Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

‘Duncan!’ She dropped her shoulder and slammed into the bars, too close to get up any real momentum, but enough to make the metal groan.

‘Heather...’

This time the whole room shook as she slammed into the bars. ‘LET HIM GO!’

The Butcher took a long, green rubber apron from the bucket and pulled it on. Then a pair of elbow-length green rubber gloves.

‘Give me back my fucking husband!’ BOOM — she threw herself at the bars again, tearing the skin on her naked shoulder.

An axe came out of the bucket, followed by what looked like a torch, or a lightsaber. The last thing was a set of knives. The Butcher selected one and sliced Duncan’s clothes off, running the blade up the seams, peeling him like an orange.

And when Duncan had been stripped naked — his pale skin fluorescing in the harsh electric light — the butcher twisted the lightsaber in half, slipped a tiny green cartridge into it, and screwed it back together.

‘LET HIM GO!’ She slammed into the bars again.

‘Heather...’

Click, and the lightsaber was given another small twist. The man grabbed a handful of hair and dragged Duncan’s head up.

‘Heather... Heather, I love y—’

He brought the blunt end of the lightsaber down hard, right on the top of Duncan’s head. A loud CRACK reverberated round the metal room and Duncan convulsed; a thin plume of blood pulsed from the new hole in his scalp. Heather screamed. The Butcher calmly picked up a thin wire rod and slid it into the little geyser of blood: jerking it in and out, then jamming it so far in that only the wooden handle protruded. Duncan stopped moving.

The Butcher slit Duncan’s throat vertically from clavicle to chin, opening his neck. Then the blade disappeared up inside the cut, twisted, and a huge rush of bright scarlet deluged into the tin bath.

Duncan hung naked and still as the grave. Dripping and swaying gently.

Heather sank to her knees and sobbed. She didn’t watch the man skin and gut her husband.

DI Steel was waiting for Logan when he got back from court. ‘Well?’

‘Two months.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Sheriff said he’d shown real remorse and didn’t present an immediate danger to the public. We were lucky he got banged up at all.’

‘Why do we even bother arresting the bastards?’ Steel hitched up her trousers. ‘Right, I want you to—’

‘Scuse me,’ DC Rennie staggered to a halt, clutching a dusty cardboard box full of case files. ‘Bloody thing weighs a ton...’

The inspector stood to one side and Rennie lurched past.

The constable paused. ‘You two coming tonight?’

Steel shrugged. ‘Ah, why not? Laz can bring his new boyfriend from Birmingham.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend!’

‘That reminds me,’ Renne shifted his grip on the box. ‘Chief Constable Faulds’s been looking for you.’

‘Oh aye?’ said Steel, ‘Well he can kiss my—’

‘No, not you: DS McRae. Something about retracing the original investigation.’

Logan closed his eyes. ‘Oh God...’

Steel slapped him on the back. ‘Never mind, Laz, you’ll get your reward in heaven. But before you get there I want that vandalism report, or you’re going the other way, understand?’

The setting sun made the grey buildings glow peach and gold as Logan locked the pool car and waited for Faulds to finish his anecdote about a seventy-two-year-old prostitute he’d arrested in the middle of Birmingham town centre wearing nothing but a nun’s wimple and a surgical truss. Alec the cameraman waited till the Chief Constable got to the punch line, then confirmed the sound levels were perfect.

‘Good.’ Faulds ran a hand through his hair and looked up at the sparkling granite tenement. Cleared his throat. Marched up to the door.

Logan leaned over and whispered to the cameraman, ‘So... Insch tell you to get lost again?’

Alec pulled a face. ‘He’s a nightmare. Thought he was going to smack me one this morning. All I did was ask how his diet’s going.’

They followed Faulds into the building. It was dark inside: a welcome mat smeared with mud and the faint smell of dog shit; a mountain bike chained to the banisters; a stack of junk mail slowly festering in a dirty puddle on the tiled floor. Faulds started up the stairs.

‘Anyway,’ said Alec, ‘this is going to be great for the Flesher special — revisiting the original case, talking to the witnesses, walking the crime scenes.’

Faulds paused on the first landing, leant on the balustrade and called down to them: ‘Something wrong?’

‘With you in a second.’ Alec lowered his voice. ‘Just between you and me: what do you reckon to Faulds, then?’

Logan shrugged. ‘He’s OK, I suppose. Fancies himself a bit. I was expecting him to be more of an arse, pull rank the whole time... you know: your average Chief Constable.’

‘You remember that Birmingham Bomber case? Well Faulds was the one who—’

‘You two asleep down there?’

Logan sighed and started for the stairs. ‘Our master’s voice.’

Flat six was on the top floor, the door painted dark red with a little brass plaque above the letterbox: ‘JAMES MCLAUGHLIN PHD’ engraved at the top, ‘CERBERUS, MEDUSA &MRS POO’ underneath. Logan rang the doorbell.

It was answered two minutes later by a young, bearded man in his pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers. Mid twenties. Cup of tea in one hand, slice of toast in the other. Glasses perched on the end of his nose. He took one look at the three of them standing in the hallway, saw Alec’s camera, and said, ‘Ten minutes. I get to plug the book twice. It stays in shot the whole time. Agreed?’ He stuck the toast in his mouth then offered his hand to seal the deal. There was jam on it.

Logan didn’t shake it. ‘We’re not from the television, Mr McLaughlin.’ He dug out his warrant card. ‘DS McRae: Grampian Police, this is Chief Constable Faulds: West Midlands. We’re here to ask you a few questions about the night your parents disappeared.’

‘It was twenty years ago!’ McLaughlin rolled his eyes. ‘Look, read the book, OK? It’s all in there. I can’t remember anything else.’

‘We’ll try not take up too much of your time, sir. It is important.’

Sigh. ‘OK, OK. You can come in. But watch where you’re walking. I’m pretty sure Medusa’s been sick, but I haven’t found out where yet...’

James McLaughlin’s living room was littered with books. A computer desk sat in the bay window, covered in bits of paper and more books. A typist’s chair sat in front of it, a large, grey, furry cat watching them from the seat, master of all it surveyed.

McLaughlin shooed it off. ‘Come on Cerberus, that’s daddy’s chair.’

Logan couldn’t see anywhere to sit himself, so he moved a pile of paperbacks from the settee to the floor. ‘Sorry if we got you out of bed.’

The man shrugged. ‘Nah, you’re all right: I was working.’ He swept a hand down the front of his pyjamas. ‘Standard writers’ uniform.’

Faulds picked his way round the room, peering at the framed photographs on the wall. ‘I read your book,’ he said at last. ‘Very good. I especially liked the bit about all the fancy policemen coming up from down south.’

McLaughlin beamed. ‘Glad you liked it. It was...’ He frowned. ‘Detective Superintendent! Thought I recognized you. Jesus, you’ve not changed much.’

‘Chief Constable now. For my sins.’ Faulds picked up a little wooden plaque, read the inscription and put it back down again. ‘I’m really glad you did something with your life, Jamie. Some people would have curled up in a little ball and never come out again.’

‘Yes, well, I was always good at English and my therapist thought writing the whole thing down would be... well... therapeutic . And now look.’ He smiled, indicating the four framed covers on the wall — all bestselling children’s books. Aberdeen’s answer to J.K. Rowling, only nowhere near as famous. Or rich. ‘But you’re not here to talk about Simon and the Goblins, are you?’