phone out of its cradle. ‘What?’

      DI Insch’s voice blared in his ear: ‘You were supposed to be at work hours ago!’

      ‘It’s my day off. So’s tomorrow. I’ve been on since—’

      ‘Listen up and listen good, Sergeant: you want a nine to five, Monday to Friday job? Go work in a bloody office. You’re supposed to be a police officer!’

      Logan closed his eyes and tried counting to ten.

      ‘Hello? You still there?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Good. We’ve had a call from an old friend of yours: Angus Robertson.’

      Logan froze. ‘What does that little shite want?’

      ‘Says he’s got information about Wiseman. Said he’ll only talk to you.’

      ‘Tough: I don’t want to talk to him. Little bastard can rot in his—’

      ‘Get your arse up to the station, we’re going to Peterhead whether you like it or not.’

      The inspector’s Range Rover had developed an overwhelming reek of dog. Lucy, the spaniel responsible, lay behind the grille that separated the boot from the rear seat on a tatty tartan blanket, snoring and twitching as Insch drove them up the A90 to Peterhead. Logan in the passenger seat, Alec in the back, fiddling with his camera.

      ‘So …’ Alec plugged in a couple of radio mikes. ‘I know this is just meant to be you and him, one-to-one, but think Robertson will let me film it?’

      Logan scowled at the scenery drifting past. ‘It’ll all just be bollocks anyway. He’s a nasty, ignorant, murdering wee shite; he doesn’t know anything. This is a complete waste of time.’

      Alec scooted forwards, till his head was poking between the driver and passenger seat. ‘But he’s the Mastrick Monster! This’ll make a brilliant scene for the documentary. Fancy doing a quick piece to camera when we get there? Go over the background: why he’ll only speak to you?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Oh, come on, please?’ The cameraman turned to Insch for backup. ‘Inspector, you understand dramatic narrative, we—’

      Insch just growled at him: ‘Sit back and put your bloody seatbelt on. I won’t tell you again!’

      ‘And how come,’ said Logan, poking the dashboard, ‘Robertson suddenly has information about Wiseman? Why should we believe anything he says?’

      ‘Because they were on the same wing for nearly a year.’ The inspector was starting to go red, but Logan didn’t care.

      ‘Doesn’t mean they were friends!’

      ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ said Insch, biting off the words, ‘You’re so wrapped up in your petty little world—’

      ‘The fucker stabbed me twenty-three times: I died on the operating table!’ Logan wrapped his arms around himself and glowered out the window. ‘Sorry if you think I’m being irrational, but that sort of thing kind of puts a shitter on your day.’

      An uncomfortable silence settled into the car. Outside, the green-brown landscape roared by, punctuated with little floral tributes, marking where people had died in road accidents. Insch cleared his throat. ‘Look, I understand this is going to be hard for you, but it happened three years ago: Wiseman’s out there killing people right now. And we need all the help we can get.’

      Peterhead Prison wasn’t the prettiest of buildings: an old-fashioned Victorian lump of concrete and barbed wire, home to three hundred and twenty of Scotland’s worst sex offenders and other vulnerable prisoners. People who’d get the shit beaten out of them in any other prison. People like Angus Robertson.

      Logan paced back and forth in the little office with ‘THERAPY ROOM – 3’ on the door, trying not to hyperventilate. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. Christ, it was hot in here, even with the window open.

      He turned and looked out through the bars. From here you could see over the high outer wall with its festive topping of razor wire, across the south breakwater of Peterhead harbour, and past that to the North Sea. Dark grey water flecked with white. Sky the colour of ancient concrete. And between the two, seagulls wheeled in lazy circles, waiting for the fishing boats that were becoming rarer every year.

      What the hell was taking so long?

      His hands were damp again.

      Logan nearly jumped out of his skin when the door opened. It was a prison officer with a plastic cup of water. She handed it over. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘I want you to know we don’t approve of this. We’ve worked too long and too hard to get Angus where he is. But I’m agreeing to this meeting because there’s a clear and immediate danger to human life. I need you to understand that if you reinforce his negative behavioural patterns, it could put him back years.’ She paused, giving Logan a chance to say something, but he didn’t. ‘I’ll bring him up from the cell block.’ She paused, halfway to the door. ‘We don’t like to handcuff them when they’re in the treatment rooms. Are you going to be OK with that?’

      ‘Not really. No …’ Logan took a sip of water. ‘We … didn’t get on too well last time we met.’

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