Ruthrieston glittered. A lone rocket zwipped up into the November sky, exploding in a shower of red. Four seconds later the BANG arrived, but by then the sparks were long gone. 'Can you imagine being up here on Monday? You'd see every firework in the city.' The Chief Constable joined him at the rail. 'God it's freezing.' He shivered. 'If you were Wiseman, would you hang around waiting to speak to the BBC?' 'Would I buggery. I'd be on the first boat out of the UK.' 'Which begs the question: why is he still here?' Logan pushed away from the rail as another rocket screeched up into the sky. 'Unfinished business.' Faulds nodded. 'That's what worries me.'
Heather mashed the heel of her hand into her eye, wiping away the tears. It was a nightmare, that's all. A bad dream. She'd wake up and everything would be OK and they'd have Boeuf Bourguignon for tea and drink some wine and Duncan would still be alive. Duncan ... she'd cried till her whole body ached, screamed till she couldn't breathe. And now there was nothing left, but a dull numb pain that wrapped around her heart like poisoned barbed wire. She laid her head back against the dark metal wall and moaned. There was a noise outside and light flooded her prison, sparking off the puddles of blood that littered the rusty red floor. All that was left of Duncan. Heather closed her eyes. This was it - the Butcher had come back for her. It was her turn to be hung upside down over the tin bath and gutted. In a way it was a relief; at least she'd be with her husband and son again. The Butcher stepped into the room and Heather scrabbled back, terrified. She tried to plead for her life, but her mouth was too dry, her lips cracked and bleeding. She'd changed her mind: she didn't want to be with Justin and Duncan. She didn't want to die! But the Butcher wasn't carrying a knife, he was carrying a hose. Cold water battered against the floor, bouncing off the hard metal surface to shower everything with droplets of pink liquid as the last remnants of Duncan were washed down the drain. When there was nothing left, the Butcher disappeared, only to return thirty seconds later with a tinfoil parcel and a bottle of water. He placed both on the floor - just within arms' reach of the bars - then stood there, staring at her. God she was thirsty. Trembling, Heather inched forwards and snatched the bottle, scurrying back till she was in her corner again. The bastard hadn't even moved. She wrenched the top off the bottle and drank, coughing and spluttering as it went down too fast. Nearly bringing it all back up again. The Butcher nodded, then pointed silently at the tinfoil bundle. Then at the mask's mouth. Then rubbed his stomach. Heather stared at the parcel, too scared to pick it up. He gently peeled back a corner of the foil and the smell of hot food filled the room. Her stomach growled. She peered between the bars. It was just black pudding. Normal, everyday black pudding. And she was so hungry ...
