Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

‘Then what?’

‘I don’t know... I was hammered. Got a bottle of vodka out the freezer and next thing I know it’s three am in the morning. I’m lying on the couch and Andrew’s shaking me. He’s crying and going on about how it wasn’t his fault — she was going to leave him...’

Wiseman looked up, then straight back down again. ‘She was lying at the bottom of the stairs, all twisted and... and her head was... She was already cold. There wasn’t anything I could do.’

He shrugged, big muscular shoulders rising and falling. ‘We panicked. She was dead. And... Andrew said we had to get rid of her. That if we called the police the business would be ruined. That no one would care if it was an accident or not. And... the butcher’s shop was right there.’

‘She was your sister!’

Wiseman started picking at the crack in his cast. ‘She was always... Andrew wasn’t just my brother-in-law, he was my best friend... We vacuum-packed the bits and buried them out in the middle of nowhere. Only...’ Shudder. ‘The bag with her insides got caught on the boot catch. Went everywhere. I... we had to scoop the bits out with our bare hands...’

‘What do you think?’ asked Logan, when Ken Wiseman was back in his cell.

‘He’s a silly bastard.’ Steel pulled out her cigarettes and stuck one in her mouth, flicking it from one side to the other with her tongue. ‘If he’d come clean when they arrested him, he’d’ve got what? Four, five years for illegally disposing of a body and not reporting a death? Would’ve been out in three.’ She sighed. ‘Silly, silly bastard.’

‘I meant — do you believe he only helped cut up the body? that she was already dead when he got there?’

Steel shrugged. ‘Don’t think it really matters anymore if he did it or not. The PF’ll do him for murder and he’ll get another sixteen years. It’ll be his word against McFarlane’s, and who’s a jury going to believe: an alki butcher, or good old Ken — Murdering Bastard — Wiseman? Anyway,’ she fidgeted with her lighter, not looking Logan in the eye, ‘I suppose now someone’s got to tell Insch.’

And Logan got a nasty feeling who that someone was going to be.

According to the custody assistant, Insch’s five-minute appearance in the Sheriff Court that morning had provoked a media circus and ended up with the inspector released on bail and into the ever-loving arms of Professional Standards. Which was a bit like being kicked in the testicles, smeared in marmite, then thrown to the sharks. He was still up there now.

Logan got himself a newspaper and a cup of tea, then settled into one of the uncomfortable chairs outside the Professional Standards office. Bracing himself for a long wait with a punch on the nose at the end of it.

‘You’re an utter bastard!’

Logan looked up from his Aberdeen Examiner — ‘GRIEVING DI ATTACKS MURDER SUSPECT’ — to see Wee Fat Alec glowering down at him, HDV camera in hand. ‘Morning Alec.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to arrest Wiseman? You know I’m supposed to—’

‘There wasn’t time, OK? I only found out at half four this morning.’

‘I thought we were a team!’

Sigh. ‘Look, Alec—’

The door through to Professional Standards burst open and DI Insch stormed out: face dark purple, little flecks of spittle around his mouth, eyes like angry pickled eggs. He barged past, making for the stairs.

Logan hurried after him. ‘Inspector?’

‘Not any more!’ Insch slammed through the stairwell doors, making them boom off the walls. ‘BASTARDS!’

‘About Ken Wiseman...’

‘How many years have I given this place?’ He took the stairs two at a time.

‘Sir, we... I arrested him this morning.’

Insch froze. Voice low and dangerous. ‘You did what?’

Alec finally caught up with them, his camera focused on the inspector’s furious face. Logan held a hand in front of the lens. ‘Switch that damn thing off—’

‘What the fuck did you do?’

‘Wiseman was involved in his sister’s death. That’s where the blood came from in 1990. There was an argument, maybe an accident and—’

Insch grabbed Logan by the lapels and thumped him back against the wall. ‘I told you! I wanted him out, not behind bloody bars!’

‘I couldn’t let you—’ BANG: back against the wall again. This time Insch let go, and marched off, Alec scurrying after him. BOOM: through the doors. Leaving Logan to slump, swear, then follow on behind.

The inspector bulldozed his way into reception, shoved past a pair of constables and out into the rain. The sky was battleship-grey above the rain-battered granite buildings, making it difficult to tell where the city stopped and the downpour began. Logan splashed after Insch and the cameraman, catching up to them just outside the District Court.

‘Wait, you need to—’

Insch spun, wrapped a huge fist into Logan’s jacket and threw him to the floor. ‘I TRUSTED YOU!’ The fat man loomed, bald head dripping, suit slowly turning funeral black as the rain soaked into it.

‘It was all Brooks’ fault. Wiseman isn’t the Flesher, never was.’

‘You knew I needed him outside—’

Logan sat up, feeling the cold puddle soaking through his trousers. ‘He’s not the Flesher. He went after Brooks because he set him up — he came after you, because you helped. If Brooks had done his bloody job none of this would have happened. Sticking Wiseman in Peterhead Prison made him what he is today.’ He groaned his way to his feet. ‘It was a self-fulfilling prophesy.’

Insch looked as if he was about to burst: face dark scarlet, lips pulled back like a snarling dog, thin breaths hissing in and out between his gritted teeth.

Alec peered round the side of his camera. ‘Inspector? Are you OK?’

‘You...’ Grimace. ‘You...’ One hand went to the middle of his chest, fingers splayed. Then curled into a fist. ‘You...’ Mouth open, no sound coming out as Insch’s legs gave way.

On his knees. One hand against the cold, wet concrete paving slab, the other massaging his chest.

And then he was face down, the rain bouncing off his suddenly pale head.

‘Oh fuck...’ Logan scrambled through the puddles and stuck two fingers to the side of Insch’s throat. ‘Fuck!’

‘Is he OK?’

‘Get the duty doctor — hurry!’ Logan pulled out his mobile phone and called for an ambulance.

Quarter past four and the traffic was starting to get heavy — the school-run clogging up the side streets with four-by-fours and badly parked Audi estates. Union Street was one long shuffling procession of scarlet brake lights — nose-to-tail all the way, with an unmarked CID pool car stuck in the middle. ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Rennie as they chugged to a halt, yet again. ‘Thought this would be quicker than Schoolhill, it’s a sodding nightmare when Robert Gordon’s lets out. Should’ve gone left to Mounthooly...’

Logan shrugged — it wasn’t as if they were in a hurry.

The rain hadn’t let up any — water hitting the pavement hard enough to bounce back to knee height, hiding the ground in a sheen of mist between the crawling traffic and the hurrying pedestrians.

Not every school kid had a parental taxi booked, some marched down the pavement with their schoolbags over their heads, others shared brightly coloured golf umbrellas. A million miles away from murders and heart attacks.

Logan watched a pack of Robert Gordon students stream into McDonalds, a sign in the window proclaiming, ‘NOW WITH 100 % IMPORTED BEEF!’

Rennie drummed an annoying tattoo on the steering wheel. ‘Going to buy a house and ask Laura to marry me.’ He turned and grinned. ‘How cool is that? Course, we won’t get married right away, I mean she’s got to finish her degree first. And kids can wait till we’re older. You know, like in our thirties, or something...’