and the door opened again. Heather froze. The Butcher was back, with a multi-pack of bottled water. He put it on the floor, then tore it open and started passing the individual plastic bottles through the bars.
He came back.
‘Thank you …’ She was crying again. He came back. ‘My … my name’s Heather.’ She reached out and took one of the bottles from him. The Butcher froze for a moment. Then snatched his hand back. ‘Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to …’
He backed up against the wall, staring silently down at her.
‘I’m sorry! Please, don’t leave me in the dark! Please! I—’
But he was gone, slamming the door. BOOOM.
Alone in the dark, Heather curled up in a little ball and screamed herself hoarse.
Hot water, soothing away a hangover brought on by too many beers and too many vodkas. Logan stood with his forehead against the cool tiles and let the shower wash over him. What the hell had he been thinking? ‘Summer Nights’ from Grease was not a good song to duet with DI Steel, no matter how drunk you were. His arse was still tender from where she’d pinched it during the caterwauling finale.
Woman had fingers like bloody pliers—
The phone’s shrill ring invaded the steamy peace of the bathroom. Logan shouted, ‘Go away!’ at it, but it just kept going. Only stopping when the answering machine picked up.
He strained his ears, trying to tell who it was, but the ringing just started up again. ‘Oh, for God’s sake …’
Logan wrapped himself in a towel and dripped his way through to the lounge, snatching the phone out of its cradle. ‘What?’
DI Insch’s voice blared in his ear: ‘You were supposed to be at work hours ago!’
‘It’s my day off. So’s tomorrow. I’ve been on since—’
‘Listen up and listen good, Sergeant: you want a nine to five, Monday to Friday job? Go work in a bloody office. You’re supposed to be a police officer!’
Logan closed his eyes and tried counting to ten.
‘Hello? You still there?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. We’ve had a call from an old friend of yours: Angus Robertson.’
Logan froze. ‘What does that little shite want?’
‘Says he’s got information about Wiseman. Said he’ll only talk to you.’
‘Tough: I don’t want to talk to him. Little bastard can rot in his—’
‘Get your arse up to the station, we’re going to Peterhead whether you like it or not.’
The inspector’s Range Rover had developed an overwhelming reek of dog. Lucy, the spaniel responsible, lay behind the grille that separated the boot from the rear seat on a tatty tartan blanket, snoring and twitching as Insch drove them up the A90 to Peterhead. Logan in the passenger seat, Alec in the back, fiddling with his camera.
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