Flesh House, page 35
‘I didn’t know!’ Rennie twitched. ‘You can’t tell anyone, OK? Please! You saw her: she was all over me from the start! I didn’t know!’
‘Bloody hell … fifteen …’
‘She doesn’t look fifteen! You saw her – you bought her drinks in the pub!’
‘Yeah, but there’s a bit of a difference between buying a minor a rum and coke, and painting her with golden syrup then licking it off.’
‘Oh God … I’ll have to go to court … I’ll lose my job! My mum’ll find out! What’ll the papers say?’
‘Probably something classy like, “PC PAEDOPHILE SHOWED ME HIS TRUNCHEON”.’
‘It’s not funny! What am I going to do? If anyone finds out …’ He looked on the verge of tears. ‘I didn’t know!’
Logan took pity on him. ‘I looked it up. Section five point five of the Criminal Law – Consolidation Scotland – Act 1995, says you’ve got a defence if you genuinely believed she was over sixteen—’
‘I did! You know I did!’
‘And you’re under twenty-four years of age when the offence was committed.’
Rennie looked as if something special had just happened in his trousers. ‘I’m twenty-three!’ He closed his eyes and slid off the chair. ‘Oh thank you dear, sweet, fucking Jesus …’
‘You’re welcome. Now get your arse back up here, we’ve got more important things to worry about.’ He dumped the newspapers on the floor. ‘Like how the Flesher found Elizabeth Nichol.’
Rennie scrambled into the seat. ‘I never would’ve touched her if I’d known—’
‘Will you bloody concentrate? We’ve got two women out there who’re going to wind up as happy meals if we don’t do something. So come on: who knew where Nichol lived?’
Rennie scrubbed his face with his hands, relief oozing out of him like a very happy smell. ‘I don’t … Hospital: doctors, nurses, admin staff. They’d all have access to her patient records when she got admitted after the attack.’
‘Good, I want you to get someone up there, see if anyone fits Goulding’s latest profile. Who else knew?’
‘Police.’ The constable poked the desk. ‘We knew. Better yet, Faulds knew. Where was he Thursday night, eh?’
‘Oh for God’s—’
‘Think about it: we all went to the pub, but he didn’t come, did he? He’d be a dab hand at covering his tracks; knows forensic procedure inside and out; he’s got all them mystery bruises; and every time there’s a—’
‘Enough! OK? Faulds is not the bloody Flesher.’ Logan tossed PC Munro’s FLO report across the desk.
‘No need to get all—’
‘Read it, you idiot. Control says Munro called through an update at two o’clock: Elizabeth Nichol is local, forty-nine, single, lives alone; one sister, one brother. Both parents are dead … She likes swimming, romantic fiction, and collecting snow globes.’
‘No accounting for taste.’ Rennie flicked through the report till he got to the photograph of Elizabeth Nichol’s bruised face. ‘How come she’s not fat-tastic? Thought the Flesher liked them self-basting?’
‘Wrong place at the wrong time. If she hadn’t been borrowing a cookery book from the Youngs, he wouldn’t have touched her …’ Logan went back to the death board. ‘Mind you, Goulding thinks Nichol might be the end of some sort of chain – that she was a’close to home’ victim the Flesher’s been working up to.’
A thoughtful expression slowly crawled its way across Rennie’s face. ‘Maybe the Flesher followed her to the Youngs’ and they were the ones in the wrong place at the wrong time?’
‘Which brings us right back to how does the Flesher know her?’ Logan picked up the latest crime-scene photo from the board – Elizabeth Nichol’s lounge, covered in shattered snow globes and ruptured furniture. ‘There was no sign of forced entry, so she let him into her house. That makes him a friend, or a colleague, neighbour, or family member.’
‘Or Chief Constable—’
‘I’m not going to tell you again. Steel’s doing the neighbours; see if you can dig up Nichol’s brother and sister …’ Logan checked his notes. ‘Jimmy and Kelley. I’ll take the workmates.’
Which was easier said than done. PC Munro hadn’t passed on any details about Elizabeth Nichol’s employers – Logan had no idea who she worked for.
He dug out his phone and started dialling.
Kelley had cried for a while. It was difficult holding her with the bars in the way, but in the end the shuddering had stopped.
Heather gave her a squeeze. ‘How you feeling?’
‘Better … I feel better.’ She sniffed. ‘I’ve never told anyone about it before.’ Sigh. ‘I miss them. I really do miss them. They were so kind. If I messed up they’d sit down and talk to me. No more cigarette burns or cracked ribs, black eyes … Dad never raised his hand to me, not even when I broke his coronation mug.’
‘They sound nice.’
‘HELP ME!’ The bloody policewoman had started up again.
Kelley shifted in the darkness. ‘Heather? I’m glad you’re here.’
‘I’M A POLICE OFFICER!’
Heather smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re here too. Strange isn’t it, being glad someone else is trapped in this little metal prison …’
‘YOU WON’T GET AWAY WITH THIS!’
‘You think she’s ever going to shut up?’
‘THEY’LL BE LOOKING FOR ME!’
Kelley patted Heather’s hand. ‘Yes.’ And then she moved away from the bars. ‘Do you want any more medicine?’
‘LET ME GO YOU BASTARD!’
‘It makes me feel bad.’
‘Sure you don’t want any?’
‘Positive.’
‘PLEASE!’
‘Did you hear something?’ Kelly’s voice was low and urgent:‘He’s coming back …’
‘What do—’
‘I’M A POLICE OFFICER!’
‘Close your eyes! Pretend you’re asleep.’
Heather peered out into the darkness. ‘But—’
‘Roll over! Away from the bars! Keep your eyes closed, or he’ll know you’ve not taken your medicine!’
And he would hurt Kelley. Heather rolled over onto her side and screwed her eyes shut, lying perfectly still beneath the duvet. A metal clunk … and then the groan of un-oiled hinges – the door opening – and light flooded their prison, she could feel it burning through her eyelids.
Some rustling, and then Kelley said,‘She’s sleeping.’
The light went out and everything was darkness again, then the boom of the door closing echoed through the metal cell, momentarily drowning out WPC Shouty.
‘I’M A POLICE OFFICER! THEY’LL FIND YOU! YOU HEAR ME? THEY’LL … Oh God … No, please, I didn’t …’
Then there was screaming.
Heather waited for the bolt gun’s‘Crack’ and drifted off to sleep.
57
Logan tried HM Customs and Revenue, but no one would speak to him without a warrant. It was the same story at Elizabeth Nichol’s bank, so he gave up and put a call through to the PC they’d left guarding the woman’s ruined home – asking him to have a poke about and see if he couldn’t find any payslips or bank statements.
Twenty minutes later the constable was back with the name of a haulage firm in Inverurie and a complaint about the number of journalists and TV people crawling all over Nichol’s street.‘Had to chase two of the bastards out the back garden. Bit of backup would be nice!’
Logan said he’d see what he could do, hung up, and tried the hauliers.
‘Hello, Garioch United International Distribution Limited, hope you’re having a GUID day. How may I direct your call?’
It took a while, but eventually Logan managed to persuade her to put him through to someone in charge.
‘Oh for God’s sake. What now?’
‘Mr Arthur? This is Detective Sergeant—’
‘Don’t you people have anything better to do? I told your colleague everything, OK? Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a golf game at—’
‘Who did you speak to?’
‘A woman. What’s her name …’ There was some rustling at the other end.‘Michelle? No, Munro. Wanted to know about someone who used to work here. Elizabeth Nichol’
‘Used to?’
‘We had to let her go a couple of months ago. Shame: been with us eight years … Look I’ve been through all this already and—’
‘What did she do?’
‘Driver. Trucks and vans. Used to do a lot of Eastern Europe drops for us, before we lost the bloody contract.’
Which explained the collection of unpronounceable snow globes.
‘What else did you tell PC Munro?’
‘She wanted a list of all Elizabeth’s trips: destinations, clients, dates and stuff. As if we haven’t got anything better to do than—’
‘You do understand she’s missing, don’t you? She’s been abducted, her house trashed, there’s a policewoman missing too: both their lives are at risk. I think that’s a little more important than a round of bloody golf, don’t you?’
There was an embarrassed silence, and then,‘What do you need?’
‘Everything PC Munro asked for, and a list of all your employees too. One last thing: Do you know Ms Nichol well?’
‘She’s OK. Bit soft at times, you know, all that charity work and stuff. Forever doing sponsored this and fund-raising that.’ Pause.‘She really been abducted?’
‘Yes.’ Logan dug a notepad out of his piles of paperwork and started asking questions.
By the time Faulds put in an appearance, Logan was scribbling things up on the whiteboard. ‘Cup of tea?’ asked the Chief Constable. ‘I got packet of custard creams.’ He dumped a Markie’s plastic bag on his desk and peeled off his jacket. ‘Bloody chucking it down out there.’
Logan stepped back and looked at his handiwork – a list of Elizabeth Nichol’s friends and acquaintances. It wasn’t exactly comprehensive, but it was all he could get out of the combined personnel at Garioch United International Distribution. At least now they had somewhere to start putting together a timeline of Elizabeth’s last movements. He’d put another two columns on the side: one headed ‘BROTHER ∼ JIMMY’ the other, ‘SISTER ∼ KELLEY’ With a couple of question marks under each.
Still no word from Rennie.
‘I said, do you want a cuppa?’
‘What?’ Logan turned away from his scribblings. ‘Oh, thanks. How did you get on with Professional Standards?’
‘Thought my days of worrying about the rubber-heelers were long gone …’ Faulds peered at the board,‘Who the hell are Garry-otch United thingumy?’
‘It’s pronounced, “Geeree” – the area round Inverurie – Elizabeth Nichol works … worked there.’
‘Geeree? Then why the hell’s it spelt “Garry-otch”?’ He went round the office picking up the dirty mugs, muttering,‘Honestly, that’s what’s wrong with this bloody country: all the road signs are designed to make visitors look like arseholes …’ on his way out the door.
Logan tried Rennie on his mobile phone – the clank and scrape of cutlery on crockery, some swearing, then the constable was on the line:‘I’m having my lunch, OK?’
‘Jimmy and Kelley Nichol.’
‘I’m allowed lunch, aren’t I? Even bloody mass murderers get lunch.’
‘Did you find them?’
‘No. Tried every spelling I could think of but they’re not in the PNC, or on the electoral register. Maybe they emigrated because someone wouldn’t let them eat their fish pie in peace?’
Logan hung up and tried himself, but Rennie was right: there was no sign of Jimmy or Kelley in the Police National Computer.
He widened the search, looking to see if he could pick up Elizabeth’s birth records, but the database didn’t go back that far. So he tried her parents’ details instead. Munro had left their names – Edward and Sheila – when she’d called in her final update on Thursday afternoon. Probably one of the last things she’d done before the Flesher grabbed her.
According to the PNC, Edward and Sheila both died in a car crash in 1970. So that was no bloody …
Edward and Sheila – car crash … Logan sat back in his seat and tried to figure out why that sounded familiar. Something to do with Steel and Alec and dead men with humorous facial hair … couldn’t have kids of his own so they adopted a little girl from a broken home …
Logan grabbed his phone and went hunting through his notebook, wanting contact details for the little old man who’d shown them around Trinity Hall.
The Fleshers’ Boxmaster picked up on the fourth ring:‘EWAN MORTON SPEAKING.’ The familiar up and down lilt of a Fife accent.
‘Mr Morton? It’s DS McRae, we met last week? You were telling me about your mentor—’
‘Oh, yes, Sergeant McRae. I’ve been following the case in the papers. Dreadful isn’t it?’
‘Your mentor: Edward, what was his last name?’
‘Nichol. Edward Nichol.’ Pause.‘Why?’
‘And the girl he adopted?’
‘Elizabeth? Lovely girl, she was at our silver wedding anniversary and—’
‘Did Elizabeth ever talk about her brother and sister?’
‘She didn’t have— Oh, you mean from before they adopted her. She used to have nightmares about her brother. I remember Edward saying she’d wake up screaming in the middle of the night. From what I gathered he took after their … what is it they call them these days? … Biological father? She had a pretty rough time growing up, so—’
‘Do you know what her original name was?’
The old man was starting to sound a little flustered.‘I … no. I can’t … look, what’s all this about?’
‘It’s important.’
A sigh.‘I think it was someone associated with the trade, but not in the trade, if that makes sense? I know it wasn’t another member.’
‘Can you find out for me?’
‘What? Well … I’m supposed to be seeing my chiropodist—’
‘Thought you always wanted to help with a murder investigation.’
Ewan Morton’s singsong voice grew an edge of steel.‘Don’t worry, you can count on me.’ And to hell with his bunions.
The Fleshers’ Boxmaster was as good as his word. Twenty minutes later he was back on the phone, sounding out of breath.‘Had to go to … had to go to Trinity Hall … Went … went through all the minutes from … from 1966.’ He went quiet for a while.
‘Mr Morton? Are you OK?’
‘Just a little angina … The minutes show that Edward adopted the daughter of a man called James Souter. He wasn’t a member of the Fleshers, but he worked in a slaughterhouse as a butchery assistant.’ Another pause, and this time Logan could hear the puff of an inhaler in the background.‘It says here he had an industrial accident – sleeve caught in a bit of machinery, lost most of his arm. The Council took Elizabeth into care and Edward adopted her.’
Logan was scribbling in his notebook. ‘What about her sister and brother: any mention of what happened to them?’
‘Erm … no, just Elizabeth.’
‘OK, thanks, you’ve been a great help.’ Logan was about to hang up when he realised there was something he hadn’t asked:‘The slaughterhouse where Souter worked, what was it called?’
‘It was on the site of that big new place. What’s it called … mind’s going … the one in Turriff? Been in all the papers?’
‘Alaba Farm Fresh Meats.’ Bingo.
‘Aye, that’s the one. Never did understand why they couldn’t spell “Alba” properly. You’d think someone would have said.’
Logan barged into the main incident room. DCS Bain was deep in conversation with Faulds, while Wee Fat Alec played with his lens cap – on, off, on, off.
Logan marched over and Faulds looked up, smiled, and held out a mug of tea. It was cold. ‘Ah, just in time. I want to get your opinion on—’
‘We’ve got a suspect.’
‘Oooh! Wait, not yet …’ Alec pressed buttons and fiddled his focus. ‘Aaaaand … Action!’
Bain scowled at him. ‘What have I told you about that?’
‘Sorry. Force of habit.’
‘Jimmy Souter: he’s Elizabeth Nichol’s brother. Their father worked at the Turriff abattoir. Maybe Goulding was right: he’s been building up to taking revenge on his sister.’
‘What?’
‘Mother abandons them; father loses an arm in an industrial accident; Elizabeth gets taken into care and adopted. She got a loving family, he got stuck at home with a violent, alcoholic father.’ It hadn’t taken long to dig up Daddy Dearest’s criminal record: drunk and disorderly, assault, criminal damage, child endangerment, a couple of what they used to call ‘domestic incidents’ – one involving a frying pan full of bacon fat. It wasn’t surprising the mother left. Just a shame she hadn’t taken her kids with her.
‘And does this Jimmy Souter have prior?’
‘We don’t know.’ This was the bit that Logan wasn’t so happy about. ‘I can’t find him anywhere – chances are he was adopted too, so he’ll have a different surname now. I’ve got Rennie going through all the children’s homes in Grampian for any record of him, Elizabeth, or their sister Kelley.’
Bain turned and asked Faulds what he thought, but Logan wasn’t finished yet:‘I did a search on the father: James Souter.
He’s wasting away in a hospice up the coast, but he still owns a house. It’s one of the dilapidated ones that backs onto Alaba Farm Fresh Meats. Number three.’
Bain grabbed a phone off the desk and put the call through to Control: they were going now, and they were going mobhanded.
58
Logan put his foot down, doing eighty on the twisting A947 north out of Dyce, lights and sirens blaring. Three vans – all loaded down with firearms-trained officers – two patrol cars and a couple of CID’s scabby Vauxhalls, with Logan struggling to keep up at the tail-end of the convoy. Faulds was in the passenger seat, holding on for dear life, while Alec sat in the back, bouncing from side to side like an unattractive ping pong ball. He’d brought a friend with him: someone called ‘Mike’ from the BBC, there to watch his back when he went in with the firearms team. As if a dozen heavily armed officers wasn’t going to be enough protection.
