Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

‘Mind? Me? Why would I mind?’ She grabbed Rennie by the collar. ‘Come on Boozy Boy, the fresh air will do you good.’

‘I meant to ask’ said Faulds as they drove out of Aberdeen on the A947, heading north, ‘How’s David doing?’

It took Logan a second to realize he was talking about Insch. ‘Not so good. They need to operate, but...’ He shrugged and put his foot down, overtaking a Renault Espace full of ugly children and assorted dogs. ‘I don’t know... it sort of feels like he’s given up.’

Faulds was quiet for a while, looking out of the car window as the countryside went by. ‘It’s actually quite pretty, in a never-ending-green-and-brown-slog-of-muddy-fields kind of way... Ooh, look: sheep. Just to break up the monotony.’ He smiled. ‘Do you like it here?’

‘Never really thought about it. Lived here most of my life, so... well, you know.’

‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do next?’

‘Go through the abattoir security tapes again?’

‘I meant in the slightly longer term. I’ve got a couple of openings coming up in Birmingham. Detective Inspectors — of course you’d be on secondment to start with, and you’d have to forget all this haggis-munching Criminal Justice Scotland Act nonsense: learn PACE, like a proper police officer. But I think you’d make a good addition to my team.’

Logan turned and stared at his passenger. ‘A DI in Birmingham ?’

‘Come on: you’re intuitive; determined; good attention to detail; you jump to conclusions, but you’re not afraid to listen to alternatives; open minded; loyal; and do you think you could keep your eyes on the road?’

‘I... yes... sorry.’ Logan gripped the steering wheel and pulled them back into their own lane.

‘I run a fast-track programme for real coppers, not just jumped-up overachievers with law degrees. Up here you could be a DS till you’re drawing your pension. With me, if you keep on the way you’re going, you could be looking at a Chief Inspector’s job in four or five years.’

Faulds left an expectant pause... and when Logan didn’t fill it, he said, ‘You’re not exactly biting my hand off here.’

‘Actually, sir, I was wondering what it’d be like: leaving everything behind. Starting again from scratch. Not knowing anybody.’

‘Your family’s here, aren’t they? You’re worried about missing them.’

‘Dear God no.’ Smile. ‘Trust me, that’s a bonus. My mum’s a nightmare.’

‘Yeah, my foster parents were the same. So, if it’s not your family...?’

A new life in Birmingham: he could leave all the guilt and bad memories behind. A clean slate.

‘Look,’ said Faulds, ‘sleep on it. I’m only going to be up here for another couple of days, but if you let me know tomorrow I can get the paperwork started. Four weeks’ time you could be Detective Inspector McRae of West Midlands Police.’

Logan had to admit he liked the sound of that.

Newmacher had started out as a tiny village, but as with most places within commuting distance of Aberdeen it had contracted a nasty dose of developer’s spread: housing estates breaking out like acne as more and more people squeezed into cheek-by-jowl brick-clad boxes.

Elizabeth Nichol had a 1970s bungalow in a little grey culde-sac. An unmarked car sat outside the house — the back seat cluttered with yellowing newspapers and empty wax-paper cups from Starbucks. Logan parked behind it.

‘Rule one,’ said Faulds, climbing out into the sunshine,’ if you’re going to be on my team I need you to be goal-orientated... Don’t look at me like that: I know it sounds wanky, but there’s a reason. We don’t just bumble about hoping some wonderful clue will fall into our lap; we go in with pre-defined goals.’ He pointed at Logan. ‘What are we trying to achieve here?’

‘See if Nichol can remember anything more about that night. Go over the physical description again.’ Logan stopped to think for a moment. ‘Find out if there’s a connection between the Youngs and the Flesher. Maybe there’s more to it than just the newspaper cuttings: he might have made contact.’

‘Good. Now lets go see if some wonderful clue will fall into our lap.’

Elizabeth Nichol’s house was a cathedral of kitsch. Pride of place went to her massive collection of snow globes from all over Europe: Poland, Moldova, Croatia, Lithuania, Slovakia, Croatia, and a lot of other places ending in ‘ia’ that Logan couldn’t pronounce. They filled a bank of floor-to-ceiling shelves that dominated the lounge.

Elizabeth herself was a small, nervous-looking woman who fidgeted constantly with her blouse: tugging at the collar, brushing off imaginary lint, picking at the buttons.

PC Munro sat in a floral armchair by the window, leaning forward every now and then to pat her on the arm and tell her it was all right, she was safe now.

Elizabeth made them a pot of tea, sat back down on the couch, fidgeted a bit more, stood, picked up a snow globe, looked out the window, ‘Would... would anyone like something to eat? It’s no trouble, really, I was going to have something myself. Just leftovers really...’ She put the snow globe back with the others. ‘Sorry... it’s stupid...’ The tears were starting.

PC Munro got up and put an arm around her shoulder. ‘It’s OK.’

‘I just wanted to feel useful.’ She sniffed and rubbed at her eyes. ‘I’m such an idiot .’

‘Nonsense, it’s a lovely offer,’ said Faulds. ‘I’ve got to go have lunch with some boring old fart from the council, but I’m sure DS McRae and PC Munro will join you.’

‘Er...’ Logan looked at Munro, then Faulds, and finally at Elizabeth Nichol. ‘Well... only if it’s not any bother.’

Elizabeth assured him it wasn’t and bustled off into the kitchen.

‘So,’ said Faulds when the muted roar of an extractor fan kicked in, ‘down to business: why isn’t she still in hospital?’

The FLO pulled out her notebook. ‘Discharged herself. She has a thing about doctors and nurses. Won’t take witness protection either. Those Muppets were here earlier, trying to bully her into it.’

‘Not acceptable. I’m not having the only surviving victim of the Flesher running around unguarded.’

‘She doesn’t want a guard; won’t even let us put a patrol car outside the house. She wants to pretend it never happened. As far as Elizabeth Nichol’s concerned, if you stick your head in the sand nothing can hurt you.’

‘Then you’ll have to stay.’

Munro was lost for words. ‘You... what? I...’

‘You’re her FLO aren’t you?’

‘But I’m supposed to be investigating her background, establishing victimology.’

‘And do you really think that’s more important than making sure she stays alive?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing’s going to happen, but if anything does you’ll be here to call for backup. We’ll get a couple of cars doing lowprofile surveillance — Nichol won’t even know about it — they’ll be thirty seconds away. You see anything suspicious, you call them in. No heroics.’

Munro tried again: ‘Look, sir, I’m supposed to be off at two, I’ve got—’

‘Have you finished the background report yet?’

‘I... not as such, but—’

‘Well, what have you done then?’

‘I did the preliminary report.’

Faulds didn’t look impressed. ‘You’ve been here all morning; where’s the family history, work record, timeline?’

‘I... it’s not easy, OK? She won’t settle down for more than two minutes at a stretch. She’s nervous. Probably still in shock.’

‘Look,’ said Faulds, ‘you’ve got an opportunity here to prove to everyone you’re not a screw-up—’