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

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      ‘Shhhh…’ He kissed the top of her head and she found her tears again. ‘You’ve been through a lot, and you’ve not been taking your pills, have you?’

      Heather could barely get the words out: ‘Duncan … I’m … so sorry …’ She cried and cried and cried. Then the sobbing trailed off and she just lay there, being held.

      ‘There you go, feel better?’ He smiled down at her wet face. ‘I meant what I said: everything’s OK, really.’

      She almost laughed. ‘I’m trapped in a little metal box, everyone I love is dead, and I’m talking to a ghost. How is that OK?’

      ‘I’ll look after you.’

      Heather smiled, blinked, wiped her nose on the back of her hand, enjoying the warmth of Duncan’s body. ‘Is this what going mad feels like?’

      There was a moment’s silence, then Duncan said, ‘Yes, you’re finally turning into your mother.’

      ‘You’re such an arsehole.’

      ‘Don’t you know it’s bad luck to speak ill of the dead?’ But he kissed her head again.

      ‘You’re still an arsehole.’ She closed her eyes and snuggled into Duncan’s shoulder. He smelt of Old Spice and fresh blood. ‘Did it hurt? Dying?’

      ‘Shhhh … go to sleep.’

      And she did.

      Insch leant on the horn again. ‘Get out the bloody way!’ Up ahead the tractor took no notice, just continued to trundle down the A90 at thirty miles an hour, huge globs of mud flying from its rear wheels.

      Logan turned up the volume on his mobile phone and stuck a finger in his other ear, trying to hear the voice of Control as Insch launched into another bout of horn blowing.

      BREEEEEEEEEEP!

      ‘—three cars and—’

      BREEEEEEEEEEP!

      ‘What?’

      ‘Shift it! POLICE!’

      ‘—no one there when—’

      BREEEEEP BREEEEEEEEEEP!

      Logan slapped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Will you lay off it for five minutes? I can’t hear a bloody word!’

      The inspector’s face took on its familiar about-to-explode tinge, but at least he was quiet in the run-up to detonation. Logan asked Control to go back to the start, then gave Insch the edited version: ‘They’ve got two cars at the address Robertson gave us.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘The bastard lied to us. Wiseman’s not there.’

      The inspector swore. ‘Tell them I want the place watched – twenty-four-seven. At least two teams, low profile.’ BREEEEEEEEEEP! ‘Move that bloody tractor!’

      Logan passed on the instructions and hung up as the tractor finally indicated and pulled into a rutted, muddy track, the farmer giving them the one-fingered-salute as they roared past.

      ‘You really think Wiseman’s still got keys to the place?’

      Insch shrugged and put his foot down. ‘He better, it’s the only bloody lead we’ve got.’ The inspector’s trousers started singing at them. Insch dragged his mobile phone out, and handed it over. It was all warm. ‘Don’t just sit there: answer it!’

      Logan hit the button. ‘DI Insch’s phone.’

      A man’s voice, old, rough round the edges. ‘Who’s this?’

      ‘DS McRae. Who’s this?’

      ‘Put David on.’

      ‘He’s driving.’

      ‘Oh for goodness’ sake: half the country uses their mobile phone while driving!’

      Now that they weren’t stuck behind four tons of farm machinery the Range Rover was tearing down the road.

      ‘Well?’ said Insch, ‘Who is it?’

      ‘No idea.’

      ‘Tell him it’s Garry Brooks.’

      ‘It’s a Garry Brooks?’

      The inspector groaned. ‘What does he want?’

      ‘I want to know what he’s doing to catch that bastard Wiseman. Tell him no one down the station’ll talk to me!’

      Logan did as he was told. And Insch swore quietly. ‘Tell him we’re working on a couple of leads. I’ll give him a shout when we have something more concrete.’

      ‘He says—’

      ‘I heard him! I’m retired, not deaf. Tell him: tonight. Redgarth. Half seven. He’s buying.’ And then the crotchety old man was gone. Logan shut the inspector’s phone and handed it back.

      ‘He says you’ve got to buy him a pint tonight.’

      Insch’s fat hands tightened on the steering wheel. ‘Why didn’t you tell him I couldn’t make it? We’re going to be watching Wiseman’s bolthole! You knew that!’

      ‘I didn’t get the chance! The old git hung up on me.’

      ‘That “old git” was policing Aberdeen before you were born!’

      Alec scooted forward again. ‘Brooks? Not DCI Brooks? The guy who—’

      ‘I’m not going to tell you to sit back again, I’m going to slam on the brakes and send you flying through the bloody window!’

      ‘Come on, you’ve got to meet with him! The continuity’s great – Brooks heads up the investigation in 1987 and now he hands over the torch to his protégé, twenty years later. We get Logan there too and we’ve got three generations of policemen, all dedicated to catching the Flesher, discussing the case over a pint …’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Please?’

      ‘No!’

      ‘Oh Christ,’ said Rennie, hiding behind a stack of missing persons reports, ‘don’t look now: it’s Grumpy and Grumpier.’

      DI Insch and DI Steel were at it again, arguing in front of the big map of Aberdeen that dominated one wall of the main Flesher incident room. From the sound of things Steel wanted to go into the address they’d got from Robertson with all guns blazing. Insch wanted to keep it under surveillance. And while the two of them fought, Alec filmed the whole thing from less than three feet away.

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