Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

McInnis wiped a hand across his mouth, it came away covered in red. ‘He was here: the Flesher. I saw him!’

‘Which way did he go?’

‘I don’t bloody know, do I?’

The wailing sirens were getting louder — flashing blue lights bouncing along the road as a patrol car San Franciscoed over the speed humps, making for Vicky Young’s address. He could hear another one on the opposite side of the ravine. They could still catch the bastard.

McInnis swept his torch over the surrounding grass and bushes. Three tracks led away into the damp undergrowth. One went up the hill, back towards the patrol car, another headed off to the right — where Guthrie said he’d come from — and the third snaked away to the left.

McInnis staggered into a run, following the trail of flattened grass.

‘What about the body? We can’t just leave—’

‘She’s not getting any deader, is she?’

There was a stream at the bottom of the ravine, swollen by the torrential rain. Guthrie slithered to a halt at the water’s edge. He was on his Airwave handset again, telling Control where the body was, while McInnis tried to work out which way the bastard had gone.

Upstream, downstream... no sign of flattened grass on the other bank.

McInnis picked his way around a small pile of boulders, following the course of the stream. Heading away from the road.

‘Aye,’ Guthrie waved his torch back towards the patrol car, ‘down here, we’re in pursuit of—’

McInnis froze. ‘Will you shut up a minute?’

‘Look, I’m only trying to—’

‘Shhhh!’ There was a clump of brittle whin, six foot further up the slope, its seed husks rattling in the downpour. Not quite loud enough to hide the faint sound of sobbing coming from inside the bush.

Pulling out his pepper spray, McInnis inched forwards. ‘Police! Come out with your hands up and no one gets hurt.’

Guthrie crept round the other side. They made eye contact for a second and McInnis mouthed, ‘On three.’

One.

Two.

Three: Guthrie grabbed the nearest branch and yanked it back. The person hiding in there squealed and tried to scrabble away, but there was nowhere to go. It was a woman: mid to late forties; only partially dressed — pale skin glowing in the torchlight; no shoes; her trousers ripped and stained; her blouse torn, the buttons missing, the material soaked with bright red blood.

McInnis put the pepper spray away and held out his hand. ‘You’re going to be OK.’

She squirmed back against the branches, clutching a big leather handbag in front of her like a shield. Her bruised face was twisted and filthy. ‘Don’t touch me! Please don’t touch me! Please !’

‘It’s OK. We’re the police. You’re safe now.’

‘Please...’

McInnis straightened up and ran his torchlight across the rain-hammered night. There was no way they could leave her alone out here in the dark while they went after the Flesher.

‘Son of a rancid bitch.’

The bastard had got away.

‘Who stinks like a brewery?’ DI Steel, turned in her seat to sniff at Logan. ‘You bathe in beer this morning?’

The briefing room was full, everyone waiting for DCS Bain to turn up and hand out the morning assignments. Up till now the discussion had been exclusively Flesher-related: speculation and rumour leaving reality far behind as the tale of PC McInnis’s clash with Aberdeen’s most notorious serial killer was told and retold.

Logan pointed at the green-faced constable sitting next to him. ‘That’s Rennie you can smell. He went for the world record vodka-and-Red-Bull-get-pissed-quick-athon last night.’

‘Oh, aye?’ The inspector grinned. ‘And there was me thinking our wee boy looked like shite’cos he’d been up all night shagging Luscious Laura.’

Rennie went pale, and then bright red. ‘Not feeling too good.’

‘If you’re going to puke, do it in that direction: Laz’s suit needs a good clean, he won’t mind.’

‘No one’s being sick on anyone. We—’ Logan sat up straight. ‘Look out: Bain.’

The Detective Chief Superintendent had finally appeared — Faulds, the ACC, the Procurator Fiscal, and the DCI from Strathclyde following on behind. The room fell silent.

‘Right,’ said Bain, nodding to a constable who killed the lights, ‘Elizabeth Nichol.’ A face appeared on the screen behind him — middle aged, bleached blonde hair with grey-flecked roots beginning to show, her face a patchwork of bruises. ‘Alpha Nine Three discovered her less than two hundred yards from the body of Vicky Young.’

Click and the photo changed: night time, a woman in bloodstained underwear lying face down beneath a gorse bush, the skin tones bleached out by the photographer’s flash. ‘Her throat was cut through to the bone, she was nearly decapitated.’

Click and they were looking at a kitchen table covered with bits of human body. ‘Marcus Young.’ Click — a severed head, lying under the table.

Click — back to the battered, terrified face of Elizabeth Nichol. Bain picked up a stack of paper from the desk beside him and handed it to the nearest constable, telling him to take one and pass the rest on. ‘This is the preliminary victimology report on our survivor.’

Logan accepted the pile from a queasy-looking Rennie and handed it on to Steel. According to the cover sheet, the Family Liaison officer they’d assigned Elizabeth Nichol was the same one he’d taken to see Andrew McFarlane: PC Munro.

‘Read it later,’ said Bain. ‘The gist is that Nichol went to the Youngs’ house to borrow a cookery book. Mrs Young was out shopping, but her husband asked Nichol in to wait. She says the doorbell went fifteen minutes later and when Young went to answer the door he was forced back into the hall and beaten. Nichol panicked and ran.’

‘Not bloody surprising,’ muttered Steel.

If the Chief Superintendent heard her, he wasn’t letting on. ‘Next thing she knows, she’s wandering round the waste ground at the back of the houses in the rain. She comes across Vicky Young’s body and is accosted by a man fitting the Flesher’s description. They struggle, but Alpha Nine Three turns up and she manages to escape. PC McInnis found her hiding in a whin bush. Her clothes were torn and covered in blood.’

Click — a cutting from the Aberdeen Examiner appeared. ‘MARCUS MAKES MERRY’: a story about how Marcus Young had written a comedy play that was going to be performed on Radio Scotland. ‘This article was published three and a half weeks ago. Just like all the others.’ Bain pointed at the screen. ‘The MO fits, the butchery fits, the description fits, the victim selection fits.’

The DCS smiled into Alec’s television camera lens. ‘We have a living witness, backed up by an experienced police officer. We have a crime scene that was abandoned before the Flesher could finish. This represents a very real breakthrough in the investigation — we’re one step closer to catching this bastard.’

‘Aye,’ Steel said in a smoky whisper, ‘and I’m sure that’s a great fucking comfort to Marcus and Vicky Young’s families.’

Bain stared at her. ‘Did you have something to add, Inspector?’

‘Aye, I’d like to widen the door-to-door radius round the Youngs’ house — the bastard knows there’s police everywhere, he’s going to keep running till he’s nowhere near the scene. Might even have abandoned his vehicle.’

The DCS nodded. ‘Good point: get right on it.’

‘Come on, Laz,’ she stood, ‘you heard the man—’

‘Actually,’ said Faulds, ‘I was hoping to take DS McRae with me to interview our surviving victim.’ He smiled at the inspector. ‘Hope you don’t mind?’