Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

‘Do you want to drive?’

‘— repeat that? Wiseman? Are you serious? ’

Faulds went back to the handset. ‘We need back-up, now!’

And then Wiseman slammed on his brakes. Logan was fast, but not fast enough; they clipped the back bumper. The pool car’s nose jerked left and buried itself in a beech hedge, sending orange leaves flying.

Faulds dropped the handset again. ‘Are you trying to get us all killed?’

‘ What the hell was that? ’

The Range Rover pulled a hard left, through an open gate and into a field of brown stubble. Logan cranked the key in the ignition. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing... ‘Come on you bastard!’ The engine roared into life. He reversed out of the hedge and put his foot to the floor, the tyres squealing as the car fishtailed into the field after Wiseman. But the Range Rover was built for this kind of thing, their scabrous Vauxhall wasn’t. It slithered and slid, churning up the mud, snaking after the four-by-four as it rumbled straight across the field and out the gate on the other side.

‘We’re losing him!’

‘— repeat: what is your location? ’

‘Come on, come on, come on!’ The engine was beginning to sound like a cat in a tumble drier.

‘Somewhere south of Inverurie—’

‘OLDMELDRUM!’ Logan fought the bucking steering wheel, barrelling them towards the exit. ‘Not Inverurie! Three miles south of Oldmeldrum, just off the A497. Side road on the right, before you get to Hatton Crook. Where there was that minibus accident last year!’

They clipped the gate on their way out — the car lurching forward as it finally got its tyres back on solid tarmac. Treelined road, amber leaves, no sign of the Range Rover. ‘Bastard!’

Logan floored it. Hard right. Hard left. Another right and—

A horse, pirouetting and snorting in the middle of the road. Faulds yelled ‘LOOK OUT!’ and Logan slammed on the brakes. The manky Vauxhall skidded to a halt.

‘What the hell do we do now?’

‘Honk your horn!’

Logan stared at Faulds. ‘That’s not going to help.’ He clambered out into the cold afternoon. The animal looked half demented — eyes rolling, foaming white sweat at the neck, empty saddle, bridle swinging loose. There was no sign of the rider. And then Logan got a glimpse past the bucking, rearing monster: DI Insch’s Range Rover was nose-down in a ditch, rear wheels spinning. Behind it another horse shifted from hoof to hoof, looking embarrassed while its rider lay flat on her back on the grass verge.

The sound of raised voices cut through the cold afternoon.

‘You stupid — fucking — inconsiderate — fucking...’ it was a woman, dressed in jodhpurs, sweatshirt, and riding hat, covered in mud all down one side of her body. She was beating the living crap out of Wiseman as he tried to crawl away from the crashed Range Rover. ‘Inconsiderate — wanking — bastard!’ Each word punctuated with another blow from her short riding crop. ‘It’s bad enough we’ve got to put up with arseholes like you roaring round the countryside.’ She gave up on the whip and kicked Wiseman in the ribs instead. ‘YOU COULD HAVE KILLED US!’

Logan took one look at the spinning horse, and decided discretion was the better part of not getting his head staved-in by a flying hoof. He clambered over the nearest gate and hurried through the field. The front end of the Range Rover was a mess: steam billowed out from beneath the bonnet, windscreen shattered, headlights smashed, radiator buckled around a dirty big lump of stone, taking half the barbed-wire fence with it.

‘You think there’s no one else on the road? You think you own — the — fucking — road?’

Logan picked his way through the debris and grabbed her before she could castrate Wiseman with her riding boots.

‘Enough!’

‘Did you see what this idiot—’

‘Stand over there and calm down!’

‘—roaring round the corner in the middle of the road!’

Logan pulled out his handcuffs and she froze.

‘If you touch me, I’ll scream.’

‘Oh for God’s sake: I’m a police officer. Now go see if your friend’s OK.’

Wiseman was curled up on the muddy grass, clutching one arm to his chest — probably broken. His nose certainly was. The butcher’s face was a spider’s web of tiny cuts, little flecks of glass sticking out of his bald head. He screamed in pain as Logan forced him face down and cuffed his hands behind his back.

‘Kenneth Wiseman, I’m arresting you for driving without due care and attention... And some other stuff we’ll charge you with when we get you back to the bloody station. On your feet.’

It took three goes to get Wiseman upright. He might have been built like a rugby fullback, but he didn’t put up a fight, just limped and swore and grimaced and cried as Logan dragged him back to the crashed Range Rover. Where the woman who’d just beaten up Scotland’s most notorious serial killer was bent over her companion, holding her hand and talking softly.

‘How is she?’

The rider lying spread-eagled on the grass raised a shaky thumb.

‘I think her leg’s broken. Lucky to be alive, that bloody idiot screaming round the corner in—’

‘We’d better get her an ambulance...’ Logan fumbled through his pockets with one hand — looking for his phone — as he pushed Wiseman back against the inspector’s ruined car. The butcher wobbled a bit, then slid down the door panel till he was sitting on the ground looking dazed. Then threw up in his own lap.

Logan jumped back, trying to escape the rancid splatter. ‘Oh you dirty f...’ There was something in the Range Rover’s boot, partially covered by a dog-hair-encrusted tartan blanket. A pale, white hand poked out from beneath it. ‘No...’

He ran round to the back and fought with the boot release. Locked.

‘Damn it!’ Logan grabbed a chunk of rock from the ground and swung it at the rear windscreen.

The glass buckled, but didn’t break.

Again — sending a network of cracks racing across the surface.

Again — and the lump of stone punched a grapefruit-sized hole, sending little glittering cubes of glass all over the Range Rover’s huge boot. Logan stuck his hand in and fumbled for the catch to lower the tailgate, then jerked the boot lid up and clambered inside.

‘Oh God... Sophie...’ Insch’s youngest was lying on her side, partially covered by the tartan dog blanket, hands cabletied behind her back, legs tied at the ankle, silver duct-tape wrapped round her head, covering her mouth. Blood caking her nose. Face pale and waxy. ‘Sophie!’

Logan ripped the tape off and put his ear to her mouth. She wasn’t breathing. He stuck two fingers against her throat, feeling for a pulse... it was there, but there wasn’t much of it. ‘Don’t you die on me, Sophie!’ He flipped her over onto her back and started breathing for her.

In — out — in — out — in — out.

A voice sounded behind him: Faulds, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing leaving Wiseman unsupervised out here?

He... oh shit.’

In — out — in — out.

Electronic bleeping noises — numbers being punched into a mobile phone. ‘Shut up and listen! I need an ambulance and I need it now!’

In — out — in — out.

‘How the hell am I supposed to know? DS McRae told you where we were, didn’t he?... Yes!’

In — out — in — out.

‘... I don’t care! Get someone out here now — we’ve a little girl who’s not breathing!’

In — out — in — out.

Logan felt for a pulse again: it was getting weaker. ‘She’s Insch’s daughter!’

‘Oh God... did you hear that?... Yes... yes, OK.’

In — out — in — out.