Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

‘Come on Sophie!’

An ambulance sat on the gravel outside Insch’s house, its blue lights flickering as a pair of paramedics helped the inspector’s wife into the back. As Logan marched up the drive he could hear them telling her that everything was going to be OK. She didn’t look as if she believed them.

He took a deep breath, thought about chickening out and leaving this to someone else, then walked into the granite house. The place was a mess — furniture upturned, mirrors and photos smashed, little dots of blood on the oatmeal-coloured carpet. The smell of human waste fighting against a large tub of orange potpourri. Insch was in the kitchen, kneeling in front of the dog basket.

‘Sir?’

‘Bastard kicked her. She’s fifteen, an old lady... but she went for him.’ He stroked the spaniel’s coat. ‘Poor old thing...’

‘Sir, I need to talk to you about—’

‘She’s broken inside...’ The inspector glanced up for a moment, puffy eyes glistening with tears in his bruised and battered face. ‘The vet’s on his way. And then she won’t be in pain any more... she’s not...’ He took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Wiseman tried to make us think we were eating one of the girls. But it was just pork. Anna and Brigit were tied up in their bedroom the whole time.’

‘Sir, I’m—’

‘No.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘Don’t say it. I don’t want a death message. You can’t—’

‘I’m sorry. The paramedics did everything they could. But Sophie... she was so small and the crash... it...’

Insch bit his bottom lip, then turned silently and went back to stroking his spaniel. Shoulders trembling. Crying quietly.

Logan let himself out.

The drive back to FHQ took nearly an hour and a half as rushhour got its claws into Aberdeen. He could have put on the pool car’s siren, but Logan wasn’t exactly looking forward to getting there. At least the nose-to-tail traffic put off the inevitable...

He pushed through into the noisy incident room and everything went silent. Then the Detective Chief Superintendent started a round of applause, uniform and CID standing to join in. The DCS clapped him on the shoulder and told the room how he was a credit to the force. How they’d never have caught Wiseman if it wasn’t for Logan. How everyone was proud of him.

But Logan didn’t feel very proud. Not when all he could think about was that little girl lying on the tarmac, face white, lips blue. The highpitched whine of the defibrillator as the paramedics tried to restart her heart. The look on her mother’s face when he told her. Insch in tears. No, he didn’t feel very proud at all.

Midnight. Two steps to the right... lurch to the left... bang into the thing in the hall, stuff clattering to the floor... Logan fumbled for the light switch, missed, tried again, and finally light blossomed in the little hallway. ‘Honey, I’m home.’ It took three goes to get the key out of the lock. Jacket up on the hook by the door.

And stumble through to the kitchen...

‘Oh... bollocks.’ The place was a mess: flour and eggs all over the work surface and the floor. The bedroom was just as bad — drawers lying open, the contents spewed out over every available inch. The lounge was like a bombsite. CDs and cushions and junk mail strewn all over the carpet. Suddenly Logan felt a lot more sober.

But the TV and DVD player were still there, and so was his laptop. What sort of burglar, broke in and didn’t steal anything?

The only things missing were Jackie’s clothes and possessions: the industrial grey underwear; the stuffed and porcelain pigs; the hairdryer; the extensive collection of shampoos, conditioners, moisturisers, and other assorted unguents...

She’d come past, picked up her stuff and trashed the place. This was going to take forever to clean up.

Back in the bedroom Logan picked up one edge of the duvet and peered underneath, hoping Jackie wasn’t as vindictive as Alec’s ex. At least the bed was a jobbie-free zone. He sat on the mattress, looking at the devastation. Just to be on the safe side, he wasn’t going to brush his teeth tonight: Jackie might not lower herself to crapping on the fitted sheet, but he wouldn’t put cleaning the loo with his toothbrush past her.

‘What a brilliant, fucking day.’

Interview Room Number Two was stiflingly hot. It stank of stale sweat, stale cigarette smoke, farts, and too much aftershave. None of which were doing Logan’s hangover any favours. Plus, he was pretty certain DC Simon Rennie was responsible for the most offensive of the smells, but the constable denied everything.

Rennie shifted from one foot to the other, and Logan braced himself for the eggy onslaught.

‘Will you stop bloody doing that!’

Rennie manufactured an innocent expression. ‘I didn’t do anything. Probably Laughing Boy here.’ He pointed at the prisoner.

‘Fuck you.’ Ken Wiseman’s voice was like razorblades and gravel. His face wasn’t much better: covered in little sticking plasters, scratches and scabs; bruises spreading across his pale skin; nose squint; right arm in a fibreglass cast. Which had made getting the handcuffs on interesting.

‘Ooh, hark at Oscar Wilde.’ Rennie stuck two fingers up behind Wiseman’s back. ‘Shut up, Kenneth .’

‘Want to make me?’ The butcher raised his hands, jerking them, making the cuffs creak. ‘Think these’ll stop me ripping your fucking head off?’

‘That’s enough. Both of you.’ Logan stared at the ceiling tiles. When the hell was Faulds going to get back? ‘Rennie — don’t goad the prisoner. Mr Wiseman, don’t you think you’re in enough trouble without threatening police officers?’

‘And fuck you too.’

Technically the interview was suspended while Faulds was off talking to the criminal psychologist they’d drafted in, but the cameras were still rolling. Just in case Wiseman did something rash — like kill the pair of them.

‘Come on Ken, why don’t you make it—’

‘I said, FUCK — YOU!’

Which was about as cooperative as he’d been all morning.

‘Fine. Sit there and sulk.’ It wasn’t as if they needed a confession to put him back in prison. They’d caught him in the act: illegal imprisonment, grievous bodily harm, animal cruelty, criminal damage, abduction, causing death by reckless driving... That and a very good defence lawyer would get him at least another sixteen years. But it was nothing compared with what would happen if they could prove he was the Flesher. The only way he’d get out of Peterhead Prison was in a coffin. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

A murmur of conversation came from outside the interview room door — too low to make out any words — and Logan breathed a sigh of relief. About bloody time Faulds got back; with any luck he’d have brought a round of coffees with him.

The door slammed open. It wasn’t Faulds: it was Insch.

Oh no.

Logan was on his feet. ‘Sir, I don’t think you should be—’

‘You bloody animal!’ The inspector’s voice was a slurred growl, the smell of alcohol coming off him in waves.

Wiseman smiled and waved. ‘Hey, Fat Boy.’

‘Sir, come on, you have to—’

‘She was four!’

‘Shame, eh? I’d’ve got a shit-load of money selling her.’

‘You’re dead.’ The inspector pointed a shaky finger at Rennie and Logan. ‘You and you, go take a walk.’

‘Sir, we can’t do that.’

‘Fifteen minutes. You leave me and this bastard alone for fifteen minutes.’

‘Sir—’

‘GET OUT!’

Rennie flinched and started sidling towards the door. Logan turned on him. ‘Don’t you bloody dare!’ And the constable froze. ‘Sir, we have a duty of care—’