Flesh House

She went back to wriggling along the invisible line of steel bars. It wasn't easy with her hands tied behind her back; the cable-ties round her wrists and ankles dug into the skin as she felt her way to the end wall. There was something square here, a plastic box with a lid ... Heather retreated when she realised what it was: a chemical toilet - its harsh disinfectant reek overlaid with something altogether less pleasant. The bars stretched all the way across the little metal room, dividing the pitch-black prison in two. Her on one side, Duncan on the other. '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 ... I'm 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?' 'I'm 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. 'I'm so tired, Heather. I ... I'm ...' 'You're going to be fine! You hear me?' She was sobbing now, the words burning out of her. 'You hear me Duncan Inglis? You're 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 can't leave me. Please don't leave me!' 'I'm so sorry ...' Sounding far away, even though he was just on the other side of the bars. 'Don't 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, it's 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, wasn't exactly Logan's idea of a good time: an endless procession of Aberdeen's dispossessed, unlucky, or downright stupid, being hauled into the dock to find out if they'd be going home with a fine, or a getting a few weeks free B&B at Her Majesty's Pleasure. In a strange way it was a bit like a dentist's waiting room - unhappy people sitting about waiting for something nasty to happen - only without the ancient copies of Woman's 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 they'd ever found were a few chunks of meat.