Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

‘What? I’m not a screw-up! Who’s saying I’m a screw-up?’

‘After that business with William Leith—’

‘That wasn’t my fault! How was I supposed to know he killed his wife? He said it was the Flesher: everyone—’

‘Some people would think an experienced FLO wouldn’t have made that kind of mistake.’

‘That is so ...’ She looked at Logan, but he had no intention of getting involved. ‘I’m doing my best.’

‘That’s what worries me.’ A friendly smile blossomed on Faulds’ face as Nichol returned from the kitchen with two heaped plates of mince and tatties.

She put one down in front of PC Munro, and the constable blanched. ‘Ah... actually, I’m a vegetarian, sorry... Mind you, half the city seems to have gone veggie these days, don’t they?’ She pulled on a smile. ‘But it looks lovely.’

‘Oh...’ Elizabeth picked up the plate again. ‘I’ve got some tins of tomato soup? I could—’

‘You sit yourself down,’ said Faulds, ‘PC Munro can help herself,’ he shot her a look, ‘can’t you?’

Brittle smile. ‘Of course, sir.’

Logan balanced the plate on his knee, dug a fork into his mashed potato and swirled it through the mince, coating it with thick brown gravy. Then stared at it.

‘It’s...’ Elizabeth blushed. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but it’s OK. I got the mince from Dundee. It’s not...’ she flapped a hand at a copy of the Aberdeen Examiner sitting on her coffee table, ‘local.’

Thank God for that.

Logan took a bite. ‘Mmm, this is excellent. Much better than the stuff we get in the canteen.’

She beamed with pride as Logan got stuck in.

‘This might sound daft...’ she said to Faulds, ‘but you seem familiar. Have we met before?’

The Chief Constable gave a little self-deprecating shrug. ‘I was in a TV show when I was younger.’

‘Oh... I see.’

‘Now, Elizabeth,’ said Faulds as she started eating, ‘I don’t want to put you off your lunch, but I need to ask you some questions about last night, OK? The man who came to the Youngs’ house, was he taller than me?’

‘I...’ She pointed through to the kitchen, and the buzzing drone of a microwave oven. ‘I told her everything I can remember.’

Faulds scooted forwards. ‘The human mind is a remarkable thing, Elizabeth, sometimes memories don’t bubble up to the surface till days, even weeks later. I’m willing to bet that together, you and I can get something on the boil.’ Flirty wink.

He teased details out of her over the next ten to fifteen minutes, changing the subject from the Flesher to something innocuous — like the snow globe from Krakow — and back again. Constantly shifting. Getting a little more information every time.

Logan gave a satisfied groan and pushed his empty plate away, glad he’d been the one lumbered with making Elizabeth Nichol feel useful.

‘Will you look at the time?’ said Faulds, peering theatrically at his watch. ‘Going to have to fly or I’ll be late.’ He stood, motioning for Logan to do the same. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Elizabeth. If you think of anything else, you give me a call, OK?’ He dug out a business card and scribbled something on the back, then handed it over. ‘Doesn’t matter how late or early it is.’

Outside, in the car, Faulds allowed himself a smug smile as Logan drove them back towards town. ‘You see, that’s what being goal-oriented gets you... What?’

‘Don’t you think you were a little hard on Munro?’

The older man nodded. ‘That’s the thing about leading a team: some people are motivated by the carrot, others by the stick. The trick is telling which is which. You’re a carrot, Munro’s a stick. Yes, she’ll think I’m an utter bastard, but what do you want to bet she’s in there right now giving it a hundred and twenty per cent, just to spite me?’

Which sort of made sense.

‘Right,’ said Faulds, ‘when we get back I need you to organize two unmarked cars watching the main road. Anyone turns into Nichol’s street, I want a PNC check on the number plate. At least one member of each team to be firearms trained.’

‘You think he’s going to come after her? Not exactly the Flesher’s type, is she? Too thin.’

‘True, but I’m not prepared to take that risk. Are you?’

PC Munro waited until the pool car disappeared before she started swearing. Faulds was such a patronising wanker. ‘“That’s what worries me.” Git.’

She marched through to the kitchen, determined to show that stuck-up Brummy arsehole she was perfectly capable of getting information out of a victim.

Elizabeth Nichol was up to her elbows in the sink, wearing a flowery pinny with ducks on it, washing up after lunch.

Munro grabbed a dishcloth. ‘Can I help dry?’

The woman nearly jumped out of her skin.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.’ Munro picked a plate from the draining board. ‘You never told me about your family. Any brothers or sisters?’

‘I... one of each: Jimmy and Kelley.’ She was going bright red. ‘We’re not close.’ She sank her hands back into the bubbles. ‘Kelley was always the sensitive one. Jimmy... well, he was always... difficult. I haven’t spoken to him since we were little. Doubt I’d even recognize him now.’

Finally they were getting somewhere. Munro moved onto Elizabeth’s parents and job — trying to do the same bouncing-back-and-forth-between-subjects trick that Faulds had pulled earlier — pushing a little harder than she normally would. No one could say she’d not been thorough this time.

Only it didn’t work: instead of providing a steady trickle of information, Elizabeth burst into tears and ran off, leaving a trail of soapsuds behind.

Munro stood alone in the kitchen, listening as Elizabeth scurried up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door. Then the sound of sobbing filtered down from above.

‘Good one, Yvonne. Very professional...’ She wandered into the lounge and slumped into an armchair. It was all that bastard Faulds’ fault: if he thought being a Family Liaison officer was such a piece of piss, he should try it sometime. Up to your ears in other people’s grief.

She spent a few minutes feeling sorry for herself, then switched on her Airwave handset and made some follow-up calls. Then she brewed a pot of tea and went upstairs to apologize.

After all, it wasn’t Elizabeth’s fault she’d been attacked by the Flesher, was it? Sometimes people were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Sometimes that was the difference between life and death.

‘Hello? Can anyone hear me? Hello? Please! I’m a police officer! Hello?’ The new voice was female, muffled and scared, coming from the other side of the cell wall. Heather hoped she wasn’t another screamer.

She rolled over onto her side, turning her back on the noise. ‘Kelley?’ Silence. ‘Kelley are you—’

‘They’ll be looking for me!’

A hand reached through the bars, cool against her cheek. ‘How are you feeling, Heather?’

‘Bit woozy, not quite plugged in...’

‘I’m a fucking police officer! Understand?’

‘Maybe it’s the medicine? You took a lot of those pills yesterday.’

‘HELLO?’

‘So tired...’

‘YOU HEAR ME? THEy’lL COME AFTER YOU! I’M A POLICE OFFICER!’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t take them any more?’

‘WHY WOn’t ANYONE ANSWER ME?’

Heather shuffled forwards, till she was lying beside the bars, resting her head on Kelley’s hand. ‘I don’t want him to hurt you.’

‘PLEASE!’ The shouting had turned to sobbing. ‘Please...’