Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

Logan pulled out the rough family tree they’d managed to piece together — other than the husband: William, there was a brother in Canada and an aunt in Methyl. Not much help there.

So he flicked through the day-to-day stuff, trying to figure out what Wiseman had seen in Valerie Leith that made him want to chop her into little pieces. Ten years they’d had Wiseman in Peterhead Prison, and still no one had been able to figure out what made him do it. What made him pick one person over another.

‘I think he’s still in shock, by the way.’

‘Who?’ It took Logan a second to realize who the FLO was talking about. ‘Oh, the husband. Not surprisig.’

‘Poor bastard. Physically he’s doing OK, doctors say it looks worse than it is, but emotionally...’ She swallowed a couple of pills. ‘We’ve been up to our sodding ears trying to keep the press away. Can you believe they offered some nurse two thousand pounds to sneak a video camera in and film him talking about his wife? How sick is that?’

‘What aboud the timbline?’

‘Still working on it. No pre-cursor incidents that we can see so far. Loving couple, married for fifteen years, and then bang: Wiseman.’ She stretched, puffed out her cheeks, sagged... ‘Better get back to it I suppose. Don’t want to leave Norman up there on his own for too long with all them pretty nurses. You know what he’s like.’

Logan didn’t, but he nodded anyway and stuck the FLo’s report away with the ones on the Fittie family. One for each victim.

The way things were going there would be a lot more of these before they finally caught Ken Wiseman.

‘Six hundred twenty, six hundred thirty, six hundred forty,’ Rennie counted out the ten pound notes into Logan’s outstretched hand, ‘six fifty, and one more makes it six sixty. And I still say you cheated.’

Logan ran his fingers through the stack of cash. ‘Don’t be such a bad loser.’

‘Getting him to punch you on your day in the sweepie. Should be ashamed of yourself.’ The constable scrunched up the brown envelope the money had been in, then lobbed it at the bin. ‘Goal!’ He stood there, looking pointedly at the pile of ten pound notes in Logan’s hand. ‘So, your round tonight then?’

‘No chance. My head feels like a brick in a cement mixer.’ He reached up and delicately teased one of the tissue paper plugs from his nostril. At least the bleeding had stopped. ‘Home, bath, bed.’

‘Ah, well, I’ve got a hot date tonight anyway: Laura again. Going to take her out for a pizza and then back to my place for a night of hot monkey love!’ He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. ‘Going to get some of that chocolate body paint from Ann Summers after work. We’re going to—’

‘You’re a pervert, do you know that?’

‘You’re just jealous, ‘cos I’m having wild passionate sex with a foxy babe and you’re stuck on your tod till Christmas.’ Rennie turned, flopping a theatrical hand across his brow. ‘It’s sad really.’ Then he flounced off, to the sound of Logan calling him an utter, utter bastard.

‘Hoy, Laz, where you think you’re going?’

Logan finished signing out, then turned to see DI Steel standing at the back door in all her wrinkled glory — packet of cigarettes in one hand, cup of coffee in the other. She nodded her head in the direction of the rear podium car park. ‘Come on, you can hold the brolly while I have a fag.’

‘I’d really like to just go home. Nose is killing me.’

‘Aye, well, that’s what happens when you get yourself punched in the face. Come on, you can spare five minutes for your new Senior Investigating Officer.’

Trying not to groan, Logan joined her out in the rain, holding the umbrella so the inspector could smoke and drink her coffee at the same time.

‘So,’ she took a sip and a puff, ‘you hear about Insch? Two days suspension and a slap on the wrist. No bad going when you think about it. Two days for lamping a Detective Sergeant... Tempted to try it myself — Beattie’s been getting on my tits.’ She grinned at him through a plume of cigarette smoke. ‘Oh, cheer up, you grumpy old bugger. Here — got a present for you...’

She stuck the fag in her mouth and pulled out a battered paperback from the pocket of her jacket. ‘Fusty Faulds said to give it to you when I’d finished.’

It was a well-thumbed copy of Jamie McLaughlin’s book. Logan turned it over and read the blurb on the back.

‘It’s no’ bad, bit longwinded, but what do you expect from a beardy weirdo?’

‘“Follow James McLaughlin as he comes to terms with the loss of his parents and the hunt for their killer...” Sounds like a bag of laughs.’

‘Aye, wait till you get to the photographs.’ She took a deep drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke out into the rain. ‘Tell you, Laz, this is a golden opportunity. Wiseman turns up at that address you got from the Mastrick Monster, we catch him, cover ourselves in glory, and dance the dance of a thousand pints.’ She took another slug of coffee. ‘Speaking of being covered in stuff, where’s Wee Fat Alec?’

‘Last I heard he was off home to shower and chuck his clothes in the washing machine. Why?’

‘Because when Wiseman turns up I want Mr Stinks-of-Piss filming as you and me arrest him.’

Logan sighed. ‘It’s supposed to be a low-key operation. Flood the place with parked cars full of CID and BBC cameramen, Wiseman’ll run a mile.’

She wrinkled her face at him. ‘You’re no fun.’

‘I’m knackered: haven’t had a day off in weeks.’

‘Oh?’ Steel sooked the last gasp from her cigarette and pinged it out into the rain. ‘Well, tell you what, why don’t you take a couple of days at home. Put your feet up. Don’t worry your pretty little head about a thing.’

‘Sarcasm. Nice. It was my day off today, and where was I?’

‘I’m sure that wee boy they found barricaded in his room in Fittie is over the moon you’re prepared to put your social life on hold for two minutes while we try find the man who butchered his bloody parents.’

Logan handed her the brolly. ‘Good night, Inspector.’ And marched off into the night.

She shouted after him: ‘Seven — sharp! And it’s your turn to get the bacon butties!’

Jamie McLaughlin’s book wasn’t anywhere near as bad as Logan had expected. OK, so Jamie had a tendency to use three words where one would do, but other than that it was pretty good. Logan sat in the lounge, with the radiator and electric fire going full pelt, a cup of tea balanced on the arm of the settee, and a packet of Jaffa Cakes on the coffee table, reading about the hunt for Ken Wiseman, AKA: the Flesher.

Every now and then he’d come across a few pages of photographs, usually of the investigative team. Some were lifted from newspaper cuttings, but others were more candid: a uniformed officer standing outside the McLaughlin house while an SOC team shuffled by in the out-of-focus background; Jamie’s bedroom; the pathologist having a sneaky cigarette in the back garden; a thin man with thick, dark hair deep in conversation with a statuesque redhead; a clunky looking, oldfashioned patrol car with... Logan flipped back a page. According to the caption it was ‘DC DAVID INSCH (GRAMPIAN)AND DS JANIS MCKAY (STRATHCLYDE)DISCUSSING THE CASE’.

‘Bloody hell...’ Logan had never seen the inspector with hair before. And he didn’t look like an angry, pink dirigible either, he was actually smiling!

There was a sight you didn’t see every day.

Logan flipped to the index and went looking for more about Detective Constable David Insch.

He was in the kitchen, making another cup of tea when the doorbell rang. Logan thought about ignoring it — probably kids dressed up in black bin-bags and cheap plastic masks. Halloween was four days ago and the little bastards were still shouting ‘Trick or treat?’