Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

‘We’re looking into it.’

‘And the butcher, McFarlane?’

‘Went up before the Sheriff this morning: remanded in custody, no bail. He’s sticking to his story: no idea how all those bits of dead body ended up in his shop, and we’re all a bunch of bastards for picking on Wiseman again.’

‘My heart bleeds. How many search teams?’

‘Three, and roadblocks on all major routes out of Aberdeen. We’ve got posters up at the train station, harbour, airport, and nearly every bus stop in the city.’

Logan chimed in with a report on the Automatic Number Plate Recognition System: ‘No sign of any vehicle he’s got access to leaving Aberdeen. And we’ve warned all the rental places.’

The PF nodded. ‘CCTV?’

‘Nothing. All the cameras down the beach were pointing the wrong way — big fight outside that new nightclub.’

‘Right.’ She stood, hoisted her handbag over her shoulder, and made for the door. ‘Make sure you catch Wiseman, and soon. I don’t want anyone else turning up in bite-size chunks.’

Half past eight and Logan was slumped at his desk in the pigsty masquerading as a CID office, trying to work up some enthusiasm for DI Steel’s vandalism report. And failing. Somehow it was difficult to care about a bunch of keyed cars and some graffiti in Rosemount when Ken Wiseman was out there turning people into joints of meat.

Stifling a yawn, he printed out all the crime reports and started sticking figures into a spreadsheet. God knew when he’d actually get home tonight. Bloody DI Bloody Steel and her Bloody Report.

‘All on your lonesome?’

Logan turned, and there was Doc Fraser looking more like someone’s granddad than a pathologist — beige cardigan, glasses, bald head, and hairy ears.

‘You want some coffee?’

The pathologist held up a manila folder. ‘I won’t come in, I’ve got shingles. Give this to Insch when he gets in tomorrow, will you?’

‘Uh-huh.’ Logan took the folder and flipped through the contents — sheet after sheet of forms and ID numbers.

‘Tell him it’s the preliminaries on all those chunks of meat you dug out of the butcher’s, cash and carry, and that container.’

‘Logan was impressed. ‘Already? That’s—’

‘I wouldn’t go getting your hopes up — this is just the indexing. It’ll be weeks before we get the proper results in.’ The pathologist sighed. ‘And don’t look at me like that, we’ve got five hundred and thirty-two individual lumps of meat and they all need to be DNA-tested. Like the bloody EU corpse mountain down there.’

The pathologist reached in under his cardigan and started scratching. ‘We’re farming out samples to Tayside, Strathclyde, Lothian and Borders, Highlands, you name it. If they’ve got DNA-testing facilities they’re getting bits...’ He trailed off, looking out of the CID window at the bleak, spotlit square of car park. ‘We never used to get stuff like this. Back in the good old days it was one or two murders a year, all nice and neat.’ Another sigh. ‘Anyway... better get back to it. The Ice Queen may rule the day, but I command the children of the night!’ He pulled up one corner of his cardigan, pretending it was a cape, then stalked from the room like a hunched, beige Dracula. Who’d really let himself go.

Hot white blobs of light picked their way through the trees in the background, then the camera panned round to an overweight reporter as he told the nation that this was the second night Ken Wiseman remained at large.’... increased manpower, combing through woods and industrial units all over Aberdeen. Halloween is traditionally a time for trick or treating —’

‘Guising!’ Logan shouted at the television. ‘In Scotland we go guising, not trick or treating!’ He snatched his second tin of beer off the coffee table and drank deep.

‘— but this year the streets of the city are empty, left to the cold and the mist. Because this year, there really is a monster out there —’

‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Logan excavated the remote control from the sofa’s cushions and stabbed the button, hunting through the channels for something decent to watch and coming up empty.

Nothing to help him ignore the little red light on the answering machine.

Another mouthful of beer and the tin was empty. Logan stifled a belch and got to his feet. Should probably get something to eat... The little red light blinked at him.

He walked over, and pressed the button.

‘MESSAGE ONE: Hi Logan, it’s me ...’ Jackie, the words alcohol-slurred and fuzzy. ‘ I miss you, OK? I do. I miss you ...’ He could hear raised voices in the background, a jukebox, a bandit pinging and bleeping to itself. ‘Just thought you should know.’ Beeeeeeep. And the tape rewound itself.

He pressed the button again.

‘MESSAGE ONE: Hi Logan, it’s me... I miss you, OK? I do. miss you ...’ Pub noises. ‘ Just thought you should know .’ Beeeeeeep.

RRRRRRRRRRingggggggggggggg — the flat’s doorbell.

‘MESSAGE ONE: Hi Logan, it’s me... I miss you, OK? I—’

RRRRRRRRRRingggggggggggggg.

‘Oh... bloody hell. OK, I’m coming.’

There was a short, stocky Glaswegian waiting outside, clutching a couple of plastic bags as a thin drizzle oozed down out of a dirty orange sky. ‘Laz, my man! Trick or treat?’

Logan scowled at him. ‘Don’t you bloody start.’

‘Aye, and a happy Christmas to you too. You look like shite, byraway. C’moan, shift over, curry’s no’ gettin’ any warmer here.’

‘Colin, I...’

But the reporter had already shouldered his way past. Sighing, Logan closed the stairwell door and followed him up. Colin Miller: even dressed casually, the wee man looked like a deranged, muscle-bound clothes model. God alone knew what Isobel saw in him.

‘You seen those arseholes on the news, but?’ Miller stuck his plastic bags on the kitchen table, then dug into one and tossed a cold bottle of Kingfisher beer in Logan’s direction.

Logan caught it just before it hit the kitchen floor. ‘Don’t you ever ring first?’

‘Aye, you’re right,’ said the wee man, pulling a plastic takeaway container out of the second bag, then stacking another five beside it, topping them off with a bag of poppadoms, ‘what was I thinkin’? You could’a had a hot date!’

‘Very funny.’

‘Ah come on, Laz, lighten up. I’ve got the evenin’ off, She Who Must’s catching up on her beauty sleep, her mum’s got the wain till tomorrow, an’ you’re all on yer tod. So: boys’ night in!’ He rummaged in Logan’s cutlery drawer and produced the bottle opener, fumbling the top off his beer with stiff, gloved fingers. ‘Get blootered, curry-out from the Nazma, watch some footie on the telly, and break wind to our hearts’ content.’

Logan popped the top off his Kingfisher, then helped himself to a poppadom. ‘You do know I can’t talk about the Wiseman case, don’t you?’

The reporter froze. ‘Wiseman case? Never crossed my mind! I’m no—’

‘Oh come off it Colin, you’re trying to bribe me into talking about an ongoing investigation with Indian beer from...’ Logan checked the label. ‘Kent?’

Miller grinned. ‘And curry. Don’t forget the curry.’

‘Fat chance.’

‘Oh come on, man! Throw a freelancer a bone, eh? Those BBC bastards’ve got exclusive access to everythin’.’

‘Thought you were going back on staff.’

The reporter shrugged. ‘Nah, freelance pays better. Doing a fair chunk for the Examiner though.’

‘Bet the Journals like that.’

‘All’s fair in love and journalism. Lime pickle?’