Flesh House lm-4, page 21
part #4 of Logan McRae Series
Warm. Heather rolled over onto her side, smiling in the darkness. She bunched the duvet round her body, enjoying the feeling of fresh pyjamas on her clean skin. The soft swell of the pillow beneath her head. 'It's not that surprising, when you think about it,' said Mr New. He'd calmed down a lot - death seemed to agree with him. Duncan sighed.'She's trying to sleep.' 'Stockholm syndrome they call it. She's been here for so long, dependent on the Flesher for everything: food, water, survival. She identifies with him. Not to mention the physical and mental strain she's been under.' 'She's not mental!' Mr New laughed.'Duncan: we're dead, remember? We're figments of her imagination and we're arguing about whether or not she's off her rocker. I think it's pretty much a moot point, don't you?' 'I ... Yeah, you're probably right.' Heather felt the weight of a body settle next to her in bed. 'And don't forget the knife,' said Duncan. 'Yeah,' Mr New sat on the opposite side of the mattress, the pair of them trapping her beneath the duvet,'you've got the knife now.' Even with her eyes closed she could see it shining pale blue in the darkness, tucked down the side of her cosy new bed. She had the knife - the one that had clattered against the bars when Mr New kicked the Flesher's tin bath over. The knife was long and sharp and glowed like death. 'You could kill Him.' 'He's too big, Mr New. You can't kill Him. He's the Dark. He's always been.' Duncan patted her on the shoulder.'Don't be such a flid, Heather: a person can't be the Dark. The Dark's a thing in its own right. The Flesher's just a man but the Dark ... the Dark is eternal.' Heather tried to get comfortable. 'Can you move over a bit?' 'Are you happy?' 'Duncan, don't be like--' 'I'm not being anything.' He pulled back the duvet so she could see his face.'I'm asking a question: are you happy?' She thought of Him, standing there in His butcher's outfit, breathing hard as he scrubbed away at the blood-smeared, rusty floor. The scent of Jeyes Fluid gradually replacing the stench of Mr New's death and her food poisoning. 'I couldn't do it.' Duncan bent down and kissed her on the top of the head.'I know, Honey, I know. But you could have been free.'
35
Ten am and Logan was buzzing from the three large espressos he'd downed in the canteen, trying to make sure he'd stay awake for Thomas Stephen's post mortem. Doctor Isobel McAllister presiding. In attendance: DI Steel, DCS Bain, the Assistant Chief Constable, the Procurator Fiscal, a queasy-looking PC, an IB photographer, and old Doc Fraser with his hairy ears corroborating. Full house. Isobel had 'rebuilt' Thomas Stephen on the larger of the two cutting tables, his meatless bones all arranged in the right order, the innards tucked in beneath the two halves of his ribcage. And right at the very top: the bruised and battered head. In all the years he'd been attending these things, it was probably the most surreal sight Logan had ever seen. A skeleton man with glistening innards and a human head. DI Steel wrinkled her nose. 'What the hell is that smell?' Logan scowled at her. 'I showered, OK? Twice last night and three times this morning. It's that bloody protein processing plant, the grease sinks into your skin like fake tan.' Every time he blew his nose, the smell of rendering fat came flooding back, that and the mortuary's acrid formalin reek was making him queasy ... or maybe it was all the coffee? Or maybe it was Isobel, picking over Thomas Stephen's severed head - her fingers working their way across the swollen face, as if trying to memorize his features by touch alone. He was bald on top, with a fringe of grey hair round the edges, a small white goatee beard sitting beneath a newly broken nose - his skin covered with bruises and scrapes. Isobel placed the head on the cutting table and peered at the very top. 'There's a hole here ... some sort of wadding's been forced into the wound ...' She pulled out a clot of dark red fabric. 'Circular puncture wound in the crown of the skull. Flesh isn't torn around the hole; bone isn't striated, so it probably wasn't a drill. Something solid moving vertically at high speed. Looks like a close-range bullet hole, but there are no burn marks ...' She flipped the head upside-down, peering at the neck stump, while a thin, pink-brown slime dripped from the not-bullethole. 'That's odd ... Brian,' holding a hand out to her assistant,'I need the bone saw.' Logan tried not to think about the next bit. When it was all over, and her assistant was rinsing the sticky sludge off the dissecting table, Isobel gave them the edited highlights. 'The hole in Thomas Stephen's head was caused by a rod extending four and three-quarter inches into his brain. It punched through the skull - embedding bone fragments in the surrounding tissue - tore through the edge of the left cerebral hemisphere, caused extensive damage to the cerebellum, and pretty much obliterated the brain stem. The exit wound where the skull meets the spine is much smaller than the entrance.' 'Something pointy?' For once Steel didn't look as if she was taking the piss. 'Maybe an ice pick?' 'No ... The killer withdrew whatever he'd used to punch through the skull, then threaded something else into the entry wound.' She picked up a marker pen and drew a small diagram on the mortuary whiteboard. 'The vertebrae were split vertically more or less in the middle - probably with an axe - but the damage to the upper spinal chord is uniform. Whatever it was, it was forced down, inside the spine, to the fifth cervical vertebrae. Effectively destroying the brainstem and stripping the nerve branches.' Someone swore, and Logan didn't blame them. 'Death would have been nearly instantaneous. No motor functions: no breathing and no heartbeat.' Doc Fraser nodded. 'Pithing cane.' Isobel stuck the cap back on her pen. 'I beg your pardon?' 'Pithing cane. What they used before BSE came along and made it illegal.' Doc Fraser made a gun of his hand, placing the barrel-finger in the middle of Logan's forehead. Then pulled the trigger. 'Bolt gun shoots a metal rod through the skull of your cow, pig, sheep, or Detective Sergeant, only death's not instantaneous. Sometimes they're just stunned. And even if they are stone dead you can still get muscle spasms - no one wants kicked by half a tonne of dead bullock. So you take a flexible metal rod and shove it in the hole, through the brainstem and down into the spine. Jiggle it about a bit. Then you slit the animal's throat.' He shrugged. 'I grew up on a farm.' Isobel bristled slightly. 'I see. Well, that would be consistent with my--' The Assistant Chief Constable cut her off. 'So we need to start looking at what, vets and farmers?' 'Nah,' the old pathologist ferreted about in his ear for something. 'A vet wouldn't be able to bone out the body like that. You're looking at abattoirs. A lot have gone electrical, but some still use bolt guns.' Steel grinned. 'And there's us found the body in a slaughterhouse. Who'da thunk it, eh?'
You couldn't say that DI Steel didn't learn from other people's mistakes. As soon as Logan found out who Alaba Farm Fresh Meats were supplying, she was straight on the phone to the Environmental Health. She was not going to be beaten with the same shitty stick as Insch. Her office was a tip, so they convened in the history room, pointing at things on the whiteboard and generally getting in Logan's way. They'd made a big list of every butcher's shop, supermarket, delicatessen, baker's, corner shop and cash and carry in the city and were working through them one at a time, confiscating anything that might have come from the abattoir. The man from the Environmental Health Department took off his glasses and rubbed at the black bags under his eyes. 'We're going to need more police backup. I've had four inspectors assaulted since seven o'clock this morning.' The DCS shook his bald head. 'Can't do it. We're stretched as it is.' 'Then you have to get officers in from Dundee, Glasgow, Inverness - I don't care. My people are getting verbally and physically abused! And it's not just the shopkeepers - one of my men got his nose broken by a pensioner's handbag when he wouldn't let her leave the shop with half a dozen pork chops. We need more police officers.' Logan tried to ignore them, concentrate on the transcripts of yesterday's abattoir interviews, but it was impossible. Finally the argument ended and they went back to the list, marking the outlets at serious risk of selling contaminated meat and meat products. Steel swore. 'I bought a big steak and kidney pie from there last week.' She poked the whiteboard with a nicotine-stained finger. 'Must've been OK though: I'm no' feeling all Hannibal Lectery.' The Environmental Health Officer scowled at her. 'It's not funny. Until you identify all the victims we've no idea what sort of diseases they were carrying.' That wiped the smile off her face. 'Diseases?' 'If he's used a pithing cane there's a risk of variant CJD. Then there's HIV. And Hepatitis C doesn't die unless you cook it at one hundred and sixty degrees, for about three-quarters of an hour. How long did you give your pie?' 'I ...' Cough. 'I don't know, do I? Stuck it in the oven and opened a bottle of wine ...' He looked at her. 'There's going to be a lot of people wanting blood tests. We'll have to draft in extra health staff to cope with demand.' Steel didn't say much for the rest of the meeting, just fidgeted nervously till everyone was gone. Muttering to herself,'I can't have diseases: I'm getting married!'
36
Saturday evening was a tin of beer, a soak in the tub, and then a prolonged period of standing in front of the open fridge, wondering if any of the contents were safe to eat. Just in case, Logan made broccoli cheese and chips. He ate it slumped in front of the telly, flicking idly through the channels: crap, crap, reality TV, crap, Simpsons repeat, crap, crap, more reality TV, crap ... '--scenes outside the Sheriff Court yesterday as Andrew McFarlane was released on bail.' The picture jumped to a shot of Wiseman's brother-in-law clambering into the back of a big black Mercedes with tinted windows, caught in the strobe-light of two dozen press cameras. Logan yawned and sagged even further down the sofa.'--the following statement.' A podgy-faced lawyer appeared.'My client, Mr McFarlane, has always protested his innocence, and the discovery of human remains at Alaba Farm Fresh Meats yesterday was proof of that. Mr McFarlane's butcher shop was supplied by that abattoir, and they are the ones responsible for human meat entering the food chain, not my client. Thankfully the Sheriff recognised that fact this morning.' Logan got himself another beer, returning just in time to watch the tail-end of the press conference, and the Chief Constable trying to assure everyone that Grampian Police could actually find its arse with both hands, no matter what some of the tabloid papers were saying. Then it was the weather, and after that some God-awful,'I'm a celebrity' -style garbage. Logan switched the TV off, went to bed, and slept like a corpse.
'Well?' DI Steel stood with her back to the death board and its disturbing new photo of Tom Stephen's semi-skeletal remains. 'Any joy?' Logan picked up the next interview transcript in line. 'How come this is now my job?' 'Because you're Auntie Roberta's special little soldier. Besides, you got any idea how much this enquiry is costing? Need to economise, so you're multitasking.' The inspector made an exploratory foray into the world of the underwire, peering down at her own cleavage. 'Why can no bugger make a decent bra that fits?' 'I'm supposed to be going through the 1987 case files. How can I do that and everything else at the same time?' She hauled at her underwear. 'I mean they're either all lace and bugger-all support, or they look like my granny's surgical truss.' 'Can we not discuss your bra for a change?' 'Still not getting any, eh? Thought that Procurator Fiscal Depute was after your truncheon d'amour?' 'Why am I the only person with any work to do?' He tried to ignore her, focus on the transcripts, but she wouldn't go away. 'So come on then: teeth?' Logan tried not to sigh, he really did. Then he dug out the relevant paperwork from the ever-expanding mound on his desk. 'Two incisors, three pre-molars, nine molars. They checked against the known victims' dental records - they're probably Hazel Stephen's.' 'Probably? What bloody use is--' 'They've been bashed about and boiled to death. "Probably" is as good as we're going to get.' Steel blew a wet raspberry. 'Lazy bastards hedging their bets, more like. Next: Polish workers, dead body? Connections?' 'Nothing back from the Polish police yet so we don't know about priors, but most of them only came over to Scotland six months ago. They can't have taken part in the 1987 killings.' 'But...?' Looking hopeful. 'There is no "but". Wiseman's never been to Poland, he doesn't speak Polish, and according to Alaba's security logs he's never been to the abattoir either.' 'Bugger.' Logan turned his head to the death board, looking at the aftermath of pain and suffering. 'It's beginning to look like Wiseman isn't the Flesher. Not now, not twenty years ago: it was all a figment of Brooks' imagination.' Steel slapped him on the shoulder. 'For God's sake don't let Insch hear you say that.' She was peering into her cleavage again. 'Silly sod's come in today and he's in enough of a grump as it is ... Do these look droopy to you?'
She wasn't kidding about Insch's mood - by the time Logan bumped into the inspector, he looked as if someone had stuffed a hand grenade up his bum and pulled the pin. The explosion was imminent. Fire in the hole. Logan paused in the doorway of the muster room; maybe he could just sneak out again without the fat man noticing-- 'And where do you think you're going?' Bugger. Logan forced a smile. 'Sir, I heard you were in, did--' 'Apparently I demonstrated severe lapses in judgement.' Insch scrawled another item on the muster room whiteboard. 'I had my meeting with Professional Standards. Severe - lapses - in - judgement.' The pen creaked and squeaked as he mashed the words out with his huge fist. 'Should've called the Environmental Health; should have recognized the risk of infection from eating human flesh; should have searched that bloody septic tank; should have figured out that McFarlane's butcher's and that cash and carry got their meat from the same - bloody - place.' He rammed the cap back on the pen and stood there: trembling, purple-faced. 'Tried to make me go home: "Compassionate leave's there for a reason, Inspector." "We're concerned about your wellbeing, Inspector." "You've been under a lot of pressure." "You've suffered a terrible loss ... " Like I don't already bloody know that! What am I supposed to do? Go home to an empty house? They wouldn't even let us bury her!' Insch hurled the pen down on the desktop. It bounced, sending a small stack of crime reports fluttering to the floor. 'How ...' Logan looked away. 'How are the girls holding up?' 'How would I fucking know? Miriam won't let me see them.' 'I'm sorry.' It didn't seem like enough. The inspector ground his teeth for a moment, breath hissing in and out of his nose as he slowly returned to a more normal shade of pink. 'With everyone running round like headless chickens trying to catch the Flesher, the crime statistics are going through the roof. Muggings, rapes, assaults, shoplifting, vandalism, extortion ... The whole city's going to hell.' He sniffed.'Someone has to hold the fort. You'd think that'd be obvious to anyone with half a brain, but I had to argue for two bloody hours till I got them to see sense.' 'They let you come back to work?' Insch bent to pick up the pen from the floor at his feet; his knees popped like gunshots on the way down. When he came up again it was with a grunt. 'Just because I'm dealing with all this shite, doesn't mean you're off the hook: anything happens with Wiseman I want to know about it. Understand?' 'I gave him your message.' 'Do - you - understand?' Logan nodded. 'Good. Now get out there and find me some bloody evidence.'
37
'Hello?' A voice in the darkness. Small and hesitant. Heather rolled over onto her side. 'Duncan?' 'What?' Definitely not Duncan or Mr New. She was hearing things again. She sat up, peering into the Dark. Trying to pick out a shape to go with the voice coming from the other side of the bars. 'Are you real?' A pause. 'Am I real?' It was a woman. 'Or are you dead like the others?' Silence. And then the voice said. 'I'm cold.' Heather gripped the duvet closer around herself. 'Heather,' Mr New stepped through the bars,'share, it's only fair.' 'But what if she dies?' 'Dies?' The new voice tried again:'What if who dies?' 'Heather ...' Sigh. 'I've got a duvet.' Heather clambered out of bed and dragged the mattress over to the bars, then poked half the duvet through a gap between two of them. 'Happy now?' She'd been talking to Mr New, but it was the woman who answered. 'Thank you.' A scuffing sound, then Heather heard her settle back against the bars. There was a tug as the new girl wrapped the other half of the duvet around herself. A long pause. 'My name's Kelley ... Kelley Souter.' A shaky hand was extended between the bars, brushing Heather's shoulder. 'Heather Inglis.' 'I ... I read about you in the papers.' Silence. The new girl, Kelley, said,'You have a little boy.' 'Justin. He's ... he was three ...' She bit her lip to hold back the tears. 'I had a little boy too. They took him away from me in the hospital ... said I was too young.' And so it all came out: how she was only thirteen, but it didn't matter because her boyfriend promised to stand by her. How he was nearly twenty years older than her. How one day he just vanished, never to be heard from again ... Heather listened quietly, then told Kelley about how Justin was born four and a half weeks early. 'He was so small, like a tiny doll, all purple and red ... They let me hold him for a minute before he went into the incubator. Lying there with all those tubes and wires ...' She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. 'Mother told me he'd never survive and I shouldn't get too attached. That it was probably Duncan's fault because he smoked pot.' 'What a bitch!' Duncan paced back and forth, the blood light pulsing from the hole in his head.'Why didn't you tell me?' 'But Justin showed her - grew up into a big strong boy ... I miss him so much.' Kelley's hand wriggled through the gap again, taking hold of Heather's. 'I'm glad you're here.' Two living people, in the kingdom of the Dark. 'You shouldn't get too friendly with her,' said Duncan, still pacing. 'She'll die, and then you'll have to eat her, and you'll feel guilty about it.' 'Go away, Duncan.' 'I'm just saying, OK? It's for your own good.' 'Who are you talking to?' Heather didn't really want to go through it all again. 'My husband. He's dead. And a selfish arsehole.' The grip on her hand tightened:'You can speak to the dead?' 'Thanks. That's very nice. Selfish arsehole. Jesus, Heather, after everything I've done for you!' 'Piss off, Duncan. I'm not in the mood.' 'Look - you know I'm right. She's going to end up on a plate.' 'I ... I wish I could talk to the dead. I'd tell my mum and dad how much I loved them.' Kelley's voice broke. 'It was my twelfth birthday ... The lorry was on the wrong side of the road and ... The firemen couldn't ... They had to cut us out. Mum and dad were ...' She shuddered into silence. Heather sniffed back a tear. 'I lost my dad when I was fifteen. He jumped off Union Bridge. I hated my mother for that ... hated her. All those years.' Kelly gripped her hand so tight it hurt. 'I wanted them to love me so much ...' Heather sat in the darkness, head back against the bars, holding onto Kelley's hand. Knowing that everything was going to be all right, because the Flesher would be back soon with his tin bath. And make Kelley's pain go away.
