Flesh House, page 26
‘Oh … bugger.’
41
Logan stood on the B&B’s top step, listening to DI Steel swearing a blue streak. ‘You sure?’ she said, when the well of profanity had finally run dry,‘Post-it notes?’
‘Loads of them. Envelopes, paperclips, ring-binders, you name it.’
More swearing. ‘The DCS’s going to kill me …’ She took an angry drag on her cigarette. ‘He thinks we caught the Flesher, not some silly bugger raiding the stationery cupboard.’
‘Nowak didn’t say anything when you spoke to him?’
‘Course he bloody didn’t. Just kept bleating for a lawyer.’ Puff, puff, puff. ‘Look, you’re absolutely positive? No wee chunks of meat in there at all?’
‘Not a sausage. Looks like Nowak was trying the same scam he ran back home, probably got Kowalczyk, Wiśniewski, and Laszenyk to do the actual stealing. I’ve told Rennie to go round the local pubs, see if anyone remembers being offered a dodgy fax machine and a load of yellow highlighers.’
‘Sodding hell.’ Steel was quiet for a moment. ‘Can you no’ concentrate on solving the main crime for once? We almost had the bastard!’ She hurled her cigarette butt to the path and ground it out with her boot.
‘It wasn’t him though, was it?’
‘If you don’t stop rubbing it in, I’m going to introduce the point of my boot to the hole in your arse.’
‘You’re welcome.’
DI Steel was right: DSC Bain wasn’t happy to hear the news. ‘GRAMPIAN POLICE CATCH ABATTOIR KILLER’ had turned into ‘MAN FLATTENED BY VOLKSWAGEN GOLF FOR NICKED POST-IT NOTES’. Or it would do as soon as the papers found out Marek Kowalczyk wasn’t the Flesher after all.
Logan sloped off before anyone found a way to make this all his fault, and went to the canteen for lunch. After all, it was Monday and that could only mean one thing: lasagne and chips, lasagne and chips, lasagne and … fuck.
He turned from the serving counter, tray in hand, to see DI Insch sitting at a table by the window with Jackie. If that wasn’t bad enough, the inspector was staring straight at him. And now Jackie was staring at him too.
The fat man pushed the chair on the other side of the table out with his foot.
Damn … Logan took his lunch over and sat, trying to act casual as he helped himself to the vinegar. ‘Sir, Jackie.’
She didn’t even pretend to be on first-name terms anymore:‘Sergeant.’
There was an awkward silence.
Logan started in on his lasagne. All he had to do was eat fast and get out of here. Why the hell did Insch have to—
‘Soon as you’ve finished,’ said the inspector, scooping the last remnants of custard out of a bowl,‘you can get us a pool car. You and I are going to see Andrew McFarlane.’
And there went Logan’s appetite. ‘Sorry sir, the DCS gave strict—’
‘I’m not supposed to interfere in the Flesher case? You’ll be happy to know, Sergeant, that we’re going to talk to Mr McFarlane about a spate of recent vandalism. Which does fall under my remit.’
Logan looked at Jackie, hoping for some support, but all he got back was a stony silence.
He tried again. ‘Sir, don’t you think—’
‘No I don’t. Now eat your bloody lasagne.’
‘So,’ said Logan, looking up at the butcher’s shop,‘you were having lunch with Jackie…?’ The shop windows were boarded up: huge sheets of plywood, peppered with nightclub flyers and a patina of graffiti:‘CANNIBAL BASTARD!’‘MURDERER’ ‘SCUM’ and for some reason:‘ENGLISH OUT’
Insch unwrapped a chocolate éclair, stuffing the sweetie in his mouth, and the wrapper in his pocket. He pointed at the blue door next to the butcher’s shop. ‘You know the drill.’
There was an intercom with McFarlane’s name printed on a plastic slip. Logan pressed the button. No reply. So he did it again, and twice more for luck. A scared voice crackled out of the speaker.‘Go away! I’m calling the police!’
‘This is the police, Mr McFarlane. It’s DS McRae: we met at the prison? We’re here to talk to you about the vandalism.’
‘Oh …’
A low grinding buzz sounded and Logan pushed the door open. They went through a short hallway and up a brightly painted flight of stairs.
McFarlane was waiting for them at the top. He didn’t look much better than the last time Logan had seen him. Yes the bruises were fading, but the butcher had a caved-in look, as if all the stuffing had been knocked out of him, leaving behind an empty shell with a broken nose and missing teeth.
They followed him through into the lounge.
McFarlane’s flat wasn’t quite what Logan had been expecting. Lone alcoholic living above a shop: it should have been all discarded takeaway containers, empty bottles, peeling wallpaper, and dismal country music on the stereo. Instead it was painted in shades of off-white, spotlessly tidy, watercolour landscapes on the walls, and what sounded suspiciously like Carmen coming out of the speakers.
A line of framed photographs sat on the mantelpiece: McFarlane, McFarlane and a younger woman, the same woman in a graduation cap and gown, the two of them getting married. She’d walked out on him eighteen years ago, and he still had her photos up. That was devotion for you.
The butcher sank into a leather armchair within easy reach of a litre bottle of vodka. He poured himself a juddering tumbler-full. ‘I’d offer, but you’re both on duty.’
‘Not to worry, sir,’ Insch stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets as he surveyed the photos, the pot plants and the paintings. ‘You have a lovely home.’
The butcher shrugged and drained half his glass in one go.
‘So …’ Insch smiled at him. ‘Still expect us to believe you had nothing to do with the bits of dead people in your shop?’
McFarlane ground his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘Thought you were here about my vandalism.’
‘Just between you and me, sir, I think the two things might just be connected.’
‘They’re here every night. Throwing things. You should see the state of the shop … it was like a bombsite when I got out of … when I got home.’
‘And did you speak to Wiseman when you were inside?’
‘I never did anything, and my life’s ruined.’ Another slug of vodka. ‘Who’s going to buy meat from my shop now? After all this? Years I spent building the business—’
‘I’m sure everyone’s sorry for your loss. I know I am. With my daughter lying dead in the fucking morgue!’
McFarlane worked another large measure of vodka into his glass, then into himself. ‘That’s not my fault – I didn’t do anything.’
‘She was FOUR!’
‘Sir, I think we should—’
Insch towered over the hollowed-out butcher. ‘She was four and that bastard killed her!’
‘I …’ McFarlane shuddered, then looked up into the inspector’s furious purple face. ‘Do you know what it’s like to have a killer in your family? Do you? To live with the hate and the lies and the shame? When it’s none of your bloody fault?’
‘I ought to tear your—’
Logan put a hand on the inspector’s arm. ‘He wasn’t there. He was in prison when Wiseman killed Sophie.’
‘He—’
‘Why don’t you wait for me in the car, sir? I’ll finish up in here.’
Insch didn’t move.
‘Please.’
For a moment it looked as if Insch was about to turn the butcher into fourteen stone of alcoholic mince, but in the end he turned on his heel and stormed out.
The butcher poured himself another shaky drink, the bottle clinking round the mouth of the glass. ‘I didn’t …’
‘I’m sorry, sir. He’s had a lot on his mind.’
‘It was never me …’ The vodka disappeared.
Logan picked up the wedding photograph from the mantelpiece: it was McFarlane and Wiseman’s sister – Logan couldn’t remember her name – on the steps of King’s College Chapel. Him in a kilt, her in a huge white dress. ‘Do you ever hear from her? Your wife?’
McFarlane stared down at the carpet for a beat. ‘No.’ He picked up the bottle, then put it down again. ‘Eighteen years. Eighteen bloody years …’ His saggy pink eyes were beginning to fill with tears.
Logan put the wedding photo back with the others. Eighteen years – he was willing to bet that was when the butcher climbed into a bottle and forgot the way out. ‘Well, sir, if you can think of anything—’
‘It’s not easy losing someone you love.’ This time the bottle made it all the way to the glass. ‘I’ve lost everything. Every last bloody thing.’ His voice was starting to slur round the edges. ‘My whole life is buggered. All because of … because of Ken Wiseman.’ The vodka went down in one. ‘But he’s family, isn’t he? He’s family so I had to give him a job. And now look at me: no wife, no business, no friends, prison. What am I going to do? Eh?’ He scrubbed a trembling hand across his face, trying to wipe away the tears. ‘What am I going to do?’
McFarlane lurched to his feet, grabbed the bottle, and headed for the door. ‘Come see …’ He stomped down the stairs, but instead of going out onto the street, the butcher led Logan round to a small internal door. ‘Come see …’
He hit-or-missed a key into the lock and then they were through into the shop. Darkness. The butcher fumbled with a switch and the lights flickered on. The place didn’t look anything like it had the last time Logan was here: with the plywood over the windows, it had all the charm of an open grave. Both chiller cabinets had been torn from the wall, then hurled to the floor. The display case was a study in fractured glass. A red fire extinguisher poked out of the deli counter’s ruptured sneeze-guard. Gouts of dark red paint covered the walls like arterial blood.
‘Twenty years.’ McFarlane swigged straight from the bottle. ‘Twenty years I’ve been building this business … and now look at it.’ He threw his arms wide, shouting at the top of his voice,‘COME BUY YOUR MEAT FROM THE CANNIBAL BUTCHER!’
The next mouthful finished the vodka. He peered through the empty bottle, twisting it round and round – as if trying to get his old life to come back into focus – then hurled it at the wall above the ruptured till. An explosion of glass.
McFarlane stood in the centre of his ruined life and cried.
42
DI Insch was back in the passenger seat of Logan’s pool car, the tips of two fingers pressed against the side of his throat. Teeth gritted. Face still purple. Eyes screwed shut. There was no way Logan was getting in there with him till the inspector calmed down, so he wandered down the road to a little newsagents’ and spent a couple of minutes browsing the magazines, then the selection of sweeties – buying a big bag of jelly babies and another of fizzy cola bottles. And a lottery ticket, just in case. Was it ethical to still use Jackie’s birthday as two of the numbers?
By the time he got back to the car, Insch seemed to have settled down a bit. Logan climbed in behind the steering wheel and passed over the jelly babies, holding the cola bottles in reserve. Just in case.
The inspector dug his way into the packet, then ripped the head off some jelly mummy’s pride and joy.
‘Sir,’ Logan started the car,‘I think you need to go home, OK?’
More jelly babies were sacrificed, but it didn’t seem to be appeasing the volcano. ‘McFarlane was in it with Wiseman. The two of them together. Killing and butchering.’
Logan pulled out into traffic. ‘We’ve got nothing on him. And before you go off on one: I know, OK? But look at him: all Andrew McFarlane wants to do is pickle himself in vodka. It’s all he’s been doing since his wife disappeared eighteen years ago. Half the time he wouldn’t be sober enough to know what day of the week it was; Wiseman could butcher half of Torry downstairs and McFarlane wouldn’t notice.’
‘Sergeant …’ Insch’s voice had taken on that ominous rumble, like a twenty-eight-stone, angry rottweiler.
‘I’m just saying.’
‘Well don’t. Sophie’s dead because—’
‘You shouldn’t be here. You should be at home, with your family.’
Insch slammed his fist into the dashboard. ‘I DON’T HAVE A FAMILY!’ Trembling with rage. ‘That bastard took them. He took everything!’
His tea was cold. Logan took an exploratory sip, then spat it back into the mug.
‘Hoy!’ Steel scowled at him from the other side of the history room. ‘Don’t be so disgusting.’
‘You want another coffee?’
‘And would it kill you to scare up some biscuits? Rennie always manages.’
‘So get Rennie to make your bloody—’ Logan’s mobile phone cut him off at the pass. ‘Hello?’
Geordie, male, early forties.‘Aye, we’ve nothin’ on the Weight Watchers front.’
‘Who is this?’
‘Bloody hell … Detective Superintendent Danby, Northumbria Police: none of the Newcastle victims were in Weight Watchers. Went round all the relatives, know what I mean?’
‘Damn.’
‘Aye. Bloody tragic, lookin’ at them photo albums all over again. Forgotten what half them looked like. Thought I’d always see their faces, every time I closed ma eyes …’
‘Sorry Superintendent, it was a long shot.’
‘I want you to remember they weren’t just victims, OK? They were people. With families and friends who miss them. The Calverts raised money for charity. Jack coached kids five-a-side football. Emily won prizes at the local gallery, even got a bit in the papers about it. They didn’t deserve what they got. They deserved better, know what I mean?’
Logan did. He thanked the DSI, and hung up.
‘Well?’ said Steel.
‘The Weight Watchers angle was a dud.’
Steel nodded, then fiddled with her hedgehog hair for a bit. ‘You had your one-to-one with our Weegie blamemongers yet?’
‘No.’ And to be honest he wasn’t looking forward to it either.
‘Did me today while you were off playing with DI Fat-andGrumpy.’ She tipped him a wink. ‘Think that redhead DCI fancies me.’
Logan went back to his paperwork. ‘Thought you were getting married.’
‘Girl can dream, can’t she? Now where’s my bloody coffee?’
Tonight it was trout fillets in herb butter with seasonal vegetables: serves two. According to the packet anyway. Logan stuck it in the microwave and padded through to the lounge to check the messages on his answering machine.
‘MESSAGE ONE: Logan, It’s your mother. You know I don’t like talking to this thing.’ And then it was straight into haranguing him about hiring a kilt for his brother’s wedding. Beeeeeeep.
The next message was from Alec wanting to know if Logan was up to anything interesting tomorrow, worried that the BBC were going to start cutting his budget if nothing happened soon. Beeeeeeep.
And then it was Colin Miller, voice low and urgent. ‘Laz? It’s me. I need you tae phone me back soon as you get this, OK? I mean it: ASAP!’ Beeeeeeep. END OF MESSAGES.’
Logan called him back. ‘Colin?’
‘Aye?’ There was something small and snottery wailing in the background.‘Hold on a minute darlin’ Daddy’s on the phone, but. Laz? Laz, you want to go out for a pint tonight? Please?’ More highpitched screaming. ‘Shhhh, shhhh … yes, Daddy knows. Daddy’ll change it in a second. I’ll even bring the stuff you wanted from the paper’s archives? Come on man, I’m dying here …’
‘When?’
‘Prince of Wales: half seven?’ Another voice in the background, nearly inaudible, but it sounded like Isobel, asking the reporter if he was aware that their son was crying.‘Sorry, Izzy, it’s work – need me to cover somethin’ for tomorrow.’ Then back to the phone. ‘OK, but I can’t be there till half seven at the earliest. I’ve got a family to look after, and that comes first.’
Thank God the screaming had finally stopped.‘It’s not her fault, Heather.’ Mr New sat back against the bars.‘She’s frightened, her sister’s dead and she’s trapped in a strange, scary place all on her own. You can’t blame her.’
‘Did I say anything?’
‘No, but you were thinking it.’
True.
‘So,’ Duncan nodded at the plate of cold meat resting in her lap,‘do you think that’s her? The sister?’
Heather picked up another cutlet, bit into it, and chewed for a bit. ‘Probably … tastes a bit … funny. Sort of metallic.’ But at least it wasn’t off like those last slices of Duncan. Heather didn’t fancy another bout of food poisoning. She tore off a chunk, washing it down with a mouthful of water.
The plate had been there when she’d woken up, head throbbing, mouth like ash. Along with the pills. Kelley said the Flesher was worried about her – that he’d picked up her unconscious body and laid it on the mattress, then gone to get some medicine. Little round pills that Heather had forced down. They made her teeth feel squeaky, but took the pain away.
She chewed, thinking …‘Kelley? Kelley, are you awake?’
‘Do you need another pill?’
‘What did He say? When He made you promise: what did He say?’
‘That … that if I didn’t get you to take your medicine he’d hurt me.’
‘Oh …’
‘Heather?’
‘Yes?’
‘Tell me about Justin again.’
So she did: from the moment of conception, right through to when he was eighteen and off to university to become an architect. The life he’d never have. Then Kelley told the story of her little boy, and how it was all a mistake and the doctors gave him back to her and he grew up to be a famous actor.
Then they sat quietly in the darkness, eating slices of the girl next door’s murdered sister.
And then Kelley asked,‘What’s she like? Your mum?’
Heather grimaced. ‘I never did anything right in her eyes. After Dad … died, it was as if everything was my fault. She hated Duncan …’
Her cellmate was silent for a minute. ‘I … I lied to you. It wasn’t my boyfriend who got me pregnant. I’ve never had a boyfriend. How pathetic is that? Forty-nine and I’ve never had a boyfriend …’
‘Kelley, it’s not—’
