Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

‘Tayside Police,’ said DCS Bain, ‘have identified the blood as Sandra Taylor’s; she was a type one diabetic. It looks like the attack happened some time on Sunday evening. They’ve emailed up all the details, make sure you read them!’

Two more victims and still no sodding clue.

There was a bit of discussion about whether this was another copycat or the Flesher hunting outside of Aberdeen, and then everyone was given their assignments and told to go catch the bastard.

Back in the history room, Logan sat at his desk, eating a breakfast muesli bar and wishing the Environmental Health hadn’t confiscated half the bacon in the city. There was nothing like a bacon buttie to set you up after a night in the pub. Except maybe a steak pie, and they were like hen’s teeth these days as well.

He pulled out the folder Colin Miller had given him in the Prince of Wales, and spread the contents across the desk — printouts and photocopies of articles from 1987 to 1990. A chunk were about the McLaughlins and their disappearance, but most were the missing person and food-poisoning stories he’d asked for. Which were about as much use as Rennie’s INTERPOL reports; it was impossible to tell what might be connected and what was just random stuff.

So Logan went back to the articles on Jamie McLaughlin and his missing parents. Why had they never found any sign of the third victim, Catherine Davidson? Directly after the attack, the papers were full of her photo, but as time went by she drifted into the background and the media concentrated on the tragedy of little Jamie McLaughlin. Eventually Catherine Davidson was simply forgotten.

Logan flicked through the sheets again. Colin had been thorough, there was even a piece from before the attack: an article dated the eighth of October 1987 about how Ian McLaughlin had joined the team at Lindsey Arrow and was going to help them become a driving force in the field of Liner Hangers and Well Completion. Whatever that meant. McLaughlin wasn’t exactly a pretty man, but then neither was the thin bloke with the Zapata moustache he was shaking hands with. Welcome to the oil industry.

Logan finished his tea and stuck all the printouts back in the folder. At least Ian McLaughlin had got to enjoy his fifteen minutes of fame, all the other Flesher victims got theirs post mortem. Well, except for one of the Newcastle women.

He looked at the death wall, trying to remember who it was, then went for a rummage in the old file boxes by the radiator, till he found a small stack of yellowed newspaper clippings. ‘BAINBRIDGe’s BRIDGE IS A WINNER’ was the headline, above a photo of Emily Bainbridge, grinning away like mad as she showed off her big oil painting of the Tyne Bridge. She’d come first: a cheque for one hundred pounds and an exhibition planned for the Autumn. She was dead three weeks later.

Three weeks...

He went back to Colin Miller’s printouts and pulled out the article on Ian McLaughlin again. Eighth of October 1987: a Thursday. Three and a bit weeks before Halloween and the McLaughlin’s death.

‘Oh you beauty...’ He fired up his computer and went onto the Aberdeen Examiner’s website, doing a search for all the current victims, looking for news stories published before their deaths. There weren’t any. So he tried the same thing with the P&J and Evening Express sites . Then sat back and swore. So much for that theory.

He stared at the screen... mind you, the papers didn’t post ev erything on-line, did they?

He picked up the phone and put it down again. After the Weight Watchers fiasco he didn’t want to stick his neck out without something more conclusive than two newspaper articles from twenty years ago. He tried the phone again, dialling Colin Miller’s mobile. Engaged, so he tried the Examiner’s News Desk instead.

There was some muffled conversation then the Glaswegian’s dulcet tones sounded in the background, ‘ Can you no’ see I’m on the bloody phone? ’

‘ It’s your copper boyfriend .’

‘ I’ll boyfriend your arse with my— No Mrs Wilson, I didn’t mean you... Aye, I agree, there’s no need for language like that, I’m sorry... Aye ...’

‘ You going to speak to him or not? ’

Silence.

‘ He’ll call you back .’

Steel dumped another stack of reports on Logan’s desk. ‘There you go — Tayside say if you want anything else give them a shout.’

Logan stared at the pile of SOC, IB, and door-to-door data. ‘I don’t even want this lot.’

‘Aye, well, we’ve all got out crosses to bear.’ She struck a pose. ‘You think it’s easy being this gorgeous?’

‘You said I was supposed to check up on those Polish police reports.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yes...’ Logan realized his mistake as soon he’d said it.

‘Perfect, then you’re free to do this now, aren’t you?’

‘But—’

‘Ah, ah, ah.’ She waggled a finger at him. ‘Remember the golden rule: you—’

Logan’s phone rang and he snatched at the excuse: ‘Hello?’

But it wasn’t Colin Miller, it was an annoyed Chief Constable with a Brummie accent: ‘ Where are you? I’ve been waiting here for ages .’

‘Waiting?’

Steel asked, ‘Who is it?’

‘Faulds.’ Back to the phone. ‘I don’t understand, sir, where—’

‘ Aberdeen airport. You were supposed to pick me up at eleven! ’

‘I was?’

‘DI Steel assured me ...’

Logan pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the inspector. ‘Thanks a heap.’

She shrugged. ‘Oops?’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

Forty minutes later Logan was heading out the road to Turriff, with Faulds in the passenger seat and his luggage in the boot. Logan kept sneaking glances at the Chief Constable’s face — it looked as if someone had given him a going over. The bruise on his forehead was starting to fade around the edges — dark purple tinged with greeny-yellow, a scab on his cheek, another bruise blending into his goatee. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days either.

‘Didn’t think we’d be seeing you back again so soon, sir.’

‘I can’t believe she didn’t pass on my message.’

‘She’s been a bit... preoccupied with the investigation.’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’ He went back to staring at the scenery.

‘If you don’t mind me asking...’ Logan coughed. ‘You look a bit... er...’ Try again. ‘I called when we IDed Kowalczyk on the abattoir’s CCTV, but they said you had a couple of personal days...?’

‘You know,’ said Faulds, watching the sun-flecked fields go by, ‘I heard about your solution to the Leith case. Very impressive.’

‘It was a team effort.’

‘Of course it was. But every good team has to have a leader, otherwise it’s just a mob. I was surprised to see DI Steel giving you so much of the credit.’

Logan shrugged. ‘She’s not as bad as everyone says.’ Which wasn’t strictly true, but Faulds didn’t need to know that.

The Chief Constable’s phone went off just past Fyvie and he disappeared into a convoluted conversation about staffing levels and Home Office statistics. All very boring stuff. So Logan gave up on eavesdropping and let his mind wander instead: what was he going to have for his tea? Would he ever see Jackie naked again? Could he fake diarrhoea to get out of going to his brother’s wedding? Whatever happened to Catherine Davidson?

According to the background reports she worked as a dinner lady at her son’s school. She liked horses — went riding in Hazlehead Park whenever she could — wanted to go to Spain for her holidays, talked about running a bed and breakfast... And no one had seen or heard from her since the night Ian and Sharon McLaughlin died.