Читать книгу Logan McRae Crime Series Books 4-6: Flesh House, Blind Eye, Dark Blood - Stuart MacBride - Страница 63

DI Insch was back in the passenger seat of Logan’s pool car, the tips of two fingers pressed against the side of his throat. Teeth gritted. Face still purple. Eyes screwed shut. There was no way Logan was getting in there with him till the inspector calmed down, so he wandered down the road to a little newsagent’s and spent a couple of minutes browsing the magazines, then the selection of sweeties – buying a big bag of jelly babies and another of fizzy cola bottles. And a lottery ticket, just in case. Was it ethical to still use Jackie’s birthday as two of the numbers?

By the time he got back to the car, Insch seemed to have settled down a bit. Logan climbed in behind the steering wheel and passed over the jelly babies, holding the cola bottles in reserve. Just in case.

The inspector dug his way into the packet, then ripped the head off some jelly mummy’s pride and joy.

‘Sir –’ Logan started the car – ‘I think you need to go home, OK?’

More jelly babies were sacrificed, but it didn’t seem to be appeasing the volcano. ‘McFarlane was in it with Wiseman. The two of them together. Killing and butchering.’

Logan pulled out into traffic. ‘We’ve got nothing on him. And before you go off on one: I know, OK? But look at him: all Andrew McFarlane wants to do is pickle himself in vodka. It’s all he’s been doing since his wife disappeared eighteen years ago. Half the time he wouldn’t be sober enough to know what day of the week it was; Wiseman could butcher half of Torry downstairs and McFarlane wouldn’t notice.’

‘Sergeant …’ Insch’s voice had taken on that ominous rumble, like a twenty-eight-stone, angry Rottweiler.

‘I’m just saying.’

‘Well don’t. Sophie’s dead because—’

‘You shouldn’t be here. You should be at home, with your family.’

Insch slammed his fist into the dashboard. ‘I DON’T HAVE A FAMILY!’ Trembling with rage. ‘That bastard took them. He took everything!’

His tea was cold. Logan took an exploratory sip, then spat it back into the mug.

‘Hoy!’ Steel scowled at him from the other side of the history room. ‘Don’t be so disgusting.’

‘You want another coffee?’

‘And would it kill you to scare up some biscuits? Rennie always manages.’

‘So get Rennie to make your bloody—’ Logan’s mobile phone cut him off at the pass. ‘Hello?’

Geordie, male, early forties.‘Aye, we’ve nothin’ on the Weight Watchers front.’

‘Who is this?’

‘Bloody hell… Detective Superintendent Danby, Northumbria Police: none of the Newcastle victims were in Weight Watchers. Went round all the relatives, know what I mean?’

‘Damn.’

‘Aye. Bloody tragic, lookin’ at them photo albums all over again. Forgotten what half them looked like. Thought I’d always see their faces, every time I closed ma eyes…’

‘Sorry Superintendent, it was a long shot.’

‘I want you to remember they weren’t just victims, OK? They were people. With families and friends who miss them. The Calverts raised money for charity. Jack coached kids five-a-side football. Emily won prizes at the local gallery, even got a bit in the papers about it. They didn’t deserve what they got. They deserved better, know what I mean?’

Logan did. He thanked the DSI, and hung up.

‘Well?’ said Steel.

‘The Weight Watchers angle was a dud.’

Steel nodded, then fiddled with her hedgehog hair for a bit. ‘You had your one-to-one with our Weegie blamemongers yet?’

‘No.’ And to be honest he wasn’t looking forward to it either.

‘Did me today while you were off playing with DI Fat-and-Grumpy.’ She tipped him a wink. ‘Think that redhead DCI fancies me.’

Logan went back to his paperwork. ‘Thought you were getting married.’

‘Girl can dream, can’t she? Now where’s my bloody coffee?’

Tonight it was trout fillets in herb butter with seasonal vegetables: serves two. According to the packet anyway. Logan stuck it in the microwave and padded through to the lounge to check the messages on his answering machine.

‘Message one: Logan, It’s your mother. You know I don’t like talking to this thing.’ And then it was straight into haranguing him about hiring a kilt for his brother’s wedding. Beeeeeeep.

The next message was from Alec wanting to know if Logan was up to anything interesting tomorrow, worried that the BBC were going to start cutting his budget if nothing happened soon. Beeeeeeep.

And then it was Colin Miller, voice low and urgent. ‘Laz? It’s me. I need you tae phone me back soon as you get this, OK? I mean it: ASAP!’ Beeeeeeep. End of messages.’

Logan called him back. ‘Colin?’

‘Aye?’ There was something small and snottery wailing in the background.‘Hold on a minute darlin’ Daddy’s on the phone, but. Laz? Laz, you want to go out for a pint tonight? Please?’ More high-pitched screaming. ‘Shhhh, shhhh … yes, Daddy knows. Daddy’ll change it in a second. I’ll even bring the stuff you wanted from the paper’s archives? Come on, man, I’m dying here…’

‘When?’

‘Prince of Wales: half seven?’ Another voice in the background, nearly inaudible, but it sounded like Isobel, asking the reporter if he was aware that their son was crying.‘Sorry, Izzy, it’s work – need me to cover somethin’ for tomorrow.’ Then back to the phone. ‘OK, but I can’t be there till half seven at the earliest. I’ve got a family to look after, and that comes first.’

Thank God the screaming had finally stopped. ‘It’s not her fault, Heather.’ Mr New sat back against the bars. ‘She’s frightened, her sister’s dead and she’s trapped in a strange, scary place all on her own. You can’t blame her.’

‘Did I say anything?’

‘No, but you were thinking it.’

True.

‘So,’ Duncan nodded at the plate of cold meat resting in her lap, ‘do you think that’s her? The sister?’

Heather picked up another cutlet, bit into it, and chewed for a bit. ‘Probably … tastes a bit … funny. Sort of metallic.’ But at least it wasn’t off like those last slices of Duncan. Heather didn’t fancy another bout of food poisoning. She tore off a chunk, washing it down with a mouthful of water.

The plate had been there when she’d woken up, head throbbing, mouth like ash. Along with the pills. Kelley said the Flesher was worried about her – that he’d picked up her unconscious body and laid it on the mattress, then gone to get some medicine. Little round pills that Heather had forced down. They made her teeth feel squeaky, but took the pain away.

She chewed, thinking … ‘Kelley? Kelley, are you awake?’

‘Do you need another pill?’

‘What did He say? When He made you promise: what did He say?’

‘That … that if I didn’t get you to take your medicine he’d hurt me.’

‘Oh …’

‘Heather?’

‘Yes?’

‘Tell me about Justin again.’

So she did: from the moment of conception, right through to when he was eighteen and off to university to become an architect. The life he’d never have. Then Kelley told the story of her little boy, and how it was all a mistake and the doctors gave him back to her and he grew up to be a famous actor.

Then they sat quietly in the darkness, eating slices of the girl next door’s murdered sister.

And then Kelley asked, ‘What’s she like? Your mum?’

Heather grimaced. ‘I never did anything right in her eyes. After Dad … died, it was as if everything was my fault. She hated Duncan …’

Her cellmate was silent for a minute. ‘I … I lied to you. It wasn’t my boyfriend who got me pregnant. I’ve never had a boyfriend. How pathetic is that? Forty-nine and I’ve never had a boyfriend …’

‘Kelley, it’s not—’

‘It was my father… Mum died when I was six. And he … he said he had needs …’

‘Oh Jesus.’ Heather could hear her crying. She slipped her other hand through the bars, searching for Kelley’s.

‘I … I cut all my hair off, dressed like a boy.’ Sniff. ‘But he was drinking so much …’ Deep breath. ‘Then he had this accident. And … and he got … he got even worse.’

‘Shhhh …’ Heather laced her fingers through Kelley’s. ‘It’s OK. The bastard’s dead, right? The car crash?’

‘No … Social Services took me away from him when I was eight. I got … I got adopted by a lovely old couple … they never hurt me …’

Heather bit her bottom lip, but it didn’t stop her own tears. To go through all that, and end up here, in the Dark, waiting for something horrible to happen. Waiting to die. ‘Oh, Kelley, I’m so sorry.’

‘When … when they … after the crash my dad came to see me in the foster home… He … he was so drunk … I couldn’t stop him …’

Heather and Kelley held hands, both of them crying in the darkness as Kelley told how her father would visit his little girl every week until she got pregnant. After that, he never showed up again.

It was strange: before all this – the kidnap, the prison, the Flesher, the Dark – Heather would never have cast herself in the role of avenging angel. She was soft and fat and weak. Someone to be ignored, or pushed about, walked all over. But if she ever got out of here, she swore she would track Kelley’s father down and cut the bastard’s heart out.

Then eat it.