Duncan? She sounded like a frog, her throat dry and sore. Duncan, can you hear me?
There was some shuffling, then Duncan moaned. Coughed. Hissed in pain.
Duncan, we need to get out of here!
A grunt, then his voice, sounding thin and weak. I... Im not... Another cough: wet and rattling. Ahhh... Jesus... He was moving: she could hear him struggling along the floor on his side, like a dying caterpillar. Making sounds of pain all the way.
Duncan, are you OK?
Im so tired... He coughed again in the darkness, and she heard him spit. Then gurgle. Then swear. And then he was still. Panting in the darkness. Weeping quietly. Im so tired, Heather. I... Im...
Youre going to be fine! You hear me? She was sobbing now, the words burning out of her. You hear me Duncan Inglis? Youre going to be fine. Stay awake!
I love you. I just wanted you to know before...
More ragged breathing.
Duncan! DUNCAN, WAKE UP!
Something brushed her hands. Duncan? It was his hair, matted and sticky. Duncan you cant leave me. Please dont leave me!
Im so sorry... Sounding far away, even though he was just on the other side of the bars.
Dont leave me.
When Miller was gone, and there was nothing left but the smell of old curry and stale beer, Logan stood in the lounge, in the dark.
MESSAGE ONE: Hi Logan, its me... I miss you, OK? I do. I miss you... The swell of background noise as she took another drink. Just thought you should know. Beeeeeeep.
He hit delete and went to bed.
8
Hanging about in Court One, waiting to be called, wasnt exactly Logans idea of a good time: an endless procession of Aberdeens dispossessed, unlucky, or downright stupid, being hauled into the dock to find out if theyd be going home with a fine, or a getting a few weeks free B&B at Her Majestys Pleasure. In a strange way it was a bit like a dentists waiting room unhappy people sitting about waiting for something nasty to happen only without the ancient copies of Womans Realm and dog-eared Readers Digests.
At least it was better than humping dusty file boxes up from the archives. And it gave Logan a chance to read some of the old case notes.
By the time Grampian Police arrested him, Ken Wiseman had eighteen notches on his belt a string of bodies that stretched all the way across the UK. Eighteen people and the most theyd ever found were a few chunks of meat.
Logan flicked through the names and dates. All those deaths...
According to the notes, everyone knew Wiseman was responsible, but couldnt prove it, so in the end theyd had to settle for the only ones they could prove: Mr and Mrs McLaughlin, Aberdeen, 1987. And even then
Sergeant McRae!
Logan looked up from his pile of paperwork to find the whole court staring at him. He clambered to his feet, blushing. Ah... yes, sorry Milord... and it sort of went downhill from there.
The light was blinding, streaming in from an open door on the other side of the bars. Heather screwed her face shut, one hand over her eyes for added protection. After all this time in total darkness it was just too painful.
Her head throbbed, her throat ached, she felt dizzy and weak. Her wrists burned where shed scraped them up and down against the rough edge of the bars, till the cableties snapped.
Gradually her eyes got used to the light and the room faded into focus. They were in a small metal space, no bigger than their tiny bedroom back home the floor red with rust and dried blood... Oh God... Duncan was dead. She reached through the bars with a trembling hand and stroked his forehead. It was hot, not cold: he was still alive!
She croaked through the bars at him: Duncan! Duncan wake up!
Nothing.
Duncan! Someones found us, Duncan! Its going to be all right!
A shadow blocked the light, then a loud metallic clang rattled the walls.
Heather tried to shout, but her throat was too dry to do much more than whisper, My husband needs medical... There was a figure standing in the doorway: butchers apron, white Wellington boots, grubby rubber mask, the eyeholes two black voids with nothing human behind them.
Please, Heather tried again, please, we wont tell anyone! Please, Duncan needs help!
The man in the butchers apron stood with his head on one side, watching her cry, the way a cat watches an injured bird.
Please! Ill do anything you want! PLEASE! She scrambled to her knees and fumbled at the buttons on her blood-soaked blouse, tears rolling down her cheeks as she exposed her pale body. Please dont hurt us...
The Butcher turned and pulled an old tin bath into the room.
Heather knelt there in her grey, mumsy bra. Whatever we did, were sorry!
He stooped and pulled two lengths of chain out of the bath, and threaded them through a pair of pulleys bolted to the ceiling. Then he dragged Duncan into the middle of the room.
She lunged forwards, hands scrabbling between the bars, clutching at her husbands ankles. Holding on for dear life.
NO! You cant have him! You cant!
The Butcher let go and Duncan clattered to the ground. Heather hauled him back towards the bars, screaming at the top of her lungs, HELP! HELP! WerE IN HERE! SOMEBODY HELP!
The Butcher grabbed her wrists, yanking her forward and bashing her head into the metal bars. Pain closed her eyes, burning iron filled her nose. Heather opened her mouth to cry out and tasted blood. She tried to break free, but he held her firm... and then he let go. She lurched backwards, but something jerked her to a painful halt there was a fresh set of cableties around her wrists, binding them on either side of a rusted metal bar. NO!
She lunged back and forth, ignoring the pain. LET HIM GO!
The Butcher fastened the chains around Duncans ankles, then pulled the links rattling through the pulleys as her husbands limp body was hoisted upside-down, dangling over the tin bath. Something flickered in his pale face, and his eyes opened. Confused. Heather?
Duncan! She dropped her shoulder and slammed into the bars, too close to get up any real momentum, but enough to make the metal groan.
Heather...
This time the whole room shook as she slammed into the bars. LET HIM GO!
The Butcher took a long, green rubber apron from the bucket and pulled it on. Then a pair of elbow-length green rubber gloves.
Give me back my fucking husband! BOOM she threw herself at the bars again, tearing the skin on her naked shoulder.
An axe came out of the bucket, followed by what looked like a torch, or a lightsaber. The last thing was a set of knives. The Butcher selected one and sliced Duncans clothes off, running the blade up the seams, peeling him like an orange.
And when Duncan had been stripped naked his pale skin fluorescing in the harsh electric light the butcher twisted the lightsaber in half, slipped a tiny green cartridge into it, and screwed it back together.
LET HIM GO! She slammed into the bars again.
Heather...
Click, and the lightsaber was given another small twist. The man grabbed a handful of hair and dragged Duncans head up.
Heather... Heather, I love y
He brought the blunt end of the lightsaber down hard, right on the top of Duncans head. A loud CRACK reverberated round the metal room and Duncan convulsed; a thin plume of blood pulsed from the new hole in his scalp. Heather screamed. The Butcher calmly picked up a thin wire rod and slid it into the little geyser of blood: jerking it in and out, then jamming it so far in that only the wooden handle protruded. Duncan stopped moving.
The Butcher slit Duncans throat vertically from clavicle to chin, opening his neck. Then the blade disappeared up inside the cut, twisted, and a huge rush of bright scarlet deluged into the tin bath.
Duncan hung naked and still as the grave. Dripping and swaying gently.
Heather sank to her knees and sobbed. She didnt watch the man skin and gut her husband.
9
DI Steel was waiting for Logan when he got back from court. Well?
Two months.
Is that all?
Sheriff said hed shown real remorse and didnt present an immediate danger to the public. We were lucky he got banged up at all.
Why do we even bother arresting the bastards? Steel hitched up her trousers. Right, I want you to
Scuse me, DC Rennie staggered to a halt, clutching a dusty cardboard box full of case files. Bloody thing weighs a ton...
The inspector stood to one side and Rennie lurched past.
The constable paused. You two coming tonight?
Steel shrugged. Ah, why not? Laz can bring his new boyfriend from Birmingham.
Hes not my boyfriend!
That reminds me, Renne shifted his grip on the box. Chief Constable Fauldss been looking for you.
Oh aye? said Steel, Well he can kiss my
No, not you: DS McRae. Something about retracing the original investigation.
Logan closed his eyes. Oh God...
Steel slapped him on the back. Never mind, Laz, youll get your reward in heaven. But before you get there I want that vandalism report, or youre going the other way, understand?
The setting sun made the grey buildings glow peach and gold as Logan locked the pool car and waited for Faulds to finish his anecdote about a seventy-two-year-old prostitute hed arrested in the middle of Birmingham town centre wearing nothing but a nuns wimple and a surgical truss. Alec the cameraman waited till the Chief Constable got to the punch line, then confirmed the sound levels were perfect.
Good. Faulds ran a hand through his hair and looked up at the sparkling granite tenement. Cleared his throat. Marched up to the door.
Logan leaned over and whispered to the cameraman, So... Insch tell you to get lost again?
Alec pulled a face. Hes a nightmare. Thought he was going to smack me one this morning. All I did was ask how his diets going.
They followed Faulds into the building. It was dark inside: a welcome mat smeared with mud and the faint smell of dog shit; a mountain bike chained to the banisters; a stack of junk mail slowly festering in a dirty puddle on the tiled floor. Faulds started up the stairs.
Anyway, said Alec, this is going to be great for the Flesher special revisiting the original case, talking to the witnesses, walking the crime scenes.
Faulds paused on the first landing, leant on the balustrade and called down to them: Something wrong?
With you in a second. Alec lowered his voice. Just between you and me: what do you reckon to Faulds, then?