Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

Insch picked the letters out of his name and put them back where they’d come from, then pushed past, making for the cells.

Logan opened the door to number five, asked Insch for his shoelaces, belt and tie, then got the inspector to empty his pockets into a plastic tray. Five pounds in change. A Swiss Army Knife. A wallet with two twenties, a driver’s licence, three credit cards, a Tesco club card, and three photographs: Brigit, Anna, and Sophie.

‘I’d...’ Insch cleared his throat. ‘The photos...’

Logan handed them over. ‘What photos? I don’t remember finding any photos.’

The inspector cupped them in his huge, bruised hand. Running a fat finger over Sophie’s picture. ‘Thank you.’

He didn’t even flinch when Logan closed and locked the door.

PC Jackie Watson was waiting in the corridor outside, looking anywhere but at Logan. ‘How is he?’

What was the point of lying? ‘Fucked up.’ He chalked Insch’s name on the board beside the door.

‘He...’ She tried again. ‘They’re going to throw the book at him.’

‘First offence, mitigating circumstances—’

‘Strathclyde finished its review. We found significant shortfalls in his running of the investigation. Insch saw Ken Wiseman’s name and decided he was guilty. He ignored procedure, didn’t followed up leads. If it wasn’t about Wiseman he didn’t want to know.’

Logan stared at her. ‘He’s a good officer.’

‘My DCI feels there’s a case for negligence.’ At least Jackie had the decency to look ashamed.

‘But he’s Insch!’

‘It doesn’t matter if he’s Nelson Bloody Mandela. He cocked up.’

‘So you’re going to screw him over?’

‘I’m not doing anything. Strathclyde were asked to review—’

‘He trusted you.’

She scowled back at him. ‘Don’t even try to make this about me. Insch was so obsessed with Wiseman—’

‘The bastard killed Sophie!’

‘That’s got nothing to do with it. I’m sorry, it was a horrible thing to happen, but he was obsessed way before that happened. It clouded his judgement.’

‘Like you were obsessed with Rob Macintyre?’

Jackie froze. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I covered for you. I lied for you.’

Pause. Two. Three. Four. ‘We agreed never to talk about that again. It didn’t happen.’

Logan took a step back. ‘No. Of course it didn’t. Nothing happened.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘You wanted to know why we split up? That’s why. That’s when it all went to shite: eighteen months ago. Not the baby, not the miscarriage, it was the night that never bloody happened.’

The sound of drunken singing echoed up from the women’s cells downstairs as Logan handed over a wax-paper cup of coffee from the canteen. ‘Busy tonight.’

Insch shrugged, took an experimental sip, and settled back on the blue plastic mattress. The rubbery coating creaked beneath him. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got anything sweet on you?’

Logan dug out the handful of Quality Street he’d liberated from a big tin in the CCTV room. ‘Chocolate might be a bit melty.’

Insch helped himself. The ice pack didn’t seem to have helped much — the knuckles on his right hand had swollen up like purple Brussels sprouts. He struggled with the green foil.

‘They say anything about how he is?’

‘Broken nose. Couple of teeth. Cracked cheekbone.’

Nod. ‘They going to let him out?’

‘Why did you have to—’

‘Are they going to let him out?’

Logan sighed. ‘Possibly. Probably. I don’t know. It’s not looking good anyway.’

Insch finally managed to fight his way into the noisette triangle. ‘You know he killed Brooks, don’t you?’

‘We’ve been onto the Federation: Big Gary thinks they might stump up the cash to get Hissing Sid to defend you. Maybe barter it down on account of diminished responsibility.’

‘Diminished responsibility...’ The inspector picked his way into a toffee coin. ‘I compromised the case and now they’ll have to let that murdering bastard out on bail.’ A predatory smile crept onto Insch’s face.

‘Sir? Are you OK?’

‘You gave me the idea. If he goes down for thirty years I can’t touch him. But if he’s free...’

‘Don’t tell me you did this on purpose!’

‘Ken Wiseman’s going to disappear.’

‘You can’t do that! You’re a police officer—’

‘Was. Was a police officer.’ He looked up at Logan, his eyes dark and empty. ‘The rules don’t apply any more. Ken Wiseman and I are going to spend some quality time together when he gets out.’

Logan backed towards the door. ‘No. No way, you’re not making me an accessory.’

‘You’re supposed to be my friend.’

‘You’re talking about abduction and murder!’

‘He killed Sophie. And he killed Brooks, and he killed all those people: hacked them up and—’

‘You can’t just appoint yourself judge, jury and executioner! There’s no evidence he—’

‘My wee girl’s lying in a fridge in the mortuary with her insides in plastic bags! How’s that for bloody evidence?’ Insch was on his feet now, his face a thunderous purple in the cell’s overhead lighting. ‘He’ll get out and start killing again. Bastards like Wiseman don’t just stop, you know that: it’ll never end. You want that on your conscience, Sergeant? Do you?’

‘No. But I won’t be an accessory to murder.’

Not again.

‘ Do you have any idea what time it is?’ said the woman on the other end of the phone. ‘Everyone’s locked down for the night — we’re not supposed to disrupt their routines. You’ll have to call back in the morning .’

Logan checked his watch. Nearly eleven o’clock. The history room was littered with the 1987 case file — search reports, post mortem reports, IB reports, court transcripts, statements, psychological profiles, plastic bags full of forensic evidence: blood samples, a knife from the McLaughlin’s kitchen, a hook from the derelict butcher’s shop where their remains were found...

‘I know it’s late, but I need to speak to him urgently.’ Logan stared at the evidence bag sitting in the middle of his desktop: a square of blood-soaked carpet cut from the boot of Ken Wiseman’s car. He’d read the analysis over and over again, trying to find something, anything that would keep the butcher in prison where Insch couldn’t get at him.

The sound went all muffled — probably a hand over the mouthpiece — and then she was back on the line again. ‘ Give me your number and we’ll call you back. ’

Fifteen minutes later, Logan’s mobile rang: HM Prison Peterhead doing as promised. There was some back and forth, then a familiar fake English accent said, ‘ Detective Sergeant McRae, to what do I owe —’

‘I want to know what Wiseman told you about the woman he killed.’

A pause. ‘ I don’t think it would be very ethical of me to —’

‘You said you talked about her. What did he say?’

‘ Do I get my own chef? ’

‘What do you think?’

‘ Then I don’t know anything. ’

‘Thought as much. But then you never did, did you? Pretending you’re so damn smart, when we all know you couldn’t count to eleven with both hands and your dick.’

‘ You don’t get to say that to me! You don’t! I spoke to my therapist and she says you’re not allowed to undermine my self-esteem, you’re —’

‘Fuck you and fuck your self-esteem, Robertson.’ Logan hung up. Trembling. Angry. Feeling sick. He grabbed the carpet and headed for the IB lab on the third floor. Calling Angus Robertson had been a stupid idea.