Flesh House, page 9
The crime scenes were a lot more regular – soaked bright red, or just signs of a struggle. A joint of meat left in the freezer as a parting gift.
Logan stopped at the photo of the Leiths’ kitchen, remembering the hot copper smell. How could one person contain so much blood?
‘Bloody hell …’ Faulds flipped his mobile phone shut and stuck it back in his pocket. ‘Never become a Chief Constable, Logan. Yes, it sounds like a bundle of laughs: fancy uniform, people saluting, dancing girls, but it’s a royal pain in the backside.’ He covered his face with his hands and slumped back in his chair. ‘I have to go back to Birmingham. Tonight.’
‘But Wiseman’s—’
‘I know, I know: he’s going to call the BBC back and set up that interview, and we’ll come down on him like a ton of bricks. And I won’t be there, because no one wants to be responsible for policing bonfire night.’ He pulled his hands away, swore, and put them back again. ‘I am a lily, floating on a cool pond …’ Faulds sat up. ‘It’s no good; I’m going to have to go. The buck stops here, after all. Can you get someone to run me over to the airport?’
Rennie nearly exploded out of his seat. ‘I’ll take you!’ Anything to get out of going through mounds of dusty paperwork.
Logan went back to his post mortem report.
The incident room door nearly banged off its hinges as DI Insch barged into the room. Glaring. ‘Where the hell’s that useless bastard Rennie?’
Logan closed his eyes and counted to three, but Insch was still there when he opened them again. So much for wishful thinking. ‘He’s taking Faulds to the airport.’
‘He’s supposed to be reviewing case files!’
‘The Chief Constable pulled rank.’ Not strictly true, but it might save Rennie an ear-bashing when he got back. ‘You want me to pass on a message?’
‘Tell him I’m running this investigation, not Faulds. Remind him that I’ll rip his balls off and stuff them down his throat if he ever disappears without my say so again! Understand?’
Logan held up his hands. ‘Nothing to do with—’
‘In the meantime I want a rundown of all sex offenders over forty with a history of serious assault.’
Logan checked the clock on the wall. Twenty past four, forty minutes to go till he was off duty. ‘Actually, sir, I’m in the middle of something for—’
‘Did that sound like a request to you, Sergeant?’
Getting together a list of sex offenders over forty years old was only the start of it: Insch wanted them all cross-referenced to see who’d done time in prison since 1990 – when the first batch of murders stopped – and he didn’t just want them for Aberdeen either, Logan had to do it for the whole of the UK.
He sent another query running on the computer, then pasted the results into a spreadsheet. Now he had data from every police force in the nation with electronic records going back far enough to be of any use; the others would take days, if not weeks to respond to the inspector’s request. But right now it was twenty past five.
Logan sent the list of names to the CID office printer. He’d dump them on Insch’s desk and slope off before anyone noticed.
Chance would be a fine thing.
DI Steel stopped him on the stairs. He was going down: clutching his folder full of sex offenders, she was going up: clutching her left breast through her charcoal-grey blouse. ‘Where’s your boyfriend, Faulds then?’
‘He … er …’ Trying not to watch what she was doing.
‘Got this new bra from Markies, it’s all weird bits of plastic. Feels like a ballistic missile.’
‘Er … he’s off back to Birmingham. Rennie’s taking him to the airport.’
‘Oh aye?’ She stopped fiddling with herself. ‘So how come you’ve no’ sloped off early then?’
Logan held up his folder. ‘Going through the sex offenders list for Insch, trying to find an alternative suspect.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Steel, faking a swoon,‘Fatty McFatfat’s considering other suspects? Did a herd of pigs just fly by the station window?’ She helped herself to the folder and riffled through the printouts, then tossed the lot back at him. ‘Waste of sodding time, but I suppose it’ll keep Chief Constable Knobjob happy.’
She turned and started back down the stairs again. ‘Well, come on then – after you slap your pervy bastards on Insch, you and me are going on a little field trip.’
Logan followed her, trying to get his list back in some sort of order. ‘Is it to the pub? Because if it isn’t—’
‘Have I ever steered you wrong?’
He didn’t answer that.
Insch was in the main incident room, surrounded by a blizzard of paperwork. The phones were going non-stop, harassed support personnel answering them, taking details, and moving onto the next caller.
DI Steel skulked in the doorway while Logan snuck in, slipped the file into Insch’s in-tray, and turned to leave.
A deep bass rumble caught him before he’d gone more than a couple of feet:‘And where do you think you’re going?’
Damn. ‘My shift finished twenty minutes ago, sir.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Insch opened the folder and pulled out the list of names. ‘You are remembering that there’s a madman out there, aren’t you, Sergeant?’
Oh for God’s sake. ‘Yes, sir. I am remembering. But this—’
‘Good, then you can get onto INTERPOL – I want the search widened to include other countries. We’re looking for anything that matches the MO between 1990 and 2006. And while you’re at it—’
Steel settled herself on the edge of Insch’s desk. ‘Nice to see you’re taking Faulds’ suggestion to heart. All that fixation on Wiseman’s no’ healthy.’
The inspector scowled. ‘Wiseman is still my chief suspect. I’m just—’
‘Doing what you’re told. Good for you.’
Insch was starting to go scarlet. ‘This investigation—’
‘Nice to see you taking guidance for a change. Doesn’t make you any less of a man.’ She stood. ‘You’ll no’ mind if I borrow McRae here, will you?’
‘You …’ Scarlet was turning to purple. ‘Thought no’.’ A saucy wink. ‘When Faulds gets back we’ll put in a good word for you.’ She dragged Logan away, before Insch could do anything more than splutter.
13
DI Steel waited till they’d got all the way down the stairs before hooting with laughter. ‘Did you see the look on his face? Thought he was going to have an aneurism.’
‘But …’ Logan looked back over his shoulder. ‘What did you have to go winding him up for? He’s bad enough as it is.’
‘Ah, relax.’ She hauled one of the double doors open and made for reception. ‘I like to see how fast I can get him to change colour. He’s like a really angry chameleon. Besides …’ the inspector paused at the end of the corridor, peering through the glass at a crowd of people in the front lobby, all looking very, very upset. ‘Second thoughts …’ She turned round and headed back towards the stairs. ‘You got any money on the sweepie?’
‘Tenner on him punching someone Saturday.’
She nodded. ‘I’ve got Monday. It’s no easy keeping him at just the right level of pissed-off-ishness. Too much and he snaps early – no dosh for Auntie Roberta. Too little and the bugger won’t lamp anyone.’
‘What if you’re the one he thumps?’
Steel grinned. ‘I’ll fucking kill him.’ She marched out onto the rear podium car park, sparking up a cigarette and blowing out a cloud of smoke that glowed in the security spotlights. ‘Oh, Christ I needed that.’ She shuddered happily and puffed her way over to an unmarked pool car. ‘Right, we’re off up the hospital.’
‘You said we were going to the pub!’
‘Oh come on, no’ like you’ve got anything better to do is it? Go home and mope in an empty flat? Wah, wah, wah, my girlfriend’s in Glasgow playing cops and robbers and I’m not getting any. Wah, wah, wah …’
Silence.
She tapped ash from the end of her fag, little flecks of orange sparkling amongst the grey. ‘It’ll be good for you, get you out a bit, stop you developing wanker’s elbow.’ Still nothing. ‘OK, OK. Insch’ll no’ admit it, but he’s up to his ears in shite and sinking fast. He needs a hand. The ACC wants us to go up to A&E and interview that bloke whose wife disappeared yesterday. Take a bit of the pressure off.’
Logan kept his mouth shut.
‘Buy you a pint after?’
As the inspector said, what else was he going to do?
They’d put Mr Leith in a semi-private room, between a man with lymphoma and a boy with two broken legs. According to the ward sister Leith was doing better than expected – given the shock and his injuries. They’d probably be letting him out in a couple of days. Steel gave the PC stationed outside the door permission to sod off to the canteen for a cuppa, then got Logan to pull the curtains round Leith’s bed.
The man’s head was nearly invisible beneath a thick layer of white bandages, a faint yellow stain leaking through where Wiseman had tried to open his skull with a cleaver.
Steel settled herself down on the visitor’s chair, and asked Leith if he was awake. The man groaned, opened a pink eye and blinked. A morphine drip snaked into the back of one hand. A tremble, then he was still again.
‘We need to ask you some questions about what happened yesterday, Mr Leith.’
‘I … I told the other one. You know …’ he frowned, trying to remember,‘Big. Bald. Fat …’ The words slurred and misshapen by drugs.
‘I know, but you need to tell me as well.’
‘Out shopping … Sainsbury’s, something for tea … came home … he was waiting for us …’ It took a while, but eventually they got the whole story. How Valerie had unpacked the shopping from the car while he checked the answering machine. And then she was screaming and he ran into the kitchen and there was Wiseman, killing her …
Leith stopped, hand fumbling for the button that would pump another dose of morphine into his veins as he told them how he’d tried to stop Wiseman, but the man was too strong. The flash of a meat cleaver, blinding light, darkness … When he came round he was alone in the house, and the kitchen was covered in blood.
Steel checked with Logan, making sure he was getting all of this down. ‘And did you hear him say anything?’
‘He said … he said we were smoak with blood … we’d be sacrificed on the altar …’ Leith’s thumb hammered the button again, but it didn’t seem to do any good. ‘Oh God, Val … I should … I should have fought harder! I never should have let him take her …’
‘Christ that was depressing.’ Steel took a deep swig at her white wine, sat back and watched Logan work his way through a bag of Scampi Flavour Fries. Half past eight and the pub was starting to liven up, the murmur of conversation rising as more people drifted in out of the rain. ‘What do you think Wiseman does with the bones?’
Logan shrugged. ‘Buries them somewhere?’
‘I tell you Susan wants to get married?’
‘Congratulations.’ Logan raised his glass. ‘About time she made an honest woman of you.’
Steel squirmed in her seat. ‘I’m in my sexual prime here, and Susan wants to tie me down.’ She gazed morosely into her half-empty glass. ‘And no’ in the good way, either.’
‘Yeah, well …’ That was an image Logan really didn’t want. ‘You want another one?’
By the time Logan got back from the bar, Detective Constable Rennie had turned up. He was sitting at the table, interrogating a pint of lager and a packet of cheese and onion, while Steel told a filthy joke about two farmers and a bisexual sheep.
No more talk of marriage.
Two pints later and they were bitching about Insch behind his back. Two more and Rennie was beginning to make giggling noises. By then Logan was ready to call it a night, but he had another pint anyway. He walked, a little unsteadily, back from the toilets to find the constable holding forth on the Wiseman case.
‘I’m just saying, OK? I mean … I mean,’ Rennie was having difficulty staying upright on his stool,‘if this was a book, right? If this was a book, or a film, or something … then …’ He burped. ‘Scuse me … If this was a book, it’d be one of us, wouldn’t it? The Flesher? He’d be … he’d be the last person you’d expect!’
He nodded, had another drink, then waved a finger at them. ‘Faulds! For example … Chief Cons … Consable Faulds – we’ve only got his word he’s a Chief … Consable, don’t we? And where is he now? Vanished!’
Logan smiled. ‘He’s flying back to Birmingham. You took him to the airport, you idiot.’
‘Ah! Ah …’ Rennie tapped the side of his nose. ‘But we don’t know that for sure, do we? Hmmm? He could’ve … could’ve turned round soon as I was gone and scarpered. Could be out there right now: killing peoples.’
‘You’re pished.’
‘Pished like a FOX!’
Steel banged her hand on the table, making all the empty glasses rattle. ‘Karaoke!’
That was it – definitely time to go home.
A clunk, and Heather sat bolt upright on her stinky mattress, eyes straining in the dark. Heart hammering against her ribs. Maybe he’d come back? Maybe he’d come back with more food and water?
Her stomach growled again: a huge angry animal clawing its way through her innards. She’d never been so hungry in her life.
Another clunk, and a thin sliver of yellow light raced across the rusty metal floor. Heather scooted forwards on her hands and knees, peering through the bars.
The Butcher’s shadow blocked out the light for a moment, then he stepped inside, walked over to the bars and placed a bottle of water and another tinfoil parcel where Heather could reach them.
She didn’t even wait for him to back away this time, just grabbed the plastic bottle. The water was cool and sweet in her mouth. Like the tears of angels. She drank half of it in one go before ripping the foil package open. There was a paper plate inside, full of breaded escalopes, so hot she nearly burned her fingers.
God it was delicious. The best veal she’d ever tasted.
The Butcher stood and watched her eat. Nodding.
She chewed and swallowed. ‘Can … can I have more water? Please? I get so thirsty.’
There was a moment’s silence, and then the Butcher turned his back and walked out, closing the door behind him. The darkness closed around her.
Heather started to cry. All she wanted was some water. She just wanted some bloody water! She screwed up her face, fists curled over her eyes, rocking back and forth. Just some fucking water …
Worthless, stupid bitch can’t even ask for water properly. Can’t do anything properly. Can’t die with her family, has to get herself trapped in the dark, all alone.
She pulled one of the fists from her face and punched herself in the stomach as hard as she could.
Stupid.
Punch.
Useless.
Punch.
BITCH!
CLUNK and the door opened again. Heather froze. The Butcher was back, with a multi-pack of bottled water. He put it on the floor, then tore it open and started passing the individual plastic bottles through the bars.
He came back.
‘Thank you …’ She was crying again. He came back. ‘My … my name’s Heather.’ She reached out and took one of the bottles from him. The Butcher froze for a moment. Then snatched his hand back. ‘Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to …’
He backed up against the wall, staring silently down at her.
‘I’m sorry! Please, don’t leave me in the dark! Please! I—’
But he was gone, slamming the door. BOOOM.
Alone in the dark, Heather curled up in a little ball and screamed herself hoarse.
14
Hot water, soothing away a hangover brought on by too many beers and too many vodkas. Logan stood with his forehead against the cool tiles and let the shower wash over him. What the hell had he been thinking?‘Summer Nights’ from Grease was not a good song to duet with DI Steel, no matter how drunk you were. His arse was still tender from where she’d pinched it during the caterwauling finale.
Woman had fingers like bloody pliers—
The phone’s shrill ring invaded the steamy peace of the bathroom. Logan shouted,‘Go away!’ at it, but it just kept going. Only stopping when the answering machine picked up.
He strained his ears, trying to tell who it was, but the ringing just started up again. ‘Oh, for God’s sake …’
Logan wrapped himself in a towel and dripped his way through to the lounge, snatching the phone out of its cradle.
‘What?’
DI Insch’s voice blared in his ear:‘You were supposed to be at work hours ago!’
‘It’s my day off. So’s tomorrow. I’ve been on since—’
‘Listen up and listen good, Sergeant: you want a nine to five, Monday to Friday job? Go work in a bloody office. You’re supposed to be a police officer!’
Logan closed his eyes and tried counting to ten.
‘Hello? You still there?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. We’ve had a call from an old friend of yours: Angus Robertson.’
Logan froze. ‘What does that little shite want?’
‘Says he’s got information about Wiseman. Said he’ll only talk to you.’
‘Tough: I don’t want to talk to him. Little bastard can rot in his—’
‘Get your arse up to the station, we’re going to Peterhead whether you like it or not.’
The inspector’s Range Rover had developed an overwhelming reek of dog. Lucy, the spaniel responsible, lay behind the grille that separated the boot from the rear seat on a tatty tartan blanket, snoring and twitching as Insch drove them up the A90 to Peterhead. Logan in the passenger seat, Alec in the back, fiddling with his camera.
