Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

‘You’ve seen the news?’

McLaughlin shuddered and pointed at a copy of the Daily Mail sitting on a pile of encyclopaedias — ‘CANNIBAL KILLER STILL ATLARGE’. ‘Difficult to miss it. Been having nightmares ever since I heard about those body parts down the docks. Last night I dreamt Wiseman came back to finish me off... Took half a bottle of Macallan to make that one go away.’ He wrapped his dressing gown around himself, tying the chord tight.

Logan pulled out his notebook, flipping through the pages till he got to the bit about McLaughlin’s parents. ‘We’ve been reviewing the old case files. They’re a bit vague about what happened before you got to the house.’

Faulds nodded. ‘And you don’t say much about it in your book either.’

McLaughlin opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind. He stood. ‘Anyone fancy a drink? I’ve got gin and I’ve got whisky. Drank all the wine last night...’

‘Sorry, sir, but we’re on duty. Tea would be nice, though.’

‘Right, tea it is then.’ And he was off into the kitchen.

The Chief Constable stopped on his tour of the living room, selecting a book from a low shelf: Smoak With Blood — The Hunt For The Flesher . It had a photo on the front of someone dressed in a butcher’s apron and Margaret Thatcher fright mask. Not surprising there wasn’t a framed version up on the wall — who wanted to look at the man who killed their parents every day?

By the time McLaughlin returned with the drinks Faulds was reading aloud:

‘“For some reason, it’s one of my earliest memories — walking through the dark and rain-swept streets with my best friend. Heading back to my house. Hand in hand with a killer. Everything before that is lost to me, as if the first five years of my life never happened. As if I only came into being at that moment. Sparked into existence minutes before the death of my parents...”’

McLaughlin blushed. ‘Yes, well... I was reading a lot of Dickens at the time. Can’t believe I wrote anything so pretentious.’

‘What happened to Catherine Davidson? She was supposed to be walking you home.’

The young man handed over Logan’s tea, then poured himself a large measure of eighteen-year-old Highland Park. ‘Wish I knew. When I was writing the book I tried everything: word association, hypnosis, the works. I know it sounds like a load of old wank, but everything before that walk home is a blank. It’s like my childhood never happened.’ He took a deep drink from his whisky, holding it in his mouth for a thoughtful pause, before swallowing.

‘What about your friend: Richard Davidson?’

‘Ah, yes... Richard. We don’t talk these days. Last I heard he was in Craiginches doing three years for possession, perjury, and aggravated assault. Like you said, Superintendent: some people never come out again. Wiseman took my parents and my past, he took Richard’s mum and his future.’ Another mouthful of whisky. ‘I don’t know which is worse.’

‘And then he made you both dinner.’

‘Yeah. Findus Crispy Pancakes with fried onions, mashed potatoes and peas. I wanted fish fingers.’ A shallow laugh. ‘Good isn’t it? My mum and dad are being dismembered in the kitchen and I’m whinging about Captain Sodding Birdseye... I’d never seen so much blood...’ The last of McLaughlin’s whisky disappeared. ‘Who’s for another one?’

Rushhour was in full swing as Logan drove them back to the station — roads packed with nose-to-tail traffic beneath the yellow streetlight. Muttered swearing came from the back seat; Alec checking the messages on his mobile phone. ‘Bloody hell, why can no one get anything right?... Delete... Don’t care... Delete... Holy shit!’ The cameraman scooted forward, sticking his head between the front seats. ‘You’re not going to believe this—’

Faulds’ mobile phone started playing Phil Collins: ‘In The Air Tonight’.

‘Hello?’

‘I’ve just got a call from the BBC News Department—’

‘Hello?’ The Chief Constable stuck one finger in his ear, ‘Yes... No, we’ll be right there!’ — Wiseman’s been on the phone.

Logan took his eyes off the road for a second, then had to slam on the breaks to avoid rear-ending a Porsche. ‘You’re kidding!’

‘Wants to set up an interview, like that Ipswich guy.’

Faulds hung up. ‘Any chance you can put your foot down? We’ve got a briefing to get to. Wiseman’s—’

‘Been on the phone to the BBC. Yes, sir, Alec was just telling me about it.’

Faulds frowned. ‘No. He’s grabbed someone else.’

‘Right, settle down.’ There was a sudden stillness in the briefing room. The place was packed with uniformed officers, support staff, and CID. Alec and his mate with the very big camera had set up so one of them could film the crowd while the other one focused on DI Insch, standing at the front of the room, telling everyone about the latest disappearance.

‘Valerie Leith.’ Click and a woman’s face filled the projection screen: mid thirties, slightly overweight, brown hair cut in an unflattering bob, pretty green eyes. ‘Approximately half four this morning her husband hears a noise downstairs. He goes to investigate and is attacked. By the time he regains consciousness, his wife is missing and the kitchen’s covered in blood.’

Click — the cover of James McLaughlin’s book appeared, Smoak With Blood written in white on a lurid red cover featuring the photo of someone dressed as the Flesher. ‘This is who Leith says attacked him.’ Insch went for a big dramatic pause. ‘This makes William Leith the first person ever to survive a confrontation with Wiseman.’

DC Rennie leant over and whispered in Logan’s ear: ‘What the hell does “smoak” mean when it’s at home?’

‘No idea. Shut up.’

‘Only asking...’

Click — and a battered man’s face filled the screen, half his head hidden behind a swathe of bandages. ‘Thirty-four stitches,’ said Insch, ‘three units of blood. Leith’s now under protective custody at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary — I have no intention of Wiseman coming back and finishing the job.’

Click — Ken Wiseman scowled out from the projection screen. Time and HM Prison Peterhead hadn’t been kind: what little hair he had left was close cropped and greying, his goatee more salt than pepper. Big ears, big hands, big all over; overweight, but still powerful with it. A long scar ran from the top left of his forehead, through his right eyebrow and down to the middle of his cheek, pulling the eyelid out of shape. Not a pretty face.

‘He’s been on the run since Tuesday morning, but this afternoon he called the BBC.’ Insch gave the nod and a uniformed PC set the tape running.

A woman’s voice, friendly: ‘ Hello, BBC Scotland, can I help you?’ ;

Some crackling. A pause. Then a man’s voice, deep, with just enough Aberdonian in it to be noticeable: ‘I want to speak to someone about the Flesher .’

‘ Just a moment and I’ll see if anyone’s free ...’ the line went silent for a moment, then hold music, then another woman’s voice:

‘ News desk — can I help you? ’

‘Do you know who I am?’

Another pause, probably filled with rolling eyes and theatrical sighs. ‘ Are you calling about anything in—’

‘Ken Wiseman. They’re looking for me. They’re lying about me.’

Some frantic scrabbling and the woman’s voice suddenly got a lot more interested. ‘ I see. And you want to set the record straight? Let people hear your side of the story?’

‘They did it before — they’re not doing it again. They’re not sending me back to that fucking prison!’