Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

‘Is this Detective Superintendent Danby? Hello? You left a message about the Flesher’s Newcastle victims?’

More buzzing, and then: ‘... know what I’m sayin ’?’ The DSI’s voice was like a Geordie foghorn.

‘Sorry, I can barely hear you.

‘ Look, I went through the files, right? There’s nothin’ in there about them bein’ in Weight Watchers. ’

DI Steel slouched into the room, but Logan got his hand up before she could open her mouth. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a copy of the investigation reports here. But did anybody ask the families? I mean, if there wasn’t any reason—’

‘ So what are you expectin’ me to do? Go round and ask the poor bastards’ relatives if they were tryin’ to lose weight? It was nearly twenty years ago: know what I mean? ’

‘Look, I wouldn’t ask, but we’ve got some victims here who were members and—’

‘ And you think this is how he finds them .’

‘Well—’

‘ I’ll stick a couple of woodentops on it, OK? Can’t say fairer than that, know what I mean? ’

‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.’

‘ You can thank us by catching the bastard .’

Steel waited for Logan to hang up, then plonked herself on the corner of his desk and peered at his notes. ‘Oh for God’s sake: you were supposed to chase up this Weight Watchers thing days ago. What the hell have you been doing?’

‘I did. That was Newcastle getting back to me. And how come you’re so bloody cheery this morning?’

She scowled at him. ‘Don’t start, I’m no’ in the mood. Where’s Defective Constable Rennie?’

‘Bain’s got him going through more of those INTERPOL reports.’

‘Yeah, like that’s going to help.’ She stuck her hands into her armpits and turned to face the death board, in all its bloodstained glory. ‘Susan proposed last night.’

‘Congratulations?’

‘Cos I don’t have enough to worry about. Last year it was all, “Let’s get a cat!” now it’s, “Let’s get married!” You know what’s next, don’t you? Bloody babies.’ She shuddered. ‘Creepy little bastards...’

The inspector started rummaging through the paperwork on Logan’s desk. ‘So come on then: how is he? Insch.’

Hunched up and crying at the kitchen table. Planning revenge. Depressed. Dangerous. Destructive. Drinking away his pain. Grieving... ‘He’s OK.’

Steel nodded. ‘Thought so. Hard as nails is our Inschy.’ She stopped at the plastic wallet containing Wiseman’s second — better typed — confession and skimmed through it. ‘This is appalling...’

‘Got a call from Craiginches — Ken Wiseman beat the living hell out of Richard Davidson last night. Thought I should go up, have a word. Maybe ask him about that,’ He pointed at the confession.

‘What, Wiseman won’t speak to Faulds, or Bain, or me, or that Liverpudlian psychologist tosspot, but police hero DS Logan McRae’ll get him to talk?’

‘I only meant—’

‘Ah, like I care.’ She dropped the confession back on Logan’s desk. ‘It’s the mighty DCS Bain’s investigation now. You can do whatever you like, I’m off for a fag.’ She stood. ‘I’d say take Alec with you, but he’s got his camera glued to His Holiness DCS Bain’s arse.’ Putting on a whiny voice for: ‘Oh Detective Chief Superintendent, you’re so big and clever!’

Probably just as well — Logan didn’t really want a BBC film crew there while he passed on Insch’s message.

‘But don’t forget we’ve got that bloody case peer-review with Strathclyde at half twelve.’

‘But I’m not—’

‘If I have to be there so do you. And you’re no’ wriggling out of it, so don’t even try. Half twelve: if you’re late I’m going to... do something nasty to you. Can’t be arsed thinking what at the moment, but it won’t be pleasant.’

Wiseman coughed, then spat whatever he’d brought up onto the scuffed linoleum floor. The interview room wasn’t exactly straight out of Better Homes And Prisons magazine, but the glob of glistening phlegm didn’t help. The butcher’s face was a mass of bruises, elastoplasts, little white butterfly stitches, and scabs.

Logan took another sip of what passed for coffee from the vending machine in reception. ‘Little birdy tells me you and Richard Davidson had a falling out.’

Wiseman shrugged. ‘Some people are born stupid.’

‘You put him in hospital: broken leg, cracked ribs, concussion—’

‘Little shit came at me, crying about his mummy.’

‘Not think you’re in enough trouble, Ken?’

‘What are they going to do: arrest me?’

Fair point.

‘I’ve got a message for you. From DI Insch.’

‘Let me guess: he’s going to kill me? Only way I’m getting out of Peterhead Prison’s in a bodybag?’ Wiseman snorted. ‘Heard it all before. His mate Brooks said the same thing. Look what happened to him.’

Silence.

‘He says he’s sorry.’

The ex-butcher frowned, sat back in his seat and pursed his lips, looked down at the handcuffs holding his left wrist to the plaster cast on his right, then up at the camera bolted to the wall. ‘What for?’

But there was no way Logan was going on record saying Insch assaulted a prisoner, even if it was seventeen years ago. ‘I want to talk to you about your confession.’

‘Thought that’s what we were talking about.’

Logan pulled the plastic envelope from his pocket and placed it on the desk. ‘“I did it. I did it and I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt her, but I did. There was a lot of blood—”’

‘I know what it says.’

‘“Afterwards I did not know what to do, so I disposed of the body by cutting it up—”’

Wiseman lurched forwards, banging his grubby fibreglass cast on the scarred tabletop. ‘I said I know what it fucking says!’

Logan smiled. He’d just been using the confession and Richard Davidson’s assault as an excuse to pass on Insch’s message, but somehow he’d managed to hit a raw nerve. The butcher was so blase about everything else... ‘Who was she?’

‘She wasn’t anyone. I made it up. It’s what they wanted to hear. They said they’d—’

‘Remember Angus Robertson? The Mastrick Monster?’

‘I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.’

Logan pointed at the interview room, the camera, the officer standing by the door. ‘Prison, remember: not a social club. Robertson said your cells were next to each other. That late at night you’d tell him about the woman you dismembered and the guy you beat to death in the showers.’

‘You going to take Roberson’s word for it? Lying little bastard killed fifteen women—’

‘Who was she?’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Your car boot was full of blood.’

‘And you’re full of shite.’

Another sip of horrible coffee. ‘Why did you run, Ken?’

‘You deaf? I said...’ It seemed to take him a moment to catch up with the change of subject. ‘What was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for that fat wanker to stitch me up again? Like last time?’

‘Someone’s still out there killing people.’

‘My heart bleeds.’

‘Who was she? The woman?’

‘Fuck. You.’

Logan tossed his plastic cup of plastic coffee in the bin, a little geyser of milky brown erupting as it hit the bottom. ‘Fine. Lie all you want, but I’m going to find out.’

Wiseman burst out laughing. ‘Oh, big scary policeman!’

‘Get him out of here.’

Logan made it back to FHQ just in time see a line of Grampian’s finest disappearing into the boardroom. DI Steel, loitered at the back, scowling at him. ‘What did I bloody tell you?’