‘They won’t shoot me?’
‘Only if they have to. It makes a shite heap of paperwork.’
Tina bit her bottom lip, still working away at Rickards’ erection, keeping him on the brink without ever letting him fall over. ‘What if I kill him?’
‘You really, really don’t want to do that. Seriously, it’s a crap idea.’
Ring, ring. Ring, ring …
‘You might want to get that.’
‘You,’ she took her hand off Rickard’s cock long enough to point at Logan, ‘answer it. Tell them I’m not coming out.’
‘You’ve got to some time, Tina. You can’t stay in here forever.’
‘Answer the fucking phone!’ She twisted the knife and Rickards yelped, the slow dribble of blood from his neck turning into a steady trickle.
‘OK! OK, I’m going!’ Logan hurried through into the lounge and grabbed the phone out of its cradle – it was one of those little cordless ones so he carried it back to the kitchen, listening as the negotiator launched into his opening speech about how he was just here to help and nobody needed to get hurt. ‘Yeah, hang on a second, Jim,’ said Logan, stopping the man before he got too far into the whole empathising thing, ‘she’s right here.’ He held the phone out to Tina. She’d have to put the knife down, or stop playing with Rickards. Either would be a result in Logan’s book.
‘I look stupid?’ She asked. ‘You talk to him.’
‘OK. What you want me to say?’
‘I don’t fucking know, do I?’
‘Well … how about we start with what you want? Your demands? What do you want to get out of …’ Logan paused, watching as a single red dot of light blossomed on Tina’s knife arm, then jittered up to the middle of her forehead. Another one joined it, then a third, like tiny neon ladybirds.
‘What?’
‘I …’ He turned to look at the inspector who sighed, took a deep drag on her cigarette, then blew a cloud of smoke into the air between them. Red laser-sight lines glowed like sparkling threads.
‘Time to put the knife down.’
Tina put her lips to Rickards ear, whispered something, opened her mouth wide and sank her teeth into the cartilage, tearing her head back and forth till a chunk came free in a spurt of blood. The constable screamed. Someone yelled on the other end of the phone in Logan’s hand. Tina spat out the mouthful of Rickards’ ear, pounding away on his erection. Steel yelled, ‘NO!’ and lunged forwards. Something sizzled past Logan and a small black dot appeared above Tina’s left eye. Perfectly round. Dark.
And then the back of her head exploded.
BLOOD
59
Opening night and DI Insch’s band of merry troubadours were doing their best to murder Gilbert and Sullivan in front of a crowd of friends and relatives. Logan sat on his own in the darkness of the Arts Centre, surrounded by strangers. Brooding. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the thing he’d found in Jackie’s bedside cabinet, twisting it back and forth between his fingers for the umpteenth time that evening. Even in the muted light it glittered. He’d been hunting for the spare set of flat keys – the ones Jackie always borrowed because she kept losing her own – and there it was …
The noise coming from the front of the theatre grew to a crescendo, dragging him back to the land of the living. They’d finally made it to the finale. Two curtain calls, one encore, a short speech from DI Insch about how hard everyone had worked, flowers for the leading ladies, round of applause, and off to the bar.
The little space was crowded, thespians spilling in from the changing rooms, beaming with pride as their nearest and dearest told them how wonderful they’d been. Even the crap ones.
Logan jostled his way through to a small clearing, clutching a bottle of Newcastle Brown and wishing he hadn’t said he’d go out for a curry after the show. He really wasn’t in the mood.
Someone slapped him on the back and he turned to find Rennie beaming at him: face all polished and shiny, traces of stage makeup still hiding in his hairline. ‘Well, was we brilliant or what?’
Logan lied and said he’d enjoyed it.
‘Can you believe we got Debs back? Insch had to do some serious grovelling, but—’
‘You heard anything from Rickards?’
‘Not a peep. Went up there this afternoon, nurse said he wasn’t having visitors. Oh, ta …’ he accepted a bottle of beer from one of the three little maids from school – Logan couldn’t remember which one – and took a hearty swig. ‘Mind you, don’t blame him, poor bastard. Breakdown is what I heard.’
Logan wasn’t surprised: if he closed his eyes he could still see the back of Tina’s head splattering all over the kitchen window in slow motion. Scarlet drops and grey chunks as she falls lifeless to the floor, still clutching Rickards, showering him with blood and brain and little shards of bone as he screams and screams and screams … And she’d been his friend. No wonder he couldn’t cope.
‘Just between you and me,’ said Rennie, leaning in to whisper over the hubbub, ‘I think he’ll be going off on the stress. A dead woman clutching your dick can’t be good for you. You know: mentally. I think …’ he stopped, staring off through the crowd. DI Insch was glad-handing his way towards them, accepting compliments left, right, and centre. ‘Whatever you do, don’t mention Finnie, OK? He’s got a right bee in his— Inspector: look who I found!’
Insch looked like a vast, overstuffed penguin in his dinner jacket and bow tie. ‘Can you believe that bastard Finnie?’ he asked, then took a swig from his Guinness. ‘What the hell did they think they were doing, making a tit like that Detective Chief Inspector?’
Rennie groaned, rolling his eyes when Insch wasn’t looking.
Logan ignored him. ‘Well, he did bring in half a million quid’s worth of cocaine, they probably—’
The inspector’s face darkened. ‘Four hundred thousand. Not half a million.’ He cast an eye over the assembled crowd. ‘Where’s Watson?’
‘Back shift.’ And then Logan changed the subject, steering them round to the Mikado again, listening to them bang on about what a great show it was. Not wanting to talk about Jackie, or think about the thing in his pocket. And then Insch had to go be congratulated by someone else, Rennie was dragged off for a photograph, and Logan was alone again. He finished off his beer and wandered out into the cold night, standing on the top step of the Arts Centre, watching the slow-fire blink of tail lights the length of King Street.
He pulled the thing from his pocket once more – the thing he’d found in Jackie’s bedside cabinet – holding it up so it sparkled in the city’s sodium glow. A large ruby stud earring, just like the one stolen from Rob Macintyre when he was battered into a coma.
Red, the colour of Aberdeen Football Club.
The colour of fresh blood.
Logan McRae is back in
FLESH HOUSE
Out in hardback, May 2008
Turn the page to read an exclusive sneak preview
the world is shaped by fear
30 October 1987
’No, you listen to me: if my six-year-old son isn’t back here in ten minutes I’m going to come round there and rip you a new arsehole, are we clear?’ Ian McLaughlin slapped a hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and shouted at his wife to turn that bloody racket down. Then back to the idiot on the other end of the phone: ‘Where the hell is he?’
‘When I got back from the pub they were gone, OK? Catherine’s not here either … maybe she took the boys for a walk?’
‘A WALK? It’s pissing down, pitch black, freezing cold—’
‘What? What’s wrong?’ – Sharon stood at the door to the living room, wearing the witch costume she’d bought from Woolworths, the one that hid her pregnant bulge and made her breasts look enormous.
Ian grunted, not bothering to cover the phone this time. ‘It’s that moron Davidson: he’s lost Jamie.’
‘Jamie’s missing?’ Sharon clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling the shriek. Always ove
rreacting, just like her bloody mother.
‘I never said that! I didn’t say he was lost, I just—’
‘If we’re late for this bloody party, I’m personally going to see to it that—’
The doorbell: loud and insistent.
‘—your life is going to be—’
The doorbell again.
‘For God’s sake, Sharon, answer the bloody door! I’m on the phone …’
There was a clunk and a rattle as Sharon finally did what she was told, and then she shrieked again. ‘Jamie! Oh Jamie, we were so worried!’
Ian stopped mid-rant, staring at the soggy little tableau on the top step: Jamie and his best friend Richard Davidson, holding hands with some idiot in a Halloween costume. ‘About bloody time, I told you to be home by five!’ The two small boys looked wide eyed and frightened. And so they bloody should be. ‘Where the hell have you two been?’
No reply. Typical. And look at the time … ‘Jamie!’ Ian hooked his thumb in the direction of the stairs. ‘Get your backside up there and get changed. If you’re not a Viking in three minutes you’re going to the party as a kid in his vest and pants.’
Jamie cast a worried look at his partner in crime, then up at the stranger on the doorstep – the one wearing the bloodstained butcher’s apron and Margaret Thatcher fright mask – before slinking up to his room, taking Richard with him. Great, now they’d have to drop the little brat off at his parents’ house.
Today was turning into a complete nightmare.
20 Years Later
1
Detective Sergeant Logan McRae winced his way across the dark quayside trying not to scald his fingers, making for a scarred offshore container bathed in the harsh glow of police spotlights. The thing was about the size of a domestic bathroom – dented and battered from years of being shipped out to oilrigs in the middle of the North Sea and back again – the blue paint sprinkled with orange rust. A pool of dark red glittered in the Investigation Bureau’s lights: blood mingling with oily puddles on the cold concrete, while figures in white oversuits buggered about with cameras and sticky tape and evidence bags.
Four o’clock in the morning, what a great start to the day.
The refrigerated container was little more than a metal box, lined with insulating material. A wooden pallet took up most of the floor, loaded up with boxes of frozen peas, chicken bits and other assorted chunks of meat, the brown-grey cardboard going black and saggy as the contents slowly defrosted.
Logan ducked under the cordon of blue and white POLICE tape.
It was impossible to miss Detective Inspector Insch: the man was huge, his SOC coveralls strained to nearly bursting. He had the suit’s hood thrown back, exposing a big bald head that glinted in the spotlights. But even he was dwarfed by the looming bulk of the Brae Explorer, a massive orange offshore supply vessel parked alongside the quay, all its lights blazing in the purple-black night.
Logan handed one of the Styrofoam cups of tea to Insch. ‘They were out of sugar.’ That got him some rumbled swearing. He ignored it. ‘SKY News have turned up. That makes three television crews, four newspapers and a handful of gawkers.
‘Wonderful.’ Insch’s voice was a dark rumble. ‘That’s all we need.’ He pointed up at the Brae Explorer. ‘Those idiots found anything yet?’
‘Search team’s nearly finished. Other than some incredibly dodgy pornography it’s clean. Ship’s Captain says the container was only onboard for a couple of hours; someone noticed it was leaking all over the deck, so they got onto the cash and carry it came from. Shut. Apparently the rigs go mad if they don’t get their containers on time, so the Captain got someone to try fixing the thing’s refrigerator motor.’
Logan took a sip at his still scalding hot tea. ‘That’s when they found the bits. Mechanic had to shift a couple of boxes of defrosting meat to get at the wiring. Soggy cardboard gave way on one of them, and the contents went everywhere.’ He pointed at a small pile of clear plastic evidence pouches, each one full of a chunk of red. ‘Soon as he saw what was in there, he called us.’
Insch nodded. ‘What about the cash and carry?’
‘Firm called Stephenson’s in Altens: they supply a couple of offshore catering companies. Frozen meat, veg, toilet paper, tins of beans … the usual. They don’t open till seven am, so it’ll be a while before—’
The large man turned a baleful eye in Logan’s direction. ‘No it won’t. Find out who’s in charge over there and get the bastard out of his bed. I want a search team up there now.’
‘But it—’
‘NOW, Sergeant!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Arguing with Insch wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Grumpy bastard. Logan pulled out his mobile phone and wandered off to call Control, getting a search team and warrant organized between mouthfuls of tea. Doing his best to ignore the cameraman circling him like a short, balding shark.
Logan finished the call, then scrunched his polystyrene cup up and … there was nowhere to get rid of the thing, unless he just chucked it down on the dockside, or over into the water. Neither was going to look good on the television. Embarrassed, he hid it behind his back.
The shark lowered its HDV TV camera – no bigger than a shoebox, with the BBC Scotland logo stencilled on the side – and grinned. ‘Perfect. Thought the sound was going to be a bit ropey there, but it’s not bad. This is dynamite stuff! Dismembered bodies, boats, tension, mystery. Ooh,’ he pointed at the crumpled-up cup in Logan’s hand, ‘where’d you get the tea: I’m gasping.’
‘Thought you were meant to be a fly on the wall, Andy, not a pain in the arse.’
‘Aye, well, we all have our—’
Insch’s voice bellowed out from the far side of the quay: ‘SERGEANT!’
Swear. Count to ten. Sigh. ‘If this programme’s a success, can I come work for you guys at the BBC instead?’
‘See what I can do.’ And Andy was off, hurrying to get a good angle on whatever bollocking the inspector was about to dish out.
Logan followed on behind, wishing he’d been assigned to someone, anyone else. Especially as the news from Control wasn’t exactly good. These days, talking to Insch was like trying to do an eightsome reel in a minefield. Blindfold. Still, might as well get it over with, ‘Sorry, sir, they don’t have any bodies spare – everyone’s down here and—’
‘Bloody hell!’ The fat man ran a hand over his big, pink face. ‘Why can no one do what they’re bloody well told?’
‘Another hour or so and we can free up some of the search team here and—’
‘I told you, I want it done now. Not in an hour: now.’
‘But it’s going to take that long to get a search warrant. Surely we should be concentrating on doing a thorough job here—’
The inspector loomed over him: six foot three of angry fat. ‘Don’t make me tell you twice, Sergeant.’
Logan tried to sound reasonable. ‘Even if we pull every uniform off the boat and the docks, they’re going to have to sit twiddling their thumbs till the search warrant comes through.’
Insch got as far as ‘we don’t have time to bugger about with—’ before he was tapped on the shoulder by someone dressed in the familiar white SOC oversuit. Someone who didn’t look particularly happy.
‘I’ve been waiting for you for fifteen minutes!’ Doctor Isobel McAllister, Aberdeen’s chief pathologist, wearing an expression that would freeze the balls off a brass gorilla at twenty paces. ‘You may not have anything better to do, but I can assure you that I have. Now are you going to listen to my preliminary findings, or shall I just go home and leave you to whatever it is you feel is more important?’
Logan groaned. That was all they needed, Isobel winding Insch up even further. As if the grumpy fat sod wasn’t bad enough as it was. The inspector turned on her, his face flushing angry-scarlet in the IB spotlights. ‘Thank you so much for waiting for me, Doctor, I’m sorry if my organizing a murder inquiry has inconvenienced you. I’ll try not to let something as trivia
l get in the way again.’
They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Then Isobel pulled on a cold, unfriendly smile. ‘Remains are human: male. Dismemberment looks like it occurred some time after death with a long, sharp blade and a hacksaw, but I won’t be able to confirm that until I’ve performed the post mortem.’ She checked her watch. ‘Which will take place at eleven am precisely.’
Insch bristled. ‘Oh no it won’t! I need those remains analysed now—’
‘They’re frozen, Inspector. They – need – to – defrost.’ Emphasizing each word as if she were talking to a naughty child, rather than a huge, bad-tempered Detective Inspector. ‘If you want, I suppose I could stick them in the canteen microwave for half an hour. But that might not be very professional. What do you think?’
Insch just ground his teeth at her. Face rapidly shifting from angry-red to furious-purple. ‘Fine,’ he said at last, the word coming out strangled, ‘then you can help by accompanying DS McRae to a cash and carry in Altens.’
‘And what makes you think I—’
‘Of course, if you’re too busy, I can always ask one of the other pathologists to take over this case.’ It was Insch’s turn with the nasty smile. ‘I understand the pressure you must be under: working mother, small child, can’t really expect the same level of commitment to the job as—’
Isobel looked as if she was about to slap him. ‘Don’t you dare finish that sentence!’ She flung an imperious gesture in Logan’s direction. ‘Get the car, Sergeant, we’ve got work to do.’
Insch nodded, pulled out his mobile and started dialling. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a call to make … Hello? … That West Midlands Police? … Yes, DI Insch: Grampian CID, I need to speak to Chief Constable Mark Faulds … Yes, of course I know what time it is!’ He turned his back on them and wandered away out of the spotlights.
Isobel scowled after him, then turned and snapped at Logan, ‘Well? We haven’t got all night.’
They were halfway to the car when a loud, ‘Will you FUCK OFF with that bloody camera!’ exploded behind them. Logan looked over his shoulder to see Andy scurrying in their direction while the inspector went back to his telephone call.
Broken Skin Page 39
