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

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      ‘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 driveway. Team One got there first, standing flat against the wooden wall to one side of the red door, waiting. Logan and Faulds stopped directly opposite. And then a burly figure dressed all in black lumbered her way up the path, carrying a one-woman battering ram.

      She placed the striking end against the lock and nodded at Faulds.

      The Chief Constable clicked on his Airwave again. ‘Team Two?’

      ‘Back garden is secure, we’re ready to go in.’

      ‘OK, everybody on three, two, one—’

      The constable swung her battering ram – BANG – the lock tore free of the doorframe and they were in.

      Team One took the lounge, Team Two burst through the back door and into the kitchen, Logan and Faulds hammered upstairs.

      Landing: ‘Clear.’ Faulds kicked the bathroom door off its hinges: ‘Clear.’ Bedroom one got the same treatment: ‘Clear’ Bedroom two: the door banged back off the wall. ‘Hands on your head! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD NOW!’

      Logan charged into the room after Faulds, the machine pistol heavy and cold, even through his gloves.

      A naked middle-aged woman was tied to the bed, covered in blood, screaming behind a makeshift gag. The Flesher stood over her, knife in one hand and a slippery chunk of offal in the other, face unreadable behind that rubber Margaret Thatcher mask.

      ‘I SAID, PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!’

      The Flesher dropped the knife. He was naked from the waist down, his trademark butcher’s apron draped over an exercise bike in the corner, allowing his erection to swing free.

      Faulds pointed his gun at the offending member, and the Flesher slapped both hands over it.

      ‘Other head.’

      The muffled shouts from the bed got louder. The woman struggled against her bonds, screaming blue murder as Faulds forced the Flesher to his knees at gunpoint. Logan hurried over and untied the silk scarf gagging her.

      ‘Aaaaagh… You bastard!’

      ‘It’s OK, you’re safe! You’re safe!’

      Faulds dragged the Flesher’s hands behind his back and slapped the cuffs on.

      The woman writhed, yanking at the silk scarves tying her wrists and ankles to the bedposts. ‘You dirty bastard!’

      Logan scanned her naked body, trying to figure out where all the bright-red blood was coming from … only it wasn’t blood.

      ‘He’s my husband!’

      It was tomato sauce.

      The press officer sat at Logan’s desk in the history room, with her forehead resting on the Formica and her arms wrapped over the top. ‘Oh dear Jesus …’

      Faulds leant back against the other desk, still wearing his borrowed SAS ninja outfit. ‘When we left she was on the phone to one of those ambulance-chasing lawyers that advertise on the telly.’

      The press officer hauled herself upright. ‘Why couldn’t it have been him? I really thought we’d finally come to the end of this bloody case, and now we’ve got a lawsuit to deal with.’

      Logan finished off his post-incident report and stuck it in the ‘out’ tray. ‘I can’t believe she’ll go through with it. Can you imagine what the headlines are going to be like? “POLICE RAID KINKY SERIAL KILLER SEX GAMES”, “WANNABE FLESHER CAUGHT PLAYING HIDE THE SAUSAGE”. Not exactly going to get them a lot of sympathy, is it?’

      The press officer stared at him. ‘They weren’t photogenic, were they?’

      ‘Not from where I was standing.’

      ‘That’s something, I suppose …’

      ‘If it helps,’ said Faulds, peeling off his bullet-proof vest, ‘I’ve got that criminal psychologist coming in tomorrow. We could get him to do a piece on why people who dress up as mass murderers for sexual kicks are a menace to the gene pool?’

      ‘Chief Constable!’ She was on her feet like a shot. ‘Are you suggesting Grampian Police should lower itself to character assassination just to avoid a lawsuit?’

      ‘Yes.’

      She smiled. ‘Sounds good to me.’

      ‘What you still doing here?’ asked Rennie, plonking himself down on the edge of Logan’s СКАЧАТЬ