Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

‘I SAID, PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!’

The Flesher dropped the knife. He was naked from the waist down, his trademarked butcher’s apron draped over an exercise bike in the corner, allowing his erection to swing free.

Faulds pointed his gun at the offending member, and the Flesher slapped both hands over it.

‘Other head.’

The muffled shouts from the bed got louder. The woman struggled against her bonds, screaming blue murder as Faulds forced the Flesher to his knees at gunpoint. Logan hurried over and untied the silk scarf gagging her.

‘Aaaaagh... You bastard!’

‘It’s OK, you’re safe! You’re safe!’

Faulds dragged the Flesher’s hands behind his back and slapped the cuffs on.

The woman writhed, yanking at the silk scarves tying her wrists and ankles to the bedposts. ‘You dirty bastard!’

Logan scanned her naked body, trying to figure out where all the bright-red blood was coming from... only it wasn’t blood.

‘He’s my husband!’

It was tomato sauce.

The press officer sat at Logan’s desk in the history room, with her forehead resting on the Formica and her arms wrapped over the top. ‘Oh dear Jesus...’

Faulds leant back against the other desk, still wearing his borrowed SAS ninja outfit. ‘When we left she was on the phone to one of those ambulance-chasing lawyers that advertise on the telly.’

The press officer hauled herself upright. ‘Why couldn’t it have been him? I really thought we’d finally come to the end of this bloody case, and now we’ve got a lawsuit to deal with.’

Logan finished off his post-incident report and stuck it in the ‘out’ tray. ‘I can’t believe she’ll go through with it. Can you imagine what the headlines are going to be like? “Police raid kinky serial killer sex games”, “Wannabe Flesher caught playing hide the sausage”. Not exactly going to get them a lot of sympathy, is it?’

The press officer stared at him. ‘They weren’t photogenic, were they?’

‘Not from where I was standing.’

‘That’s something, I suppose...’

‘If it helps,’ said Faulds, peeling off his bullet-proof vest, ‘I’ve got that criminal psychologist coming in tomorrow. We could get him to do a piece on why people who dress up as mass murderers for sexual kicks are a menace to the gene pool?’

‘Chief Constable!’ She was on her feet like a shot. ‘Are you suggesting Grampian Police should lower itself to character assassination just to avoid a lawsuit?’

‘Yes.’

She smiled. ‘Sounds good to me.’

‘What you still doing here?’ asked Rennie, plonking himself down on the edge of Logan’s desk. Half past eight and the station was gearing itself up for another quiet night of underage drinking and random acts of vandalism.

Logan nodded at the pile of paperwork sent up by Tayside Police. ‘Trying to catch up on those two sisters who got grabbed in Dundee.’

‘I went on a stag night in Dundee once. Ended up in this strip club and—’

‘What do you want?’

‘Right.’ Rennie clapped his hands together. ‘Tonight: Archies, pints. Laura and me are off to a costume party later, but we can stop by for a few drinkies on the way.’ He dropped his voice to a camp stage-whisper, ‘Laura’s got this kinky schoolgirl outfit. She put it on last night, and I tell you—’

‘Is this going to be one of those conversations where you tell me about your sex life and I fantasize about beating you to death with an office chair?’

‘OK, OK.’ The constable held his hands up in surrender. ‘Jealousy’s an ugly, ugly thing.’ Pause. ‘About you and Jackie: I was thinking—’

‘Don’t, OK?’

‘But you’re both mates, I mean I—’

‘Just... don’t.’ Logan pulled the crime scene photos from the pile and flicked through them.

‘I only wanted to—’

‘Seriously, you’ll live longer if you shut up right now.’

There was a brief, petulant silence. ‘You’re going to come to the pub though, yeah?’

‘Will Jackie be there?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’ll think about it.’

Rennie nodded. ‘You can bring your English overlord if you like?’

‘You’re kidding, right? He sodded off hours ago.’

‘Come on, while the cat’s away, the mice can sod off to the pub and get blootered.’ Rennie jumped to his feet. ‘Couple of pints, get you out of this shitehole, spend some time with the living for a change.’

The world twisted and throbbed around Heather’s head. In and out, in and out. Sounds came and went in the darkness: the pounding of her heart, her mother’s disembodied voice: ‘ You’re just feeling a little under the weather, Darling. You’ll be fine. You will. ’ A cold, papery hand on her forehead.

She’d been asleep, but now she was awake. Or still asleep, and dreaming she was awake. Feeling drunk and tired and sick. ‘I want to see my Justin...’

‘ I know, darling, I know. You’ll see him one day. When you die. But that’s not going to happen for a long, long time. The Flesher will look after you. You’ll see. The medicine will make you all better. ’

‘Kelley? Kelley?’

‘ Shhh... Kelley’s asleep, Darling. You should be too. You’ll feel much better in the morning. ’

The screaming outside had started again: Maureen bellowing at the top of her lungs that she was scared and wanted someone to let her out... Only the words were different. Panicked. ‘Please! I’ll do anything you want! Please!’ More screaming. ‘Please! I won’t tell anyone: PLEASE!’

Her mother kissed Heather on the forehead. One soft hand cradling her cheek.

‘Please! Please don’t—’ Crack . And then there was no more screaming.

The silence was beautiful and rich and dark. Like chocolate.

Heather didn’t even mind when the hacking started.

The bar was full of off-duty police officers and students, both sets here for the cheap beer. Logan sat at DI Steel’s normal table — in the corner beneath the television — polishing off his first pint of the night and enjoying every mouthful.

‘I mean, think about it,’ said Rennie, dressed for some unfathomable reason in a dog collar and priestly black, ‘how come whenever the Flesher strikes, our so-called Chief Constable Faulds is nowhere to be seen?’

Logan consigned his empty pint glass to the drinker’s graveyard that covered the table. ‘You’re not still on about this, are you?’

‘Where is he tonight, then?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Exactly!’ Rennie finished off his Stella and plonked it down with the others.

Logan shook his head. ‘I don’t know where Steel is either, but that doesn’t make her Jack the bloody Ripper.’ He pointed at the collection of empties. ‘Your round.’

The constable stood, pulled on an ecclesiastical expression, and marched off to the bar. Blessing random strangers on the way, leaving his girlfriend behind.

Rennie wasn’t kidding about Laura’s kinky schoolgirl outfit — she was dressed in an exact replica of the Albyn School uniform, only she had her shirt-tails tied beneath her breasts, hoiking them up to create a vertiginous cleavage and exposing her stomach at the same time. The skirt was so short there was a flash of white knickers every time she moved her stockinged legs. She’d even put her long, blonde hair in pigtails and painted freckles on her cheeks.

Logan had never really got the whole schoolgirl fantasy thing himself — it always seemed a bit paedophilic — but the other men at the table were falling over themselves to laugh at her jokes and ogle her breasts.

Logan barely heard his phone when it went off. ‘Hello?’ With all the laughing, jiggling and rampant testosterone, he couldn’t make out a word. ‘Hold on, I’ll have to go outside...’