This House of Burning Bones (Logan McRae #13)

Chapter 1

One

Was there anything sexier than breaking into someone’s house in the middle of the night? Moving from room to room in the darkness. Touching their special, secret, private things . . .

Course there wasn’t.

Andrew paused on the top step, listening.

Because sometimes these rich wanks had very big, very angry dogs – and it didn’t matter how carefully you scoped out their gaffs, you could always be surprised by a four-legged shredding machine with a taste for home invaders.

But the only sound was his breath, whooshing and hissing inside the ski-mask.

No sign of Fido.

Safe to step onto the landing.

A wee balcony overlooked the fancy double-height open hallway, with its fancy floor-to-ceiling windows, and fancy countryside view bathed in low, cold moonlight.

There was even a fancy scroll-edged mirror at the top of the fancy stairs, and for a moment the world turned from a grainy green glow to a flare of bright white as the infrared LEDs on his night-vision goggles caught the shiny surface.

Then the sensors adjusted, fading everything down again, revealing Andrew’s reflection in all its horror-film glory.

A shark’s-tooth grin beamed back at him, printed across the ski-mask’s mouth in jagged glow-in-the-dark fangs. Ready to party.

He paused for a quick flex, but the effect was kinda spoiled by the baggy black hoodie, black combat trousers, black boots, and little black rucksack – because everyone needed somewhere to keep their cable-ties, duct tape, and Rohypnol. Oh, and The Knife, of course. Can’t forget The Knife.

Shame the goggles and mask hid his pretty face. What was the point of all that time in the gym, the Botox, plucking, manscaping, and moisturising if no one could see it? But lots of these places had nanny-cams and home surveillance things.

Which was a shame.

People should be more trusting.

Andrew ran his gloved fingertips along the handrail, like it was a woman’s thigh and he’s heading for the panty line. The black nitrile making a faint, juddering squeal. Keeping his voice nice and low: ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are . . .’

The landing boasted half a dozen doors, but other than the mirror, there were no little personal touches. No pictures. No paintings. Kinda sad really.

He picked the nearest door and eased it open, peering into a family bathroom with lots of chrome and tiles.

Tres swanky. Even if the medicine cabinet revealed nothing more exciting than a unicorn-themed electric toothbrush and a tube of ‘RASPLE-BERRY TOOTHTASTIC TOOTHPASTE!’ that looked like the Glitter Fairy puked on it.

The next door opened on an unfinished bedroom: metal bed frame and a bare mattress; no curtains; two flat-pack bedside cabinets, one of which was still in the box. Naked lightbulb dangling from the ceiling rose.

No fun there.

Next to that was another spare bedroom, but the lazy cow hadn’t even finished assembling the bed frame.

No mattress. Instead, the place was packed with cardboard boxes, each stamped with ‘BEARSDEN HOME RELOCATION SERVICES LTD’ and a label to show which room it should’ve been left in.

None of which were ‘UNFINISHED BEDROOM’ so either the movers couldn’t be arsed putting them in the right place, or the woman of the house couldn’t be arsed unpacking and dumped the lot through here instead.

Still taped shut from the time she moved in.

Andrew slipped his rucksack off, pulled The Knife from its side pocket: six inches of blackened steel with a serrated edge, concealed inside a hard plastic sheath. Perfect for keeping the lucky ladies quiet while he gave them their little ‘treat’.

He slid the blade free, and slit open the tape on a box marked ‘STUDY’.

Books.

And really boring ones at that.

He had a wee rummage, but they were all called things like ‘INFORMATION MANAGEMENT IN A DIGITAL ENVIRONMENT’, ‘MAKING THE GENERAL DATA PROTECTION REGULATIONS WORK FOR YOUR ORGANISATION’, and ‘NEWSTOPIA (SELECTIVE-DISSEMINATION STRATEGIES FOR “CONTROLLING THE NARRATIVE” & REDIRECTING PUBLIC DISCOURSE TOWARDS FAVOURABLE OUTCOMES)’.

Sod that.

He closed the box again, then dumped another one on top, so no one could see he’d been in here.

Popped The Knife in his hoodie pocket.

Shut the door behind him and tried somewhere else.

A sign hung outside the next room, about the size of an ashtray, with cartoon cats and rabbits on it, and ‘PRINCESS brOOKLYN’S CASTLE!’ in happy pink letters.

Unlike the last two bedrooms, this one looked lived in.

Sort of. The bed was clarted in fuzzy unicorns and teddy bears and lions and tigers and penguins – their black, button eyes glittered in the night-vision glow.

Rainbow-and-flowers wallpaper. Little birdies on the closed curtains.

A dollhouse that looked way too posh to play with.

And a large, stuffed Skeleton Bob sitting in a wicker chair in the corner. Grinning.

The place was spookily clean and ordered and tidy. No toys lying out. No clothes strewn willy-nilly. No pens and pencils. No Lego landmines waiting to be stepped on . . .

Like a shrine to a long dead kid.

Andrew shook his head.

Sighed.

Guess some people were just creepy.

But a woman with kids was always a juicier prospect.

He tiptoed back out into the corridor.

The last door on this side of the landing was unmarked, but when he opened it, Andrew’s grin matched the one printed on his ski-mask. Finally: the master bedroom.

He slunk inside, leaving the door open behind him.

It was much larger than the other three, with framed photos on the walls, and a pair of doors leading off on either side of a king-sized bed – a big heavy wooden one, that looked like someone had sawn the top three foot off a four-poster.

In fact, every bit of furniture in here was way swankier than the flat-pack crap in the other rooms. Three chests of drawers were arranged around the walls, along with a vanity unit festooned with bottles and jars and tubs and tubes.

All of which probably cost a small fortune in their own right.

Much more like it.

Andrew helped himself to a few of the more expensive-looking ones. Then tried the door on the left side of the bed: a walk-in closet, bigger than Andrew’s whole bedroom, stuffed full of stylish clothes and elegant shoes. Hanging on rails, displayed in racks, folded neatly on shelves.

Nah.

The other door opened on an en suite done up to look dark and opulent. The kind of place you could spend a few hours soaking in your claw-foot tub, drinking champagne, surrounded by bubbles. One of those sinks that were carved out of a big slab of solid rock.

He leaned on the cold granite surface and popped open the medicine cabinet. Grinning behind his mask’s grin, because this one was full of goodies.

‘Yummy, yummy. Thank you, Mummy.’

He picked through the boxes of prescription pills, pocketing anything that might come in handy later: Temazepam, Oxycodone, and a half-empty thing of Tramadol.

Because sharing was caring.

Andrew checked the time on his phone – 23:54 – she’d be home soon. Better get a move on.

Back in the bedroom, he opened the first chest of drawers. Top drawer: scarves and boxed jewellery.

Even though it was impossible to tell what colour everything was in the night-vision goggles’ dark-green glow, it would all be stylish and expensive. And, OK, it went against the rules, but Mum’s birthday was coming up and while the jewellery was too dangerous to risk, bet she’d love some cashmere.

He pocketed the most attractive scarf, then moved on to the next drawer down.

Bras: plain, T-shirt, sports.

And a handful of more exotic, lacy numbers.

Mmmmmm . . .

Andrew held them up for a good look, turning them in his gloved fingers, picking the skimpiest frilliest item and stuffing it into his hoodie pocket.

Drawer Number Three held a vast array of pants.

Andrew licked his lips and trembled out a little breath, then plunged his hands into their delicious softness. Working his fingers through them. Tugging at the elastic as that familiar warmth cupped itself around his cock. Stirring things up in anticipation of the big event.

Looked like the lady of the house favoured the big arse-hammocks, but there were a few saucy numbers that tickled his knob, so they went in the hoody pocket to join that bra.

Drawer Four was full of socks.

Fuck that.

A wicker laundry basket lurked in the corner, though.

Worth a dip.

If he was quick.

Andrew ripped the lid off and dug in, throwing dirty T-shirts and socks and leggings and big baggy knickers over his shoulder till something frilly appeared.

Snatching them from the basket, he pressed the pants against his mask’s toothy grin. Took a lonnnnnnng deeeeeeeeep sniff. Breathing in the musky sweet-and-salty scent of her pussy. Holding it deep inside him. Then hissing it out in a shuddering sigh, clutching his rock-hard groin. Squeezing.

But there would be time for that later.

So, Andrew pocketed the pants, then went back for another lucky dip. Coming out with a hold-up stocking. Black and sheer. Shiny in the night-vision glow.

He wrapped both ends around his hands, like a garotte . . .

Then froze.

Hold on.

A sound rattle-clacked out from somewhere downstairs. Keys in a lock.

Quick!

Andrew swept up the discarded washing and stuffed it back into the basket, then tiptoed over to the bedroom door. Adjusting himself through his trousers.

Soon be time to shine . . .

He poked his head out onto the landing.

Couldn’t see much from here, but there was light outside. Probably a car, pulled up to the front of the house.

Then a clunk sounded, followed by the whoomp of an opening door.

Time to move.

Andrew crept out of the bedroom, ran on his tippie-toes across the landing, and flattened himself against the wall. Erection throbbing.

OK, so he couldn’t see what was going on from here, but the important thing was being hidden from view.

When you gave the lady of the house a ‘treat’, it was always best to keep it a surprise till the very last moment.

Because tonight was going to be one of the good nights. When he didn’t just slip away into the dark with his little trophies. When creeping turned to something far more satisfying.

But first:

He whipped off his night-vision goggles a second before the hall lights snapped on, bathing the cold, impersonal hallway in their harsh LED glow.

Which stung like poking wasps in his eyes, after the goggles’ screen.

Down below, a man’s voice shouldered its way into the house. A Central Belt accent, with an uncertain, grovelling edge to it. ‘Excuse me? Excuse me, Miss Agapova? Natasha Agapova?’

The answer came in the scraiky flat vowels of somewhere down under: Australia, or New Zealand. Sounding knackered and superior. ‘Go away, I’m not in the mood.’

Quite right. Bugger off, little man.

The lady has an appointment.

‘No. Sorry. Yes. But I’m with the police, see? Detective Sergeant Davis. Can I come in?’ You could almost smell the deference oozing from every pore. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’

Oh, thank you very much.

A cop.

Just what the evening needed.

Bastard.

And Andrew’s erection keeled over like a drunken tramp.

It was time for Plan B: find a nice dark, quiet corner to hide away and lurk there till the house was asleep, then sneak out the way he came in. And yeah, he could still give her a little ‘treat’ on his way out, but that hardly seemed fair. He wasn’t a monster, after all.

But first: only human to want a little peek, right? See what he could’ve won.

Andrew peered around the corner, keeping the rest of him well out of sight.

The lady of the house, Natasha Agapova, might’ve been in her late forties, but she was still a total MILF.

Mahogany-red hair framed a heart-shaped face with lips like cherries, high cheekbones, and deep dark eyes.

And yeah, she’d probably had work done – given there wasn’t a single wrinkle on her face – but there was nothing wrong with that.

Hadn’t done Andrew any harm, had it?

Looked like she’d got a bit of the old nip-tuck done below the neck too, because she went in and out everywhere a proper woman should. The hourglass figure accentuated by a glittery black ballgown and jewellery that was way too showy to be real.

Got to wonder how she ended up having an Ozzy accent, with a name like ‘Natasha Agapova’. Kinda think she’d sound Russian, or Ukrainian, or Eastern European . . .

Something else that didn’t really make sense was the massive beige teddy bear, clutched under one arm. Thing had to be at least five feet tall, wearing a hard hat, rig boots, rigger gloves, and a ‘PATHAK OIL SERVICES’ T-shirt.

She, Natasha, turned her back on the doorway and ditched the bear in the middle of the hall.

Kicking off her heels to pad across the deep oatmeal carpet to a long sideboard thing tastefully decorated with expensive-looking ethnic vases, where she dumped her keys and took off her earrings.

Then pulled a face. ‘It’s Adrian, isn’t it.

He’s finally wrapped that stupid Aston Martin round a tree. ’

‘It’s probably best if I . . . ?’ DS Davis stepped into the hall.

Might as well not have bothered, though.

He was an unremarkable bloke with greying hair at his temples – the kind of guy you wouldn’t look twice at if you passed him on the street – in a cheap-looking grey suit with a white shirt and blue tie.

The only thing even slightly noticeable about him were the sandshoes on his feet. And even they were beige.

A sniff from Natasha. ‘I take it someone’s told that pudding-headed blonde tart of his? Well, she can whistle if she thinks I’m paying for the sodding funeral!’

Davis stared at her. ‘Sorry?’

‘The divorce settlement clearly states he’s—’

‘Pay for the funeral?’ Davis threw his arms out. ‘You just can’t help yourself, can you? You’ve got to be a bitch about everything.’

Hang on a minute.

She stuck her hands on her hips, voice getting louder. ‘I beg your bloody pardon?’ Chin up. ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’

‘Oh, I know exactly who you are. Bitch.’

‘I want your name and badge number, right now!’ Jabbing a finger at him. ‘I happen to be very good friends with the Chief Constable and she—’

And that’s when DS Davis punched her. Right in the mouth. Hard enough to send Natasha staggering backwards on her bare feet.

Hard enough to make Andrew flinch.

‘Not so gobby now, are you, Bitch!’