Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

‘Traffic was awful, OK?’

She grabbed his arm, speaking in a sharp, smoky whisper, ‘Listen up: you follow my lead in there — no volunteering information, no verbal diarrhoea, no pointing bloody fingers. We present a united front to these Weegie bastards. Understand?’

A voice from inside: ‘Inspector? We’re ready to start.’

‘Just a minute.’ And back to whispering again, ‘Everything was done by the book.’

‘Thought this was supposed to be a review to help us identify new ways to tackle the case.’

‘Oh don’t be so sodding naive. What do you think they’ll do to Insch if they think he cocked this one up? Give him a pat on his fat arse and a big bag of sweeties?’

That voice again: ‘Inspector?’

‘Remember — everything done by the book.’ She turned and pulled Logan into the boardroom. ‘Sorry, sir, DS McRae was having difficulty tying his shoelaces and I had to supervise.’

DCS Bain waved them towards a pair of empty seats. ‘When you’re quite ready.’

Logan settled in beside Steel, and... oh... fuck was the only word that sprung to mind. The Strathclyde contingent were at the head of the boardroom table. The DCI they’d sent up to run the case review sat in the middle — red hair, sharp suit, statuesque in a mid-forties kind of way; to her left was a bearded sergeant with a face full of acne scars; and on her right, taking notes, was PC Jackie Watson. Fuck, fuck, and thrice more: fuck.

‘Will you sit down? Making me feel sick, pacing about...’ Steel was onto her second stick of nicotine gum, chewing with her mouth open as Logan marched up and down the history room. Pretending to read a witness statement from January 1988.

‘Why did it have to be her?’

‘Why do you think? She’s got a foot in both camps, she knows all our dirty little secrets and— look either you sit your arse down or I’ll twat you one.’

‘Didn’t look at me the whole meeting, as if I was a bloody stranger.’

‘Hell hath no fury like a Ball-Breaker scorned.’ Steel puffed out her cheeks and tried to blow a bubble with her gum. No luck. ‘What time is it?’

‘Twenty to five.’

‘Time for one last cuppa before we hit the pub then. Get them in, eh?’

Logan started collecting the mounds of dirty mugs. ‘Can’t tonight, I’ve got a prior appointment.’

‘Oh aye? Hot date? Randy Rachael from the PF’s office sniffing around again, is she? Or have you got yourself an eighteen-year-old nymphomaniac like Rennie? Trying to make Watson jealous, are we?’

He wasn’t rising to that. ‘Faulds kept saying we should go see Trinity Hall, speak to someone in the Flesher’s Incorporation about the original investigation. I got an appointment with their Boxmaster.’

‘What is he, a superhero? Boxmaster and Carton Boy, saving the world from the evil forces of plastic packaging?’

‘Sort of a cross between deputy club president and accountant, I think.’

‘And this can’t wait till tomorrow?’

‘Only time the guy could make it. You want tea or coffee?’

‘Surprise me.’

When Logan got back from the canteen, Alec was slumped in one of the visitor chairs, moaning about DCS Bain. ‘You know where I spent all day? Bored off my tits filming meetings. Yesterday too.’

Logan handed the inspector’s coffee over.

‘Ooh, ta.’ Steel took a slurp. ‘That’s what you get for following Bain about, isn’t it? Should have stuck with the A-team, you disloyal bastard.’ She swept a hand through her startled-terrier hair. ‘We’re much prettier too.’

Alec just sagged deeper into his chair. ‘You guys aren’t up to anything exciting are you?’

The inspector nodded. ‘Fifteen minutes I’m off to the pub.’ She pointed at Logan. ‘Laughing Boy here’s going to Trinity Hall because he’s got no mates.’

And at that the cameraman perked up. ‘Cool! Can I come?’

Logan shrugged. ‘It—’

‘Hold on a minute...’ Steel put her coffee down and squinted at him. ‘You planning on solving anything while you’re there?’

‘Doubt it,’ he picked up the list of trade members interviewed in 1990 and stuck it under his arm, ‘half these guys were in their late fifties when Brooks spoke to them seventeen years ago. Most of them’ll be making sausages in that great butcher’s shop in the sky by now.’

‘Aye, well,’ Steel grabbed her coat. ‘I’m no’ taking any chances. If Alec’s going, so am I.’

The little old man who met them at the side door to Trinity Hall was all smiles, cardigan and wrinkled suit. ‘I’ve always wanted to help out in a murder enquiry,’ he said, ushering them in to a tiny stairwell. ‘I love The Bill, Frost, Midsomer Murders, CSI, Wire in the Blood , only that’s not really a police show, is it? More one of those psychological things. I met someone from Taggart once.’ He stopped with one hand on the institution-green double doors. ‘Now, would you like the tuppence ha’penny tour, or the full Trinity Hall experience?’

Logan pulled on a smile. ‘How about we just make it about the Fleshers, sir?’

‘Perfect! Oh and call me Ewan, “sir” makes me sound like an old man!’ He winked, laughed, coughed for a bit — ending in a thin, rattling wheeze — then opened the double doors, revealing a long, dim corridor lined with ancient, grimylooking paintings. Low-wattage spots cast tiny pools of light on the pictures and dark-blue carpet. ‘Trinity Hall has to be one of the best-kept secrets in Aberdeen: did you know we have a portrait of King William the Lion here? One of the oldest paintings in the place, been in the trades’ possession for centuries . Absolutely priceless, can’t even get it insured. We’ve got swords from the Battle of Harlaw in 1411. You see, the Seven Incorporated Trades have always been an integral part of the city. Did you know that for hundreds of years...’

Logan let him chunter on about the Weavers, Wrights and Coopers, Shoemakers, Hammermen, Tailors, Bakers, and Fleshers, as they wandered past darkened meeting rooms. Steel slouched along at the back, making popping noises with her nicotine gum.

Strange, oldfashioned paintings in ornate golden frames hung on one side of the corridor, their paint blackened by the passage of time. Each had a coat of arms on it, some decoration, and a wodge of text, nearly indecipherable in the low light. On the other side it was all portraits, sour-faced old men in various disapproving poses.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Steel, interrupting an involved anecdote about the first Flesh House being built in 1631 to stop people slaughtering animals in the streets, ‘who ordered the ugly blokes with a side order of extra ugly?’ She pointed at one of the portraits. ‘My cat’s arse is prettier than that.’

‘Ah... yes...’ The old man glanced at Alec’s camera. ‘Actually, that’s—’

‘Jesus! This one looks like a wart with a moustache!’

‘And, er... this,’ said call-me-Ewan, changing the subject, ‘is the Fleshers’ coat of arms.’

The painting was about the same size as Logan’s kitchen table. A red shield — with three knives, an axe, and one of the little Aberdeen castles on it — sat in the middle, a severed ram’s head on the left, a bull’s on the right. Beneath each head was a passage of flowery script, ancient varnish making the words crackle.

Steel squinted at the text: “When sacerdotal sacrifice and feasts, made altars smoak with blood of slaughtered beasts...”

The old man sighed. ‘You have to understand that the Fleshers date back to a time when Aberdeen was in her infancy — all the trades do. If you look in our books, you’ll see the same family names year after year, century after century. Generations of butchers all dedicated to supporting their trade and the community.’ He ticked the points off on his fingers: ‘Alms to the poor, funding public works, providing social care long before the NHS was even dreamt of. What’s happening now has nothing to do with the trade. We shouldn’t be stigmatized just because some... because someone hijacked the words from this painting.’