Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

Which was a lovely image.

‘But what if sex isn’t the important bit?’

Goulding smiled. ‘Sex is always the important bit. The Flesher is a classic necrophiliac.’

‘But you said he doesn’t have sex with the bodies, how—’

‘Many necrophiliacs are sexually aroused by the image of death. The Flesher kills to produce a dead body he can have absolute power over. The act of murder is a means to and end, it’s incidental for him. He doesn’t sexually abuse the corpse, because that’s not what fuels his fantasy. The Flesher practices necrophagy — the mutilation and eating of dead bodies. It’s quite a fascinating subcategory of necrophilia.’

‘But—’

DCS Bain glowered at him. ‘If you have any more questions, Sergeant, I suggest you take them up with Doctor Goulding after the briefing. Now: moving on.’

‘Sorry about that,’ said Faulds, when they were back in the history room, ‘didn’t think he’d be so...’

‘Boring?’ Steel sat back in Logan’s chair, hands wrapped around a coffee.

‘I was going to say, “thorough”, but “boring” works too.’

Logan tore the wrapper off his Tunnock’s tea cake. ‘How about “condescending”? Or “tosspot”?’

‘Anyway, I think it’s a reasonable profile. We should go through our list of possible suspects and see how they stack up.’

Which led to three hours of sodding about on the whiteboard.

Logan: ‘How about Catherine Davidson? Maybe they never found her remains, because she was the one doing the killing?’

Steel: ‘What a great suggestion! Let’s see how she fits the profile: oh, wait a minute, she’s no’ a man. Next!’

Faulds: ‘What about Jamie McLaughlin? His friend is screwed up so badly he ends up in prison, but Jamie ends up writing children’s books. He’s a creative guy. Lives alone. Did a lot of research into the first round of killings. What’s to say he’s not re-enacting the death of his parents over and over again?’

Logan: ‘How does he get into the abattoir to dump the remains?’

That was how they spent the rest of the morning — coming up with alternatives then picking them apart.

Finally, Faulds pushed his chair back, stretched, groaned and said, ‘Lunch?’

‘Wednesday’s haddock and chips in the canteen.’

‘Oh God, not more chips. You people never heard of salad?’

Steel bristled. ‘And what the hell’s wrong with chips?’

‘How about sushi then?’ Logan grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and slung it over his shoulder. ‘There’s a little place down the market that’s pretty good.’

‘It’s not deep-fried is it?’ Faulds stood. ‘Because... DI Insch — David — I was sorry to hear about your loss.’

The inspector was standing in the doorway, a huge, tent-like overcoat draped over his dark blue suit. ‘I need to borrow Sergeant McRae for a couple of hours if that’s OK, sir.’

‘Actually’ said Faulds, ‘we’re just on our way out for some sushi. Care to join us?’

‘I’d love to sir, but I’m on a tight schedule. I’ve got an arsonist being transferred to Barlinnie this afternoon — Sergeant McRae was part of the initial investigation, so I’d like him there when I talk to the little sod.’

‘I see...’ Faulds turned to Logan. ‘Well, I think we’ve done a good morning’s work here anyway, so if you want to accompany the Inspector, I’m sure we can cover for you.’

Logan looked from the Chief Constable to Insch and back again. Watching any hope of lunch disappearing into the sunset. ‘Of course, sir.’

Craiginches: the inspector hunched over the battered table in one of the prison’s interview rooms, methodically chewing his way through a family-sized bag of Liquorice Allsorts. Logan stood against the wall, listening to the noises of a prison at lunchtime echoing down the corridor outside, as they waited for someone to bring Ray Williams from the canteen.

‘You know,’ said Insch, ‘I used to really love being a policeman. Thought I was doing some good. And now look at us...’ He pulled a coconut wheel from the bag and turned it over in his thick fingers, then stuck it in his mouth. ‘Miriam wants a divorce. Going to emigrate to Canada and take the kids with her...’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘And all because I didn’t catch Wiseman soon enough.’

Ray Williams — when he finally turned up — was five foot ten of shifty looks and acne scars, who wouldn’t know the truth if it got up and gave him an enema. He sat on the other side of the interview table, fidgeting as Insch asked him about the night a disused factory unit in Dyce spontaneously combusted. The inspector was making a decent show of it, but Logan could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

Halfway through the interview, Insch checked his watch and excused himself, returning five minutes later with three polystyrene cups of something that might have been coffee in a former life. It wasn’t like the inspector to get the drinks in, but Logan wasn’t complaining.

Then Williams did some more lying. No, he had no idea how that can of petrol ended up with his prints all over it. Rags soaked in accelerant, Officer? Me? Must be thinking of someone else.

There was a knock on the interview room door and a prison officer stuck her head in to tell them their one o’clock appointment was waiting next door. Logan didn’t have a clue what she was on about, but Insch nodded, thanked her, and said someone would be through in about five minutes, then pointed at Williams. ‘You can take this thing back to the cells if you like, I’m sick of looking at his ugly face.’

‘Will do. OK, Sunshine, let’s go.

‘I am not ugly!’

She pulled Williams to his feet and shuffled him out of the door. ‘You ever look in a mirror?’

‘He’s not allowed to call me ugly, is he?’

‘Right,’ said Insch as the voices faded down the corridor, ‘let’s get this over with.’ He stood, and patted down the pockets of his huge overcoat. ‘We should... oh bugger. I’ve left the case file in the car.’ The inspector glanced at Logan. ‘Well: run along then. It’s on the back seat and there should be a packet of Jelly Tots in there as well.’

Logan picked himself off the wall and tried not to look too pissed-off at being used as an errand boy. ‘Yes, sir.’

The file was on the back seat, but there was no sign of any confectionary. Logan stuck the manila folder under his arm and wandered back into the prison. By the time he’d signed back in and made his way through to the small suite of interview rooms, his stomach was growling. Why couldn’t Insch have waited till after lunch?

He could hear two men shouting at each other, the sound muffled behind a closed door at the far end of the corridor. One of them yelled, ‘Bastard!’ then there was a loud crash — furniture smashing into a wall. ‘I’LL KILL YOU!’

Oh Christ, that was Insch.

Logan dropped the case file. It hit the ground and spilled its contents all over the corridor at his feet, only it wasn’t full of statements and reports, it was full of brochures from a funeral parlour: ‘SEEING YOUR CHILD SAFELY INTO THE NEXT WORLD.’

‘Oh you stupid...’

He ran for the interview room, grabbed the handle and twisted.

Locked.

The whole door shook as something slammed into it from the other side. Logan aimed a kick at the lock, shouting, ‘I NEED BACK-UP HERE NOW!’ The door didn’t give. He tried again and this time it exploded inwards.

The interview table had been ripped from the floor — the bolts that were meant to hold it down sheared off half way. It lay on its side surrounded by smashed audiovisual equipment. A huge pink fist rose behind the tabletop, then plunged down again.