Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

Today, the sign outside says ‘Property Management’, but in January 1988 it was the final resting place for my parents. Or would have been, if not for that anonymous phone call in the dead of night.

Logan flicked through the file — finding reference to a call made from a public phone box in Torry. The note said it was a woman’s voice: drunk and scared. They thought it was probably a working girl, looking for somewhere to take a punter. Or maybe one of the city’s growing homeless population, looking for a place to drink themselves to sleep. Brooks put out the usual appeals, but no one came forward.

The fridges at the back of the shop had been cleared of their contents, the detritus piled up in the serving area. In here the walls were smeared with filth, mildew reaching out of the corners: a permanent shadow that not even the pathologist’s spotlights could banish. My parents hung from hooks in the ceiling.

That sounds more dramatic than it actually was. Although the smell was appalling (the power being long gone, and the fridges at ambient temperature) there was little to show that the cuts of meat hanging there had once been someone’s mother and father. My mother and father. Now just meat.

And on those filthy walls were written the words that would forever be emblazoned upon my soul. A message from the man who would become known as ‘the Flesher’.

A message written in blood. The blood of my parents.

After a period of sober reflection involving jam sponge and custard, Logan grabbed a cup of tea and went back to the history room. The file said Brooks traced the quotation scrawled on the butcher’s shop wall to Trinity Hall — home of the Seven Incorporated Trades — a 1960s concrete box of a building with delusions of grandeur, on Holburn Street, not far from McFarlane’s...

‘Smoak with blood’ — a line from a painting belonging to the butchers’ trade incorporation, AKA: ‘the Fleshers’ And that was how he got his name.

Logan’s tea was stone cold by the time he’d finished reading all the interview transcripts: Brooks had hauled in every butcher in the city, whether they were members or not. That was when the fixation with Wiseman started.

‘Wakey, wakey.’ DI Steel meandered into the room, bringing a waft of stale cigarette with her. ‘Half two: ready to be told what a clever little boy you are?’

Logan looked up from Wiseman’s first ever brush with the police. ‘Give me a minute, I— hey!’

Steel snatched the transcript from his hand. ‘Let’s see what’s so important...’ her lips moving as she read. ‘Jesus,’ she turned it over in her hands, peering at the biro notes scribbled on the back, ‘Basher Brooks strikes again. You see these? “He’s obviously hiding something.”, “Shifty.”, “Evasive.”, “Reeks of guilt...” Talk about keeping an open mind.’ She stuck it back on Logan’s desk. ‘Anyway, come on: arse in gear. Pat on the back time.’

30 minutes later

‘Bastarding cock-weasel son-of-a-bitch!’ Steel hurled herself into Logan’s seat. ‘Can you believe this shite? Fucking bastard!’ She stood, swore some more, kicked the filing cabinet, called Chief Constable Brian Anderson a ‘Sheep-shagging prick.’ And collapsed back into the chair again.

‘Well,’ said Logan, picking his words carefully, ‘it could be worse...’

‘How? How could it possibly be worse?’

‘Could’ve been DCI Finnie.’

‘That... cock? ’ She scrubbed her hands across her face. ‘How could they say I’m not pro-active enough? How? How much more pro-fucking-active could I be? Did we not just catch Leith?’

Logan settled himself in behind the other desk, bracing himself for the oncoming rant. Ten minutes later she was still at it.

‘Course you know what this is really about, don’t you? Can’t have a lowly woman heading up a high-profile case like this. Nooooo. That needs a baldy-headed bastard, doesn’t it?’ She put on a broad Banff and Buchan accent for.

‘I think it’d be mare appropriate fer DCS Bain tae tak a mare active roll...’

‘Wankers didn’t take the damn thing off Insch, did they?’ Steel sat and seethed in silence for a while, then pulled out her cigarettes, turning the pack over and over in her hands. ‘Do us a favour, eh? Go see how the fat git’s doing.’

‘What, now?’

‘No, no’ now: tonight. I know he’s been a tosspot lately, and he smacked you in the face... but... well... take him a bag of jelly babies or something.’

‘I can’t, I’ve got something on tonight.’ Which was a lie. Logan just couldn’t face dealing with Insch’s grief on top of all the guilt. Not yet.

‘Insch is one of us, Laz, we’ve got no right abandoning him. No’ with his wee girl dead like that.’

‘But if I hadn’t chased Wiseman—’

‘You’ve always been Inschy’s favourite. He needs someone to talk to, and you’re it. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? He shouts at you a bit? Least it’ll make him feel better. You no’ think we owe him that?’

Logan swore. But the inspector was right: he owed Insch that much. ‘OK, OK, I’ll go see him.’

‘Good lad.’ Steel hauled herself out of the chair and headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, ‘But for God’s sake don’t tell him I sent you! Got my reputation as a hardnosed bitch to think about.’

Half four and Steel still wasn’t back. Logan sat with a fresh cup of tea and the old Media Office file on Ian and Sharon McLaughlin — all the press releases, the follow-up articles culled from the newspapers, speeches written for whoever was Chief Constable at the time. One of the newspaper clippings included a photo of Ex-DSI Brooks outside the Sheriff Court, a thin and hirsute DC David Insch standing off to one side. ‘SUSPECT REMANDED IN CUSTODY’

He laid the article out on the desk and sat back, staring at the death board. How many of them died because Brooks couldn’t get over his Wiseman-focussed monomania?

Logan called Colin Miller and asked for a favour.

‘ What, again? You still owe me lunch from last time .’

‘Do this one and we’ll call it dinner — takeaway Thai?’

‘ I’m listening ...’

‘Need you to go through the paper’s archives. Missing persons, housebreakings, outbreaks of food poisoning, CJD... that kind of thing. 1987 to 1990.’

There was silence on the other end.

‘ You gonnae tell me what this is all about? ’

‘Nope.’

‘ You expect me to go huntin’ through three years worth of pish, and you’re no’ gonnae tell me anythin’? ’

‘Look we—’

‘ Exclusive. I get the scoop on whatever it is, or I’m no’ liftin’ a finger .’

‘I’m just trying to put the original investigation into context.’

‘No exclusive, no deal.’

Logan said he’d see what he could do. ‘It’s up to the inspector.’

‘Which one: Fatty or Wrinkly?’

‘Steel. Insch is on compassionate leave. His daughter—’

‘ Fuck — sorry, man, I forgot. Look, I’ll do what I can, but I’ve got to go interview some scientist at the Rowett this afternoon. “Hepatitis C in the food chain: how safe is your dinner?” kind of thing .’

Just what they needed, the papers stirring up more panic.

‘ Tell you what: the Howff, eight o’clock, buy us a pint and we’ll talk about that exclusive. ’

‘OK, we...’ Logan closed his eyes and swore quietly. ‘I can’t tonight, I’ve got a thing. Tomorrow?’