Stuart MacBride - Flesh House

Heather closed her eyes. ‘Do you think she’s going to keep shouting?’

‘Shhh... go to sleep.’

‘I don’t feel well...’

‘Sleep. It’ll all be OK soon, you’ll see. I promise. You just need to get some rest.’

And Heather drifted off to a lullaby of frightened sobs.

Doc Fraser was in the process of peeling off his green surgical scrubs as Logan walked into the mortuary’s sterile area. Ten to five and the post mortem was over — all the bits of body cleared away. Which made a nice change.

‘How did it go?’

The old pathologist shrugged, and tossed his waxy trousers into a plastic laundry hamper. Stripped down to his vest and Y-fronts — grey socks slipping down his ankles, a smattering of little red blisters visible on his pasty legs — he pointed at the row of refrigerated drawers. ‘You want to look?’

‘Not really.’ But Logan opened the drawer anyway. It was an old man: long grey beard, drink-swollen nose, skin pale and covered in scabs. All in once piece, except for the ugly raw scar left by the Y-inscision.

‘Not that one.’ Doc Fraser slid the body back into the fridge. ‘Filthy Freddie we used to call him: just another poor homeless bastard. It’s the same every year — soon as the weather starts to turn, they get high or drunk, go to sleep in a shop doorway and don’t wake up. That’s the trouble with care in the community — nobody does.’

The pathologist pulled out another drawer. ‘Marcus Young. It’s fascinating to see the remains so intact, thought we were going to be stuck with slabs of meat and bags of mince on this one.’ He had a brief scratch at the sides of his stomach. ‘Fascinating.’

‘Care to define “Fascinating”? Faulds wants an update.’

Doc Fraser sighed and slipped his socked feet back into his morgue clogs. ‘If he’d bothered turning up for the PM he wouldn’t need an update.’

‘High-powered lunch.’

‘Ah, how the other half live. I had a cheese and pickle sandwich with no bloody pickle in it.’ He slid the refrigerated drawer shut, then shuffled out of the cutting room, down the corridor and into the pathologists’ office. Logan followed him, making the tea while Doc Fraser climbed into a pair of grey trousers and a stripy shirt, then pulled a V-necked jumper over the top.

‘Two and a coo for me,’ said the pathologist, settling in behind his desk. ‘I’d offer you a garibaldi, but someone’s eaten them all.’ He picked up a pad of A4 and started scribbling on it. ‘Marcus and Vicky Young were almost certainly killed by the same knife: approximately eight inches long, extremely sharp. The husband was beaten unconscious, then his throat was cut vertically from here to here...’ He demonstrated by running a finger from just beneath his chin all the way down to his clavicle. ‘And then from side to side, severing pretty much every major vein and artery north of the heart. He’d have bled out in seconds, especially if he was upside down. Head was removed from the back — which is pretty unusual — in a single cut.’

‘Here you go,’ Logan plonked a mug of tea on the desk, ‘milk, two sugars.’

‘Ooh, lovely. Anyway, we’re looking at someone who’s had a lot of practice. It’s a remarkable piece of work, very skilled. The skinning alone...’ He took a sip of tea. ‘I’d say our victim probably went from being a living, breathing human being to lumps of meat in about thirty minutes. No hesitation marks around the joints, no false starts, just clean, economical cuts.’

‘What about the woman?’

‘Hmm? Oh, she’s a different kettle of fish. Same knife, but there’s no precision: her throat was slashed, not cut. This wasn’t the Flesher’s best work. Educated guess: our killer was disturbed.’

‘Disturbed?’ said a voice from the door. ‘That’s a bit of an understatement, isn’t it? Bug-shit crazy’s more like it.’ Jackie Watson stood on the threshold, the smile slipping from her face as she spotted Logan. ‘My guvnor wants an update on the post mortems.’

‘See?’ Doc Frazer stuck a biro in his tea and gave it a stir. ‘No one wants to attend the things any more, they just want the edited highlights. What happened to professional pride?’

Jackie looked long and hard at Logan. ‘If you like I can come back later.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ The pathologist pointed at the visitor chairs. ‘Sit your bum down and DS McRae will make you a nice cup of tea.’

And so began one of the most awkward half hours Logan had endured for a long time. At one point — while Doc Fraser was going on about blood patterns — Logan’s leg accidentally touched Jackie’s. She actually flinched.

Then, when it was finally over, and the pathologist had shooed them out of his office, they stood in the corridor, not looking at each other.

Logan: ‘I was—’

Jackie: ‘It’s not—’

Pause.

She coughed. ‘You first.’

‘I’ve been offered a DI’s post.’

‘Oh aye?’ Almost sounding impressed.

‘With Faulds in Birmingham.’

‘Birmingham.’

‘West Midlands Police.’

‘I know who looks after bloody Birmingham. Could you have run any farther away?’

‘Don’t be like that, I—’

‘Oh for God’s sake! You think I care where you go. Fine, bugger off to Birmingham. Abandon everyone.’

‘I’m not abandoning anyone!’

‘No? What about Insch?’ She counted the points on her fingers. ‘No wife, no kids, no job—’

‘I’m not the one stitching him up in my report! And I’m not the one who disappeared off to bloody Strathclyde for three months.’

‘You are such an arsehole!’

Doc Fraser stuck his head out into the corridor. ‘Will you two either shut up, or take it outside. This is a mortuary, not a playground...’ Grumbling as he shuffled back to his desk, ‘Making enough noise to wake the dead.’

‘I’M A POLICE OFFICER, THEy’lL BE LOOKING FOR ME!’

‘ Jesus ,’ said Duncan, settling down on the mattress, ‘ she doesn’t give up, does she? ’

‘I’M A POLICE OFFICER!’

‘ WE KNOW! SHUT THE HELL UP! ’ Duncan shook his head. ‘ What does she think the Flesher’s going to say, “Oops, terribly sorry, didn’t know you were a policewoman. Tell you what, I won’t make you into burgers after all. You’re free to go. Mum’s the word?” Pathetic .’

Heather looked at him. ‘Remind me again what I saw in you.’

‘ I make you laugh, I’m great in bed, and I do a mean boeuf bourguignon. Oh, and I got you drunk and knocked up .’

‘HELP!’

‘I can’t sleep.’

‘ Not surprised with that bloody racket going on .’

‘PLEASE!’ The new woman’s voice was beginning to go, cracking from all that shouting.

‘ She’s got to stop sooner or later .’

‘Duncan,’ Heather reached for him, holding his hand in hers, ‘Duncan I’ve been thinking... I want you to move on.’

‘ Don’t be silly, I— ’

‘I mean it. Be with Justin: he needs his father. Look after him.’

‘ And leave you alone with the Dark? ’

‘I’m not alone, I’ve got Kelley.’ She smiled at him. ‘It’s OK. I’m not mad anymore.’

Duncan looked down, the light from the hole in his head glowing like a million dying suns. ‘ I’m scared .’

‘I know, Sweetheart.’

‘ If you... you know, ever need me, for anything— ’

She silenced him with a kiss. And when she opened her eyes he was gone. Heather got the feeling he wouldn’t be back.