Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

‘Good. You can—’ Insch’s phone was ringing again. ‘Bloody hell, leave me alone!’ He pulled it out and took the call. ‘Insch... Yes, Gary we’re sure it’s him... no, we— No. I can’t. You know I can’t, we went over this!... But... I don’t see what that could—’ The fat man sighed. ‘Yes, yes I’ll try... I said I’ll try, Gary. OK.’ He hung up and swore.

Logan waited for Insch to explain, but the inspector just stuffed the phone back in his pocket and lumbered off towards the lifts.

It was meant to be a non-threatening environment: the walls painted a cheerful shade of yellow; Monet prints; two comfy sofas; a coffee table; a standard lamp; a widescreen television; and a box of battered plastic toys. But it still managed to be bloody depressing.

Back in the early days people would sneak down here in their breaks to sit on the sofa, drink their coffee, and watch reruns of Columbo on the telly. Then one by one they stopped coming, preferring the scarred formica of the canteen to the soft furnishings. There was something about listening to someone sobbing as they tried to tell you about the man who raped them, or the grown-up who made them do dirty things, that really took the ‘happy’ off a room.

A small boy in pirate-print pyjamas was sitting in the middle of a bright green rug, holding onto a tatty stuffed dog as if his life depended on it, and sneaking glances at the video camera in the corner. A child psychologist slumped on one of the couches, half-heartedly trying to build a house out of Lego. She didn’t stop when Logan and Insch entered.

The kid froze.

‘Hello,’ said Insch, easing his massive bulk down till he was sitting cross-legged on the rug, ‘my name’s David. What’s yours?’

Nothing.

So Insch tried again, ‘I’m a policeman.’ He pulled a handful of bricks and a little blue Lego man from the box, clicking them together surprisingly quickly for someone with such huge fingers. ‘Do you like boats? I’ll bet you do, living down in Fittie. Bet you see lots of boats.’

Justin looked up at the dead-fish eye of the camera, then back at Insch and nodded.

‘Good,’ the inspector smiled, ‘I like boats too.’ He grabbed another lot of little plastic bricks, a passable fishing trawler taking shape in his hands. ‘So, do you want to tell me your name, or shall we call you...’ Insch thought for a moment. ‘Logan? Would you like that?’

The wee boy shook his head.

‘Quite right too, it’s a poopy name.’ said Insch, ignoring the mutters of protest behind him. ‘I bet your name’s much cooler.’

‘Justin.’ Barely a whisper. But at least the kid was talking. And slowly the inspector teased the story out of him: how his daddy had picked him up from day-care, because his mummy was out shopping. They’d had fish fingers and beans and mashed potatoes for tea and done the washing up, then daddy was going to cook something for mummy called ‘beef burnt onions’. Then the doorbell went and daddy answered it and someone came in and daddy fell over and hit his head on the coffee table. Then the someone gave Justin a whole packet of Maltesers and sent him to bed. Then the bad thing happened and Justin had to hide in his wardrobe till it got stinky, because his doggie did number twos in there. He held the stuffed dog up so Insch could see how naughty it had been.

‘And what did the someone look like?’ Insch asked, after telling the dog it shouldn’t poop in people’s wardrobes.

‘He looked like a stripy man with a scary face.’

The inspector produced a sheet of paper, unfolding it to reveal a picture of ex-Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. ‘Is this—’

Justin screamed and hid behind his naughty dog.

‘Yeah,’ Insch put the picture back in his pocket, ‘she has that effect on a lot of people.’

The major incident room was too noisy for a meeting, so Insch, Faulds, and the Procurator Fiscal commandeered a small office on the second floor of FHQ, then sent Logan off to get the coffees.

He was halfway up the stairs, making for the canteen, when the voice of doom sounded: ‘Where the hell have you been?’

Logan froze, swore quietly, then turned to see DI Steel standing behind him, hands on her hips, face pulled into a scowl. God knows what had happened to her hair, but it sat on top of her wrinkly head like an electrocuted badger. ‘I,’ said the inspector, shaking a nicotine-stained finger at him, ‘have been waiting for that bloody vandalism report for a week now.’

‘Ah,’ said Logan, ‘I’ve been seconded to this new Flesher investigation. Didn’t Insch tell you?’

Steel’s scowl got even worse. ‘Well that’s just sodding perfect. I mean, it’s no’ like my caseload’s important is it? No’ as long as Fat Boy Insch is happy.’ She let loose a string of foul language, then stared at the ceiling for a moment. ‘So when, exactly , am I going to see my report?’

‘They’ve got me babysitting this Chief Constable from Birmingham, I—’

‘I didn’t ask for excuses, Sergeant, I asked when you’d have that bloody report finished.’

‘This isn’t my fault! I’m only—’

‘You remembering you’re supposed to be in court tomorrow?’

‘Of course.’ Which was a lie: he’d forgotten all about it. ‘I’m probably not even going to get called, though, you know what these indecent exposure cases are—’

‘Ten thirty on the dot, Sergeant.’ Steel turned and marched off, calling back over her shoulder, ‘And don’t forget that bloody report!’

Logan waited for her to disappear round the corner before sticking two fingers up in her direction.

Steel’s voice echoed through the stairwell: ‘I saw that!’ Then the doors to the corridor slammed shut and Logan was on his own again.

By the time he got back to the little office, Insch, Faulds and the PF were gathered round a desk, discussing Justin Inglis’s statement — the inspector casually doodling glasses and blacking out teeth on his photo of Margaret Thatcher. ‘Of course, it’s not conclusive,’ he said, ‘how could it be? The kid’s only three, but I’m pretty sure he’s telling the truth.’ Insch helped himself to one of the mugs on Logan’s tray, sniffed it, and wrinkled his nose. ‘I asked for a double mochaccino with extra cinnamon and chocolate — what the hell is this?’

‘Machine’s broken, so everyone’s got instant.

‘Typical...’

The PF reached for the vandalized ex-Prime Minister. ‘This could still be a copycat.’ She held up a hand before Insch could complain. ‘Playing Devil’s advocate: ever since that damn book came out everyone knows the Flesher wears a butcher’s apron and a Margaret Thatcher Halloween mask. On its own it means nothing.’

‘It means,’ rumbled Insch, ‘that Wiseman is up to his old tricks again. We found a package of human meat in the Inglises’ freezer for God’s sake!’

‘That’s exactly the kind of thinking that scuppered the original investigation — people leapt to conclusions, didn’t keep an open mind, didn’t follow procedure. Wiseman would still be in jail if the case had been airtight. I agree that it’s highly unlikely this is a copycat, but I want every possibility investigated.’ She took one of Logan’s coffees. ‘What do we know about the Inglises?’

‘Duncan Inglis works for the Council’s Finance Department. He’s twenty eight. Got admitted to hospital last year when his wife cracked the toaster off his head. She’s twenty five; diagnosed with postnatal depression after the birth of their son, been on medication ever since.’

‘Interesting.’ The PF took a sip of coffee, shuddered, then put her mug back on the tray. ‘So we have a history of violence.’