Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

Her head hurt. Pounding. Bang, bang, bang... Throat dry, lips like sandpaper. ‘Thirsty...’

Duncan squatted down next to her and smiled. ‘ I know, but it’ll only hurt for a little bit. Then you’ll be OK. You’ll be with us.’

‘So thirsty...’

Heather curled up on the filthy mattress and tried not to cry. She was going to die in here, in this dark metal box. Forgotten and alone...

‘Hey,’ Duncan brushed the hair from her face. ‘ You’re not alone. You’ve got me, remember?’

She kept her eyes screwed shut. ‘You’re not real.’

‘I’m as real as you need me to be. Come on, have I ever lied to you?’ She rolled over onto her other side, turning her back on him. ‘Inverness, three years ago.’

He groaned. ‘ I told you: it was a mistake. I was drunk. She didn’t mean anything to me.’ Duncan’s hand slipped down her body. ‘It’s always been you, you know that.’ The hand caressed her thigh. ‘You were my world.’

‘I hated you so much.’

His fingers wandered north, making her breath catch. ‘ Let me make it up to you...’ He kissed her neck, her throat, her breasts, her stomach, her—

There was a clang from outside and Heather froze. Light flooded the tiny prison.

He was back.

She scrabbled her clothes back into place and hurried over to the bars as the door creaked open. ‘Please, I’m so thirsty.’

The Butcher placed six two-litre bottles of water on the prison floor, then stepped outside again, leaving the door open. Heather grabbed them, cracked one open and drank deep. Coughing and spluttering in her haste. Twelve litres of water!

And then the smell hit her — meaty and fragrant over the disinfectant reek coming from the chemical toilet. The Butcher was back, carrying a big plastic box. He dropped it at his feet, took a key from his apron pocket, unlocked a heavy brass padlock, and pushed open a gate in the bars.

Heather could feel her bowls clench. This was it, he was going to kill her...

But he didn’t. He opened the box and pulled out a tray covered with slices of roast meat, boiled potatoes, green beans, Brussels sprouts, Yorkshire puddings... enough food to feed an army.

Heather almost wept.

All this food. All this water!

She crept forward and grabbed a slice of meat, cramming it into her mouth and chewing, washing it down with deep swigs of water.

He stood watching her.

‘It’s... very good,’ she said, picking up another chunk and a handful of vegetables to go with it. Gravy dribbled down her chin as she ripped another bite out of the tender, juicy flesh. ‘Mmmphnngh...’ More water. ‘Delicious, really nice.’ Desperate not to sound ungrateful.

The Butcher nodded, then stepped back to the other side of the bars, closed the gate and snapped the padlock back into place. Leaving her with her feast.

Days’ worth of food and drink...

‘Are you... are you going away?’

He stared silently at her, then pointed at the meat.

‘Please don’t leave me...’

But he did.

At least DI Insch had calmed down a bit by the time Logan emerged from the post mortem. Whole bodies were bad enough, but Brooks... Logan shuddered. It was like some sort of horrible jigsaw puzzle.

All the chairs in the inspector’s office were occupied — DI Steel in one, the Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of CID in the other. Everyone waiting for Logan’s edited highlights.

‘Preliminary report won’t be out till the end of the day, but there’s a lot of bruising to the head, stomach, thighs and chest — he’d been repeatedly beaten. Looks like Brooks was held somewhere for about forty-eight hours before he...’ Logan tried to think of a tactful way to put it, ‘before he was thrown off the roof.’

Silence.

‘Sorry, sir.’

The inspector’s voice was a low rumble: distant thunder getting close fast. ‘Wiseman.’

‘We’re doing door-to-doors in the tower blocks, going through the Castlegate CCTV—’

‘That’s why he didn’t turn up. At the pub. Wiseman had him...’ Insch’s face had gone beyond its normal angry red, into a previously undiscovered shade of trembling purple. Breath hissing out between clenched teeth. ‘Get the IB round to his house. I don’t care if they have to tear it apart, I want—’

The DCS placed a hand on the inspector’s arm. ‘David, I need you to go home. Let us handle this.’

Insch got as far as. ‘Don’t you—’

‘Before you say it: I know. I worked with Brooks too. We’ll get the bastard responsible, but you need to go home. If Professional Standards find out you’ve ignored your suspension they’ll go ballistic.’

Insch was on his feet. ‘You can’t send me—’

‘I can, and I am. Go home, David. Have a pint for Brooks. Come in tomorrow and we’ll discuss your caseload.’

‘But—’

‘That’s an order, Inspector.’

Drizzle. It drifted down from a battleship-grey sky, slowly seeping its way into everything, making the IB team miserable as they searched Ex-DCI Brooks’ back garden. Logan stood at the conservatory door, watching them get wet.

On the other side of the high back wall, a development of nasty yellow-clad houses sat cheek-by-jowl with one another. Brand new and ugly in comparison to the stately granite buildings they’d been thrown up behind. McLennan Homes strikes again.

If he stood on his tiptoes, Logan could just make out pairs of uniformed officers going door-to-door in the vague hope that someone might have seen something.

A grumpy figure in a mud-smeared SOC suit trudged up to the conservatory, snapped off her latex gloves, dragged out a scabby handkerchief, and made horrible snottery noises. ‘Bugger all,’ she said when she’d finished. ‘No hair, no fibres, no prints. We know he came over the back wall — got two goodsized indentations in the flowerbed, but nothing we can get a decent cast from. Best guess is he had plastic bags on over his shoes — that’d explain why there’s no muddy footprints in the house.’

The hanky came out for another performance.

‘OK, finish it up and I’ll get Rennie to stick the kettle on.’

She sniffed. ‘Looks like a professional job.’

‘Get your team in out of the wet. We can—’

‘Sir?’ A panicked shout from the front of the house. ‘Sergeant McRae?’

Logan knew it had been too good to last. The only surprise was that it’d taken the Insch this long... He turned and marched through the spotless conservatory; the bombsite lounge with its overturned furniture, smashed ornaments, and bloodstains; then out into the hall, where DC Rennie was trying to stop DI Insch from storming into the house.

‘It’s OK,’ Logan tapped the constable on the shoulder. ‘Why don’t you go see to the teas?’ He let Rennie squeeze past, then stepped forwards to block the entrance. ‘Inspector?’

‘I was out walking Lucy, and I spotted the IB van.’ Insch gestured at the grubby transit parked in Brooks’ drive with ‘ALSO AVAILABLE IN WHITE’ finger-painted in the filth. Behind him, his ancient Springer Spaniel sat on the wet grass, legs akimbo, slowly absorbing the drizzle.

‘What can we do for you?’

The huge man glowered at him from the threshold. ‘You can let me in for a bloody start.’

‘Sorry, sir, this is an active crime scene.’

Insch rested a fat finger in the middle of Logan’s chest. ‘Remember I’m going to be back in charge again tomorrow, Sergeant. You might not want to go pissing me off right now. Step aside.’

‘I can’t do that. You know I can’t do that.’

Insch’s finger withdrew two inches, then rammed forward into Logan’s chest. ‘Suspended or not, I am your superior officer. And I swear to God, if you don’t get out of my bloody way—’