Читать книгу Logan McRae Crime Series Books 4-6: Flesh House, Blind Eye, Dark Blood - Stuart MacBride - Страница 44

Logan wasn’t really in the mood for getting pished, but he made a brave stab at it anyway. Four hours sat in the cramped viewing room with DI Steel – watching Faulds and his criminal psychologist trying to get something useful out of Ken Wiseman – meant that Logan was more than ready to go bowling with Rennie and a couple of people from work. There were only so many times you could watch a murdering scumbag tell a Chief Constable to go fuck himself with a cheese grater.

By the time Rennie’s girlfriend, Laura, turned up at the bowling alley, they were all on their fourth pints. Logan wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved that she hadn’t brought the promised friend with her.

More beer, then tequila, then chips. Then Logan called it a night, walking home to the flat alone, feeling drunk and more than a little sorry for himself.

The flat wasn’t the same without Jackie’s crap lying all over the place: the strange little porcelain things, the dozens of unidentifiable potions in the bathroom, the little tangles of hair on the carpet by the mirror in the bedroom. Cold feet beneath the duvet …

Jammy bastard Rennie with his nice perky new girlfriend.

Logan collapsed into bed, sprawled out like a half-cut starfish, and stared up into the darkness. They’d caught the Flesher – everything should have been hunky dory. But it wasn’t.

Eventually he drifted off to sleep, his dreams full of little dead girls and their grieving fathers.

Bright light. Hazy, painful … but that was nothing new. Everything hurt. Heather rolled over onto her side and squinted at the open door.

He was back!

She scrambled to her knees, fell over, crawled to the bars. ‘P …’ Just enough water left in her body for a few burning tears.

HE WAS BACK!

The Butcher dragged someone new into the prison, dumped them on the other side of the bars, then turned and stared at Heather.

‘P …’ She choked. Tried again. ‘Please …’

He pulled a bottle of water from his apron and handed it through the bars. Heather grabbed his leg, pulling him off balance, hauling him forwards till he was hard against the metal. Then she wrapped her arm around his leg, croaking, ‘Don’t … ever … leave me again …’

She fumbled the lid off the bottled water and drank, spluttered, brought most of it back up. Sobbing. ‘Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!’

The Butcher froze, then reached down and stroked her matted, greasy hair.

Everything would be OK now.

He was back.