Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

‘I’ll kill—’

‘OK, be like that. I gave you the chance to save her, and you blew it.’ He walked over to the table and picked up the boning knife — it glittered against the bitch’s throat.

She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and sobbed.

‘Any last words?’

‘Don’t! I’ll... I’ll eat it!’ The fat git’s face was pouring with sweat. ‘Just leave her alone! She didn’t do anything to you, it was me. I did it. Not her...’

‘That’s better.’ Wiseman laid the knife next to the frying pan and picked up the fork. He speared the slice the fat git had spat out — picking off a few stray dog hairs from where it had hit the carpet — then held it out for Insch to bite.

Insch stared at it, then at his wife, then back to the slice again. Took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. And bit. For a moment it looked as if he was going to vomit, but he chewed and swallowed instead. Shuddering as it went down.

‘There’s a good boy.’ Wiseman smiled. ‘Did you like that? Tasty and tender was it?’

‘I’m...’ He gagged.

The bitch’s voice was small and trembling. ‘David? What’s wrong?’

‘Keep it down, Fat Boy, there’s more where that came from.’

Insch didn’t look at her. ‘Nothing’s wrong. It’s all going to be OK.’

‘Go on, Lardy, tell your lovely wife what the Flesher does. Don’t be shy.’

‘Tell me what? David...?’

‘Tell her.’

‘He killed at least a dozen people. Butchered their remains and ate them.’

The bitch’s eyes went wide, then locked onto the frying pan and its tasty, meaty contents. ‘Oh God...’

Wiseman leant down and whispered in Insch’s ear. ‘You haven’t asked where your daughters are.’

The fat man screamed.

Rennie barged into the history room, skidding to a halt on the tatty green carpet tiles. ‘You’ll never guess what!

Logan didn’t look up. ‘What happened to the tea?’

‘Wiseman’s called the BBC again: Torry Battery, two pm! The DCS wants everyone in the briefing room, now.’

The Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of CID drew a red ‘X’ on the whiteboard — ‘... and the third set of marksmen will be here. Plainclothes officers will be in two cars parked here, and here. Another three will pose as dog walkers.’ More squiggles on the board. ‘Everyone else will be in unmarked police vans here... and here.’ He gave the nod, and someone clicked onto the next slide in the presentation: a grey and white outside broadcast van. ‘The BBC are lending us this on the condition that one of their cameramen is present for the arrest.’

Rennie leant over and whispered at Logan, ‘There’s a surprise. These TV buggers—’

The DCS glared at him. ‘Do you have something to add, Constable?’

Rennie froze. ‘Er... I was just saying that there’s a safety issue, sir. You know, with a civilian being present.’

Logan was impressed: it was a feat of weaselry worthy of DI Steel.

The DCS nodded. ‘Good point. I don’t need to tell you all how dangerous Ken Wiseman is. No one is to take any chances, but I want him in a cell, not a body bag. Now, any questions?’

Logan stuck his hand up. ‘He called the BBC at quarter to eleven to make an appointment for two. That’s over three hours. He’s got to know they’d tell us about it, why give us so much notice?’

It was Faulds who answered. ‘Wiseman has a serious persecution complex. This is his chance to go down in a blaze of glory, and he gets to do it all on national television.’

The DCS cleared his throat. ‘As I was saying: no one is to take any chances.’ He pointed at one of the firearms officers. ‘Yes, Brodie?’

‘Where’s DI Insch?’

‘The inspector is taking some personal time. Any other questions?’

Back in the history room, Logan peered at Faulds over a pile of crime scene reports. ‘I still say he should be there.’

The Chief Constable sighed. ‘As your DCS says, Insch has been under a lot of stress lately, he just needs some time—’

‘I’ve called his house and his mobile a dozen times, what if something’s happened?’

‘Like what?’

‘What if Wiseman’s gone after him too? Insch was part of the team that put—’

‘So was I. So were a lot of people. We had about a hundred officers working the case at one point. Insch was just a constable back then, your DCS was more influential in the prosecution than Insch.’ He paused. ‘But if it makes you feel any better, get a patrol car to swing past.’

Logan called the Oldmeldrum station — little more than a couple of rooms bolted onto the secondary school — and listened to the phone ring... the call was diverted to an Airwave handset that hissed and crackled, with the faint sound of yelling and mooing in the background. ‘Hullo?’

‘This is DS McRae from FHQ, I need you to get a car round to DI Insch’s house, South Road, number—’

‘Aye, I ken where he lives. But I canna go roond there the noo. We’ve hid a fatal RTA — poor bugger in a Fiesta hit a coo on the road tae Turra. Some feel left the gate open: I’ve got coos and blood all ower the place.’ Which explained the cattle noises in the background.

‘How soon do you think you could—’

‘God knows. Like a bloody abattoir out here.’

‘Well... do what you can, OK?’ Logan hung up and fidgeted for a bit.

‘You really are worried, aren’t you?’ said Faulds. ‘How long would it take you from here? There and back?’

Logan checked his watch. ‘If we floor it, about an hour and a half.’

‘Right.’ Faulds stood and grabbed his coat. ‘But if we’re not back before Wiseman’s TV slot, I’ll personally strangle you, OK?’

‘Deal.’

They hurried down through the building, making for the rear podium. A small clump of cameramen loitered at the back door, smoking cigarettes and talking about focal lengths. Alec waved as Logan and Faulds pushed through the back doors.

‘This is going to be so cool!’ he said, following them to a pool car speckled with rust and seagull droppings. ‘Can I ride with you guys? I’ve got a great idea for a travelling shot, all the way through Torry and up to the Battery, we—’

‘Sorry, Alec.’ Logan wrenched open the driver’s door. ‘We’ve got to go pick up Insch.’

‘But...’ The cameraman looked at his watch, his colleagues, back to Logan and then at his watch again. ‘But isn’t he all the way out—’

‘Yes, that’s why we can’t hang around talking to—’

‘Shite...’ Alec clambered into the back seat. ‘Come on then, let’s roll!’

Logan put his foot down — the dual carriageway flashing past as they took the quick route through Bucksburn, past the airport, and out into the countryside, Bennachie looming vast and purple in the distance.

‘So...’ Faulds watched the fields go by. ‘I was talking to DI Steel this morning.’ He left a pause, but Logan didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

‘That’s nice.’

The Chief Constable pointed at Logan’s bruised face. ‘She says your girlfriend beat you up.’

Gossipy old cow. ‘Ex-girlfriend. And she didn’t beat me up. It was an accident.’ Lie. ‘Do you really think Wiseman’s going to be stupid enough to show up?’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘There’s nothing to tell, OK? We broke up. End of story.’

Alec peered through from the back. ‘I dumped this girl once — law student — two weeks later she lets herself into my flat with a spare set of keys and craps in the bed. Then she covers it with the duvet and fucks off. Course, I come back steaming that night, with a quantity surveyor called Daphne. We tear each other’s clothes off and jump into bed... Fucking horrible it was. Went everywhere.’