Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

It went on, Wiseman ranting about what a bunch of bastards Grampian Police were, while the briefing room listened in silence. Then Insch told the PC to pause the tape. ‘Right,’ he said, rummaging absentmindedly through his pockets on the never-ending quest for sweeties that weren’t there, ‘we’ve played this to his social worker and two people from his work: it’s definitely Wiseman’s voice. Call came from a public phone box in Tillydrone, so we know he’s still in the city. But this is the interesting bit...’

The tape started up again. There was more ranting, and then the woman asked, ‘ Would you like to put your case in person? A televised interview? Tell the whole country?’

This time the pause was so long, Logan began to think Wiseman had hung up. But finally that dark voice came back on the line. ‘ The whole country?’

‘We could do it today! Is today good? You could come into the studio: we’re on Beachgrove Terrace and—’

‘You think I’m stupid? I say when and where. Understand?’

‘OK! OK, whatever you say. You tell me where, and we’ll come to you. Not a problem. You’re the boss. I didn’t mean to—’

‘I’ll be in touch.’ Then the soft burr of a dead line.

‘Hello? Hello? Holy shit... Steve! Steve, you’ll never guess who I just—’ Clunk. And the recording ended.

‘Right,’ said Insch, ‘any questions?’

‘Good God.’ Faulds stopped dead in the middle of the Leiths’ kitchen and did a slow three hundred and sixty degree turn. ‘It’s like Reservoir Dogs in here...’ The little metal walkway the IB had put down to stop people trampling through the evidence creaked under his feet as he picked his way across to the sink.

There was blood everywhere: all over the floor, up the units, smears on the work surfaces, splashes on the walls, spatters on the ceiling. Someone had decorated the place in eight pints of Valerie Leith.

The Chief Constable looked down at the sticky tiles. ‘First impressions?’

Logan stared at a stalagmite of congealed haemoglobin hanging from the cooker hood. ‘There’s a lot more blood than last time.’

Faulds nodded. ‘We found the same pattern twenty years ago. Sometimes Wiseman butchers them on site, sometimes he takes them away and kills them elsewhere. Anything else?’

‘Well... They’re obviously not short of a bob or two.’ William and Valerie Leith had a Porche 911 in the garage and a huge Lexus four-by-four parked outside the house. It was one of those converted steadings on the outskirts of Aberdeen that always cost a bloody fortune: ramshackle farm buildings, snatched up by some developer and turned into ‘luxury country homes for the discerning executive’ — as exclusive as they were expensive.

Faulds leant an absentminded hand on the black granite work surface, grimaced, and pulled it away again, his latex glove making a sticky screltching sound as it parted with the tacky blood. ‘Damn...’ He wiped it down the front of his white SOC suit, leaving a dark red smear.

Logan opened the patio doors and stepped out onto the decking. It was pitch dark outside, the surrounding countryside little more than greybrown silhouettes against the backdrop of Aberdeen at night. Little blobs of torchlight worked their way across the field behind the house, silent except for the occasional bark of a police dog.

The view was spectacular — on the other side of the South Deeside Road the lights of Cults, Garthdee, and Ruthrieston glittered. A lone rocket zwipped up into the November sky, exploding in a shower of red. Four seconds later the BANG arrived, but by then the sparks were long gone.

‘Can you imagine being up here on Monday? You’d see every firework in the city.’

The Chief Constable joined him at the rail. ‘God it’s freezing.’ He shivered. ‘If you were Wiseman, would you hang around waiting to speak to the BBC?’

‘Would I buggery. I’d be on the first boat out of the UK.’

‘Which begs the question: why is he still here?’

Logan pushed away from the rail as another rocket screeched up into the sky. ‘Unfinished business.’

Faulds nodded. ‘That’s what worries me.’

Heather mashed the heel of her hand into her eye, wiping away the tears. It was a nightmare, that’s all. A bad dream. She’d wake up and everything would be OK and they’d have Boeuf Bourguignon for tea and drink some wine and Duncan would still be alive.

Duncan... she’d cried till her whole body ached, screamed till she couldn’t breathe. And now there was nothing left, but a dull numb pain that wrapped around her heart like poisoned barbed wire.

She laid her head back against the dark metal wall and moaned.

There was a noise outside and light flooded her prison, sparking off the puddles of blood that littered the rusty red floor. All that was left of Duncan.

Heather closed her eyes. This was it — the Butcher had come back for her. It was her turn to be hung upside down over the tin bath and gutted. In a way it was a relief; at least she’d be with her husband and son again.

The Butcher stepped into the room and Heather scrabbled back, terrified.

She tried to plead for her life, but her mouth was too dry, her lips cracked and bleeding. She’d changed her mind: she didn’t want to be with Justin and Duncan. She didn’t want to die!

But the Butcher wasn’t carrying a knife, he was carrying a hose. Cold water battered against the floor, bouncing off the hard metal surface to shower everything with droplets of pink liquid as the last remnants of Duncan were washed down the drain.

When there was nothing left, the Butcher disappeared, only to return thirty seconds later with a tinfoil parcel and a bottle of water. He placed both on the floor — just within arms’ reach of the bars — then stood there, staring at her.

God she was thirsty.

Trembling, Heather inched forwards and snatched the bottle, scurrying back till she was in her corner again. The bastard hadn’t even moved. She wrenched the top off the bottle and drank, coughing and spluttering as it went down too fast. Nearly bringing it all back up again.

The Butcher nodded, then pointed silently at the tinfoil bundle. Then at the mask’s mouth. Then rubbed his stomach.

Heather stared at the parcel, too scared to pick it up.

He gently peeled back a corner of the foil and the smell of hot food filled the room. Her stomach growled.

She peered between the bars. It was just black pudding. Normal, everyday black pudding. And she was so hungry...

The Butcher backed off to the door again and Heather darted forwards, snatching the parcel back to her side of the bars. Breathing in the heady aroma of hot food. With trembling fingers she crammed the first disk of pudding into her mouth, closed her eyes and chewed. Her family was dead and she was eating black pudding as if nothing had ever happened.

Heather almost spat it out, but it was food and she was hungry and she felt miserable and she didn’t have any pills with her. So she did what she’d done all her life: self medication through comfort eating.

She ate every last scrap, till there was nothing left, but greasy tinfoil.

And all the time the man watched her in silence. Then, when she was all finished, he nodded, stepped back outside and closed the door. Leaving her to the darkness.

Logan cupped a hand around his ear and asked DI Steel to say that again. The nightclub was far too busy, far too noisy, and far too hot. That’s what they got for letting that idiot Rennie organize a staff night out. The carpet was sticky; the place stank of stale beer, sweat, aftershave and perfume; and the music was loud enough to make his lungs vibrate.