Flesh House

He padded through into the lounge, just in time to hear the answering machine finish its pre-recorded invitation to leave a message. The speaker crackled for a moment, and then a woman's voice said,'Bloody hell, ask someone to do you a favour and--' He snatched the phone out of its cradle. 'Hello?' 'What took you so long?' A yawn shuddered it's way free. 'It's half four ...' 'I managed to separate out the human DNA from the rest of the garbage in your carpet sample, and yes, it was a vast pain in the arse, thank you for asking. Took bloody hours to amplify enough of it to make a viable sample.' Logan plonked himself down on the couch. 'Mmmph?' Another yawn. 'Ran it through the database. Guess what: no direct hit.' 'Bastard ... Sorry, I suppose it was a long--' 'No direct hit, but I did get what looks like a familial one.' She gave it a dramatic count of five before continuing. 'Want to guess who?' But Logan already knew:'Richard Davidson - he's in Craiginches doing three years for possession, perjury, and aggravated assault. His mum disappeared the night the McLaughlins were killed.' They finally knew what happened to her. 'What? No, Ken Wiseman. It would have been close enough to look like his blood in the mid nineties when they did the appeal, but it's not. It's female. You're looking for his aunt, mother--' 'Sister. Kirsty McFarlane. She was supposed to have run off with an electrician eighteen years ago.'

Showered, shaved and feeling like shit, Logan waited for PC Munro to park the pool car, then climbed out into the cold November morning. Half past five and it was still pitch dark, the hollow streetlights glowing like wet gold against the indigo sky. Munro locked the car and yawned, her breath a thin white cloud as she shook herself. 'Still don't see why this couldn't wait till later ...' McFarlane's butcher shop had been given another graffiti makeover - four-letter words sprayed all over the plywood sheeting that covered the broken windows. 'I mean, the guy's going to be asleep and--' 'Just ring the doorbell.' She shook her head, muttering to herself as she stomped up to the butcher's front door, then stopped, staring at the doorframe. Logan stuck his hands in his pockets and waited. 'Today would be nice.' 'There's dog shite on the bell.' She prodded the door with the toe of her shoe and it swung open. 'Lock's busted. Looks like it's been kicked in.' All that graffiti:'MURDERING BASTARD!','CANNIBAL','DEATH'S TOO GOOD FOR YOU!','ENGLISH OUT' ... Logan told her to call it in. 'Tell them we've got a B-and-E, possibly in progress. Householder's life's been threatened.'