The inspector stared at the bag of little pink, red, green, purple, and yellow figures. 'I can't eat those. Borderline diabetic as it is ...' Then he snatched the bag from Logan's hand and tore it open, stuffing baby after baby into his mouth. Chewing on automatic. Washing them down with more Guinness. Logan pulled the tab on his own tin and raised it. 'It's going to be OK.' 'No.' Insch shook his head, clutching the little furry unicorn to his chest. 'No it's not. It's never going to be OK again.'
The kitchen light seemed harsh and artificial after the soft glow of Sophie's bedroom. They sat at the kitchen table, Insch hunched over a glass of whisky and a mug of sweet, milky coffee, the steam curling up around his bald head. Logan slid the opened box of All Gold back across the tabletop. Insch didn't look up. 'Has he confessed?' 'Denying everything: says I beat him up. You imagine that? He'd have me for sodding breakfast. Besides Alec got the whole thing on camera.' Insch took a Caramel Nectar and stuck it in his mouth, followed by a sip of whisky. 'Did he ... is Sophie on it?' Logan didn't want to answer that one, but he didn't see that he had any choice. 'Yes.' The inspector nodded. And helped himself to another chocolate. 'I want you to do something for me.' His voice was a dark rumble, colder than the November night howling against the kitchen window. 'I want you to go to Craiginches and you tell Wiseman that I'm sorry.' Logan nearly choked. 'Did you say--' 'I should never have assaulted him. I was a policeman, he was a prisoner, I had no right.' Insch downed half his whisky in one go. 'I looked up to Brooks. He was everything I wanted to be: he got the job done. Put people behind bars. He bent the rules, but it ... it took me a long time to realize he was wrong. The ends didn't justify pounding the crap out of suspects. Made us no better than they were.' The last of the whisky disappeared. 'You'll tell him?' 'Are you sure?' The inspector held the cut crystal glass in his huge hand, twisting it so that little diamonds of light sparkled on the tabletop. 'And then you tell that piece of shit I'm going to be waiting for him.' 'Sir, you can't do that. He's--' 'I don't care how long it takes: I'm going to rip his balls off with my bare hands and feed them to him.' 'But--' 'No bastard is ever going to find his body.' 'It's
33
Thursday morning lashed against the tiny window of the Flesher history room, the wind and rain playing counterpart to the ping and groan of the solitary anaemic radiator. Logan stuck his finger in his ear and tried again, shouting into the phone:'No, not McKay, McRae: Mike, Charlie, Romeo, Alpha, Echo.' Static. A high-pitched buzzing noise.
