Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

Alec gritted his teeth. ‘This is going to be difficult enough to edit as it is!’

‘Anyway, I’ve seen the photos — the place is a tip. Half the windows are gone, weeds growing in the lounge, cold, damp. He’d have to be bloody desperate to go back there.’

‘He’s desperate. Question is: what’s he up to? He’s got to know we’ll pick him up soon as he arranges his fifteen minutes of fame with the BBC...’ Insch polished off his second pint. ‘What would you do? You’ve only got a few days of freedom left, then you’re going back to prison for the rest of your life.’

But Logan had already answered that one, back when Faulds asked the same question at the Leith house. ‘What would I do?’ He stood: it was time for more beer. ‘Revenge.’

The answering machine was lying in wait for Logan when he finally got back to the flat, its little red light winking away, malevolent and devious. He hit the button, still feeling all bunged up and sore, even after two pints of Stella and a nip of Glen Garioch. ‘ YOU HAVE THREE MESSAGES. MESSAGE ONE: Laz? You awake? C’moan man, pick up...’ Pause. ‘You’re no’ in. OK, tomorrow — down the beach, fireworks, half five outside the Inversnecky.’ There was a noise in the background and Colin said, ‘I’m no’ tellin’ him to wear a jumper, I’m no’ his bloody mother...’ Beeeeeeep

‘MESSAGE TWO: Logan, it’s your mother—’

He peeled off his coat, only half listening as she rabbited on about his little brother’s upcoming wedding.

‘—so make sure you remember. And would it kill you to wear a kilt this time? Honestly, Barbara’s son—’

Logan hit delete.

Beeeeeeep

‘MESSAGE THREE: Hey you ... it’s me...’ Jackie, sounding drunk again. He settled onto the end of the settee and stared at the dead fireplace. ‘ You miss me? I’m... I’m probably a bit thingied... with the vodka... but I miss you, OK? Turnip Head? I miss you. I’m got a... a ...’ What sounded like a burp crackled out of the answering machine’s speaker. ‘Oops. I’m got some time off. You wanna... you know... with sex and stuff ...’ A garbled voice in the background said something about another round. ‘Gotta go, OK? I—’ Beeeeeeep ‘END OF MESSAGES.’

Logan erased the lot, did his teeth and went to bed.

DI Steel sat in the passenger seat, eating a bacon buttie and slurping noisily at a wax-paper cup of tea from the bakers in Newmachar, while Logan got himself outside a hot steak pie. Steel didn’t bother swallowing before pointing at the dilapidated house two hundred yards away and saying, ‘Mmmmghmmmf, mmmn nnn?’

‘No idea. Half two, I think.’

She shrugged, and went back to chewing.

They’d parked on the outskirts of Hatton of Fintray, a tiny village on the back road from Dyce to Blackburn, so far off the beaten track it was practically invisible. Logan had manoeuvred the pool car down a wee side road — little more than a farm track — with a view through a thin stand of trees and gorse bushes to the dilapidated granite building.

One of the downstairs windows had been boarded over, but the other was an empty black hole. The roof looked as if it had eczema, shedding dark grey slates into the overgrown garden. What an estate agent would call ‘a fixerupper’.

‘How the hell did he find this place?’ Steel mumbled through another mouthful of buttie.

‘Wiseman’s sister worked for the Council, property management, probably had keys to half the abandoned buildings in Aberdeenshire.’

Logan polished off the last of his breakfast pie and started in on his coffee as Alec climbed into the back of the car.

‘Morning all.’ Alec pulled out his camera and fiddled with electronic things. ‘Ready for a happy day of sitting about in the cold playing eye spy?’

Steel sooked tomato sauce from her fingers. ‘Anyone been in there yet?’

‘Not since yesterday afternoon.’ Logan, pointed at the isolated halfway house. ‘Insch didn’t want to risk spooking Wiseman, remember?’

‘So we’ve no idea he’s even set foot in the place.’ She scrunched up the paper bag her buttie had come in and tossed it over her shoulder into the back. ‘Remind me again just how many man-hours we’re pissing away here?’

‘Three cars, two CID per car. Eight-hour shifts.’

Steel did the maths. ‘A hundred and forty four man hours, every day! Jesus, no wonder Baldy Brian whinges about the overtime bill. And we’ve not even checked there’s anyone home!’ She took a swig of her tea, then stuck the steaming carton on the dashboard, fogging the windscreen. ‘Come on then, get your arse in gear, we’re going over there.’

‘But what if Wiseman—’

‘If he’s here, we’ll catch him. Medals and dancing girls for everyone. If not, what’s the worst that can happen?’

‘He comes back, spots us, does a runner, and we never see him again.’

She shrugged and picked up the car radio, putting a call out to the three unmarked cars watching the rundown building, telling them to call her on her mobile if they saw Wiseman coming.

There was a stunned pause from the other end, then: ‘ But we’ve got strict instructions from DI Insch—’

‘Aye, well now you’ve got strict instructions from me.’ She clambered out of the car and into the blustery morning. The sky was three shades of grey, each one moving in a different direction, the trees and bushes whipping back and forth. Steel pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit up as she marched down the lane, leaving Logan to lock up and hurry after her. Alec jogged along at the rear, filming them both.

‘Are you sure we should be doing this?’

She stopped at a big, metal gate and hauled on the spring catch. ‘There’s more to being a police officer than sitting on your arse eating pies.’ The field on the other side was stubble and mud — the crop long gone — but Steel stuck to the edge, picking her way around the soggier looking bits.

‘And how come everyone thinks that cock-weasel Robertson was telling the truth when he told you about this place, eh?’ she said, ‘Murdering wee bastard’s no’ exactly— Aw shite!’ She froze, standing on one leg. ‘I’ve trod in something.’ They walked the rest of the way to the small woods with Steel dragging her foot through the barley stubble like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

They had to clamber over a barbed-wire fence to get into the stand of trees, then fight their way through the rustling mass of spiny gorse bushes to get out the other side, with Steel swearing quietly the whole way. ‘Who’s stupid bloody idea was this?’

‘Yours.’

She scowled at him. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn about being a sidekick, you know that, don’t you?’

From here the building looked even more dilapidated than it had from the car. Plus there was the smell. As if something had died, and been left to rot.

‘Jesus...’ Steel whispered, ‘you thinking what I’m thinking?’ She scrambled over a low stone wall and made for the front door. It was secured by a heavy padlock, the brass pitted with age and streaked with rust. Locked. A weed-infested gravel path ran around the house, greybrown spears of docken poking up through the tangled grass.

‘Er...’ Alec fidgeted with his camera, ‘I’m not supposed to... you know... go into dangerous situations without backup.’

The inspector stared up at the vacant windows. ‘What are we, haggis rissoles?’

‘It’s the insurance: I have to have another BBC employee to watch my back in case—’

‘Fine. You can sod off back to the car. No skin off my nose if you miss us catching Wiseman, is it?’