someone dressed in a butcher’s apron and Margaret Thatcher fright mask, loading plastic bags into the boot of the Stephens’ car.’
Steel was silent – and Logan was beginning to think she’d fallen asleep, when she said, ‘And?’
‘And nothing.’
‘How did he get here? He left in the Stephens’ car, but how did he get here in the first place? If the bastard hopped on the number fifteen bus, dressed in his blood-soaked apron, I think someone would’ve noticed, don’t you?’
‘I’ll get someone to run the number plates on every parked car within, what, three streets?’
‘Four.’ She pulled the fag from her mouth and coughed. ‘Not that it’ll do us any sodding good. He’ll have picked it up by now. Get a lookout request on the Stephens’ car.’
‘Already done.’ He wandered over to the other side of the bed. Hazel Stephen’s bedside cabinet held the clock radio and a stack of romance paperbacks and How To diet books.
‘Right …’ Steel hauled herself off the bed and stretched. ‘Hold the fort for five minutes, I’m off for a wee.’
Logan pulled the bottom drawer out: pop socks and tights. Middle drawer: pants, thongs and huge knickers. Top drawer: bras, a pair of reading glasses, and a newsletter from Weight Watchers.
He picked it up and flicked through, looking at all the miserable-before and happy-ever-after pictures. How did Rennie put it: ‘So Wiseman’s a chubby chaser then.’ Logan dug out his mobile phone and called Control, wanting to know if Heather Inglis had been going to Weight Watchers too. She had. ‘What about Valerie Leith?’
There was a pause and some clacking keyboard noises.‘No idea. I can put you through to the FLO though?’
Another pause, bleeping, and then, ‘Aye? I mean, PC Munro?’
Logan asked the same question.
‘Don’t think so, but—’
‘Well, can you ask the husband?’
‘I wish. Bugger’s gone into Witness Protection. You know what they’re like: law unto them-bloody-selves. Aye, unless they want something then it’s all “we’re on the same team, aren’t we?” Tell you—’
‘What about the timeline? Any sign of her going to meetings?’
‘Eh? Oh, no. None of her friends mentioned it. Nothing in her diary either.’
‘Can you speak to the Witness Protection lot and get them to ask?’
‘Aye, but don’t hold your breath.’
Alec sloped into the bedroom, HDTV camera dangling from his hand, and slumped against the windowsill. ‘No offence, but this isn’t making good television.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s Her Royal Grumpiness?’
‘Gone for a pee. They finished downstairs?’
‘It’s another crime scene soaked in blood, but there’s nothing happening – no narrative drive. At this rate half the bloody programme’s going to be shots of white oversuits searching stuff.’
‘Sorry if our murder enquiry’s boring you, Alec.’
The cameraman shrugged. ‘Not your fault. But we need—’
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Steel appeared at the bedroom door, staring down at the oatmeal-coloured carpet and the new set of sticky red footprints. ‘Alec!’ The trail ended at the cameraman’s blue bootees.
‘Oops… It was kinda all over the kitchen …’
‘And now it’s all over the bloody house!’
‘Sorry.’
‘Do you have any idea—’
Logan stopped her before she could get going. ‘Found a possible lead: Heather Inglis and Hazel Stephen both went to Weight Watchers.’
‘Valerie Leith?’
‘Can’t tell yet, waiting for Witness Protection to get back to us.’
‘Aye, and we’ll all be drawing our old-age-pensions by then. If she’s in Weight Watchers there’ll be evidence up at the crime scene. Low-fat Sellotape, membership forms, before-and-after trousers, that kind of thing.’ Steel undid the zip on her SOC outfit. ‘Well, come on then – romper suits off, we’ve got a house to ransack.’
‘It’s … it’s important not to panic …’ The new person’s voice came through from the other side of the bars, where Duncan died. Where the Dark was the strongest. ‘You hear me? We have to stay calm …’
At least he’d stopped screaming.
Heather picked another escalope from the tinfoil parcel, biting through the herb crust. Very tasty.
‘He’s a bit of a whinge, isn’t he?’
‘Leave him alone, he’s just scared.’
She could hear Mr New scrabbling forwards in the darkness, grabbing hold of the bars. ‘Who are you talking to? Why won’t you tell me who you’re talking to? What’s happening? What’s—’
Heather cut off the rising tide of panic before he drowned them both. ‘I’m talking to my husband.’
‘Is he … hello? Why don’t—’
‘He won’t talk to you. Because he’s dead.’
‘Oh Jesus … I’m locked up with a lunatic.’
Heather nodded, even though the new man couldn’t see her. ‘I’ve gone mad.’
There was a long pause … and then Mr New said, ‘What’s your name?’
Heather chewed, swallowed, then told him.
‘You’re Heather Inglis? The Heather Inglis? I read about you … oh Jesus …’ He started to cry. ‘Oh fucking Jesus … it … it was him, wasn’t it? The Flesher … oh Jesus Fucking Christ …’
‘Who’s the—’
‘I didn’t see him! I was … from the back garden and … oh God, Hazel … What happened to Hazel? Where is she? WHERE’S MY WIFE? HAZEL?’ He was screaming again. ‘HAZEL?’
‘Well, this is going to get old really fast.’ Duncan plonked himself down on the mattress and sniffed at the tinfoil parcel in Heather’s hands.‘That smells nice.’
‘You want some?’
‘HAZEL!’
‘Can’t: dead, remember?’
‘HAZEL!’ The screams gave way to sobbing. ‘Hazel …’
Heather took pity on him. ‘Are you hungry, Mr New? Do you want something to eat?’ She held one of the escalopes out between the bars. ‘It’s good.’
‘Hazel …’
‘You need to keep your strength up.’
‘Heather, I don’t think you should get too attached to this guy.’
The sobbing went on for a while, but eventually Mr New accepted a drink of water and one of the escalopes. She could hear him sniffing it, then the crunch as he bit through the crust, mumbling, ‘What is it?’ as he chewed.
‘Veal, I think … or pork. Difficult to tell in the dark. Maybe—’
Mr New was spitting, gagging, retching.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Aaaaaaaaagh, Jesus …’ A wet splattering noise as he vomited onto the cold metal floor – the stomach-churning reek