Flesh House (10 page)

'Bloody hell,' said Steel, faking a swoon,'Fatty McFatfat's considering other suspects? Did a herd of pigs just fly by the station window?' She helped herself to the folder and riffled through the printouts, then tossed the lot back at him. 'Waste of sodding time, but I suppose it'll keep Chief Constable Knobjob happy.'

She turned and started back down the stairs again. 'Well, come on then - after you slap your pervy bastards on Insch, you and me are going on a little field trip.'

Logan followed her, trying to get his list back in some sort of order. 'Is it to the pub? Because if it isn't--'

'Have I ever steered you wrong?'

He didn't answer that.

Insch was in the main incident room, surrounded by a blizzard of paperwork. The phones were going non-stop, harassed support personnel answering them, taking details, and moving onto the next caller.

DI Steel skulked in the doorway while Logan snuck in, slipped the file into Insch's in-tray, and turned to leave.

A deep bass rumble caught him before he'd gone more than a couple of feet:'And where do you think you're going?'

Damn. 'My shift finished twenty minutes ago, sir.'

'Ah, I see,' Insch opened the folder and pulled out the list of names. 'You are remembering that there's a madman out there, aren't you, Sergeant?'

Oh for God's sake. 'Yes, sir. I am remembering. But this--'

'Good, then you can get onto INTERPOL - I want the search widened to include other countries. We're looking for anything that matches the MO between 1990 and 2006. And while you're at it--'

Steel settled herself on the edge of Insch's desk. 'Nice to see you're taking Faulds' suggestion to heart. All that fixation on Wiseman's no' healthy.'

The inspector scowled. 'Wiseman is still my chief suspect. I'm just--'

'Doing what you're told. Good for you.'

Insch was starting to go scarlet. 'This investigation--'

'Nice to see you taking guidance for a change. Doesn't make you any less of a man.' She stood. 'You'll no' mind if I borrow McRae here, will you?'

'You ...' Scarlet was turning to purple. 'Thought no'.' A saucy wink. 'When Faulds gets back we'll put in a good word for you.' She dragged Logan away, before Insch could do anything more than splutter.

13

DI Steel waited till they'd got all the way down the stairs before hooting with laughter. 'Did you see the look on his face? Thought he was going to have an aneurism.'

'But ...' Logan looked back over his shoulder. 'What did you have to go winding him up for? He's bad enough as it is.'

'Ah, relax.' She hauled one of the double doors open and made for reception. 'I like to see how fast I can get him to change colour. He's like a really angry chameleon. Besides ...' the inspector paused at the end of the corridor, peering through the glass at a crowd of people in the front lobby, all looking very, very upset. 'Second thoughts ...' She turned round and headed back towards the stairs. 'You got any money on the sweepie?'

'Tenner on him punching someone Saturday.'

She nodded. 'I've got Monday. It's no easy keeping him at just the right level of pissed-off-ishness. Too much and he snaps early - no dosh for Auntie Roberta. Too little and the bugger won't lamp anyone.'

'What if you're the one he thumps?'

Steel grinned. 'I'll fucking kill him.' She marched out onto the rear podium car park, sparking up a cigarette and blowing out a cloud of smoke that glowed in the security spotlights. 'Oh, Christ I needed that.' She shuddered happily and puffed her way over to an unmarked pool car. 'Right, we're off up the hospital.'

'You said we were going to the pub!'

'Oh come on, no' like you've got anything better to do is it? Go home and mope in an empty flat? Wah, wah, wah, my girlfriend's in Glasgow playing cops and robbers and I'm not getting any. Wah, wah, wah ...'

Silence.

She tapped ash from the end of her fag, little flecks of orange sparkling amongst the grey. 'It'll be good for you, get you out a bit, stop you developing wanker's elbow.' Still nothing. 'OK, OK. Insch'll no' admit it, but he's up to his ears in shite and sinking fast. He needs a hand. The ACC wants us to go up to A&E and interview that bloke whose wife disappeared yesterday. Take a bit of the pressure off.'

Logan kept his mouth shut.

'Buy you a pint after?'

As the inspector said, what else was he going to do?

They'd put Mr Leith in a semi-private room, between a man with lymphoma and a boy with two broken legs. According to the ward sister Leith was doing better than expected - given the shock and his injuries. They'd probably be letting him out in a couple of days. Steel gave the PC stationed outside the door permission to sod off to the canteen for a cuppa, then got Logan to pull the curtains round Leith's bed.

The man's head was nearly invisible beneath a thick layer of white bandages, a faint yellow stain leaking through where Wiseman had tried to open his skull with a cleaver.

Steel settled herself down on the visitor's chair, and asked Leith if he was awake. The man groaned, opened a pink eye and blinked. A morphine drip snaked into the back of one hand. A tremble, then he was still again.

'We need to ask you some questions about what happened yesterday, Mr Leith.'

'I ... I told the other one. You know ...' he frowned, trying to remember,'Big. Bald. Fat ...' The words slurred and misshapen by drugs.

'I know, but you need to tell me as well.'

'Out shopping ... Sainsbury's, something for tea ... came home ... he was waiting for us ...' It took a while, but eventually they got the whole story. How Valerie had unpacked the shopping from the car while he checked the answering machine. And then she was screaming and he ran into the kitchen and there was Wiseman, killing her ...

Leith stopped, hand fumbling for the button that would pump another dose of morphine into his veins as he told them how he'd tried to stop Wiseman, but the man was too strong. The flash of a meat cleaver, blinding light, darkness ... When he came round he was alone in the house, and the kitchen was covered in blood.

Steel checked with Logan, making sure he was getting all of this down. 'And did you hear him say anything?'

'He said ... he said we were smoak with blood ... we'd be sacrificed on the altar ...' Leith's thumb hammered the button again, but it didn't seem to do any good. 'Oh God, Val ... I should ... I should have fought harder! I never should have let him take her ...'

'Christ that was depressing.' Steel took a deep swig at her white wine, sat back and watched Logan work his way through a bag of Scampi Flavour Fries. Half past eight and the pub was starting to liven up, the murmur of conversation rising as more people drifted in out of the rain. 'What do you think Wiseman does with the bones?'

Logan shrugged. 'Buries them somewhere?'

'I tell you Susan wants to get married?'

'Congratulations.' Logan raised his glass. 'About time she made an honest woman of you.'

Steel squirmed in her seat. 'I'm in my sexual prime here, and Susan wants to tie me down.' She gazed morosely into her half-empty glass. 'And no' in the good way, either.'

'Yeah, well ...' That was an image Logan
really
didn't want. 'You want another one?'

By the time Logan got back from the bar, Detective Constable Rennie had turned up. He was sitting at the table, interrogating a pint of lager and a packet of cheese and onion, while Steel told a filthy joke about two farmers and a bisexual sheep.

No more talk of marriage.

Two pints later and they were bitching about Insch behind his back. Two more and Rennie was beginning to make giggling noises. By then Logan was ready to call it a night, but he had another pint anyway. He walked, a little unsteadily, back from the toilets to find the constable holding forth on the Wiseman case.

'I'm just saying, OK? I mean ... I mean,' Rennie was having difficulty staying upright on his stool,'if this was a book, right? If this was a book, or a film, or something ... then ...' He burped. 'Scuse me ... If this was a book, it'd be one of us, wouldn't it? The Flesher? He'd be ... he'd be the last person you'd expect!'

He nodded, had another drink, then waved a finger at them. 'Faulds! For example ... Chief Cons ... Consable Faulds - we've only got his word he's a Chief ... Consable, don't we? And where is he now? Vanished!'

Logan smiled. 'He's flying back to Birmingham. You took him to the airport, you idiot.'

'Ah! Ah ...' Rennie tapped the side of his nose. 'But we don't know that for sure, do we? Hmmm? He could've ... could've turned round soon as I was gone and scarpered. Could be out there right now: killing peoples.'

'You're pished.'

'Pished like a FOX!'

Steel banged her hand on the table, making all the empty glasses rattle. 'Karaoke!'

That was it - definitely time to go home.

A clunk, and Heather sat bolt upright on her stinky mattress, eyes straining in the dark. Heart hammering against her ribs. Maybe he'd come back? Maybe he'd come back with more food and water?

Her stomach growled again: a huge angry animal clawing its way through her innards. She'd never been so hungry in her life.

Another clunk, and a thin sliver of yellow light raced across the rusty metal floor. Heather scooted forwards on her hands and knees, peering through the bars.

The Butcher's shadow blocked out the light for a moment, then he stepped inside, walked over to the bars and placed a bottle of water and another tinfoil parcel where Heather could reach them.

She didn't even wait for him to back away this time, just grabbed the plastic bottle. The water was cool and sweet in her mouth. Like the tears of angels. She drank half of it in one go before ripping the foil package open. There was a paper plate inside, full of breaded escalopes, so hot she nearly burned her fingers.

God it was delicious. The best veal she'd ever tasted.

The Butcher stood and watched her eat. Nodding.

She chewed and swallowed. 'Can ... can I have more water? Please? I get so thirsty.'

There was a moment's silence, and then the Butcher turned his back and walked out, closing the door behind him. The darkness closed around her.

Heather started to cry. All she wanted was some water. She just wanted some bloody water! She screwed up her face, fists curled over her eyes, rocking back and forth. Just some fucking water ...

Worthless, stupid bitch can't even ask for water properly. Can't do anything properly. Can't die with her family, has to get herself trapped in the dark, all alone.

She pulled one of the fists from her face and punched herself in the stomach as hard as she could.

Stupid.

Punch.

Useless.

Punch.

BITCH!

CLUNK and the door opened again. Heather froze. The Butcher was back, with a multi-pack of bottled water. He put it on the floor, then tore it open and started passing the individual plastic bottles through the bars.

He came back.

'Thank you ...' She was crying again. He came back. 'My ... my name's Heather.' She reached out and took one of the bottles from him. The Butcher froze for a moment. Then snatched his hand back. 'Did I say something wrong? I'm sorry! I didn't mean to ...'

He backed up against the wall, staring silently down at her.

'I'm sorry! Please, don't leave me in the dark! Please! I--'

But he was gone, slamming the door. BOOOM.

Alone in the dark, Heather curled up in a little ball and screamed herself hoarse.

14

Hot water, soothing away a hangover brought on by too many beers and too many vodkas. Logan stood with his forehead against the cool tiles and let the shower wash over him. What the hell had he been thinking?'Summer Nights' from Grease was not a good song to duet with DI Steel, no matter how drunk you were. His arse was still tender from where she'd pinched it during the caterwauling finale.

Woman had fingers like bloody pliers--

The phone's shrill ring invaded the steamy peace of the bathroom. Logan shouted,'Go away!' at it, but it just kept going. Only stopping when the answering machine picked up.

He strained his ears, trying to tell who it was, but the ringing just started up again. 'Oh, for God's sake ...'

Logan wrapped himself in a towel and dripped his way through to the lounge, snatching the phone out of its cradle.

'What?'

DI Insch's voice blared in his ear:'You were supposed to be at work hours ago!'

'It's my day off. So's tomorrow. I've been on since--'

'Listen up and listen good, Sergeant: you want a nine to five, Monday to Friday job? Go work in a bloody office. You're supposed to be a police officer!'

Logan closed his eyes and tried counting to ten.

'Hello? You still there?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good.
We've had a call from an old friend of yours: Angus Robertson.'

Logan froze. 'What does that little shite want?'

'Says he's got information about Wiseman. Said he'll only talk to you.'

'Tough: I don't want to talk to him. Little bastard can rot in his--'

'Get your arse up to the station, we're going to Peterhead whether you like it or not.'

The inspector's Range Rover had developed an overwhelming reek of dog. Lucy, the spaniel responsible, lay behind the grille that separated the boot from the rear seat on a tatty tartan blanket, snoring and twitching as Insch drove them up the A90 to Peterhead. Logan in the passenger seat, Alec in the back, fiddling with his camera.

'So ...' Alec plugged in a couple of radio mikes. 'I know this is just meant to be you and him, one-to-one, but think Robertson will let me film it?'

Logan scowled at the scenery drifting past. 'It'll all just be bollocks anyway. He's a nasty, ignorant, murdering wee shite; he doesn't know anything. This is a complete waste of time.'

Alec scooted forwards, till his head was poking between the driver and passenger seat. 'But he's the Mastrick Monster! This'll make a brilliant scene for the documentary. Fancy doing a quick piece to camera when we get there? Go over the background: why he'll only speak to you?'

'No.'

'Oh, come on,
please?
' The cameraman turned to Insch for backup. 'Inspector, you understand dramatic narrative, we--'

Insch just growled at him:'Sit back and put your bloody seatbelt on. I won't tell you again!'

'And how come,' said Logan, poking the dashboard,'Robertson
suddenly
has information about Wiseman? Why should we believe anything he says?'

'Because they were on the same wing for nearly a year.' The inspector was starting to go red, but Logan didn't care.

'Doesn't mean they were friends!''You don't get it, do you?' said Insch, biting off the words, 'You're so wrapped up in your petty little world--'

'The fucker stabbed me twenty-three times: I
died
on the operating table!' Logan wrapped his arms around himself and glowered out the window. 'Sorry if you think I'm being
irrational
, but that sort of thing kind of puts a shitter on your day.'

An uncomfortable silence settled into the car. Outside, the green-brown landscape roared by, punctuated with little floral tributes, marking where people had died in road accidents. Insch cleared his throat. 'Look, I understand this is going to be hard for you, but it happened six years ago: Wiseman's out there killing people
right now
. And we need all the help we can get.'

Peterhead Prison wasn't the prettiest of buildings: an oldfashioned Victorian lump of concrete and barbed wire, home to three hundred and twenty of Scotland's worst sex offenders and other vulnerable prisoners. People who'd get the shit beaten out of them in any other prison. People like Angus Robertson.

Logan paced back and forth in the little office with 'T
HERAPY
R
OOM
- 3' on the door, trying not to hyperventilate. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. Christ it was hot in here, even with the window open.

He turned and looked out through the bars. From here you could see over the high outer wall with its festive topping of razor wire, across the south breakwater of Peterhead harbour, and past that to the North Sea. Dark grey water flecked with white. Sky the colour of ancient concrete. And between the two, seagulls wheeled in lazy circles, waiting for the fishing boats that were becoming rarer every year.

What the hell was taking so long?

His hands were damp again.

Logan nearly jumped out of his skin when the door opened. It was a prison officer with a plastic cup of water. She handed it over. 'Right,' she said,'I want you to know we don't approve of this. We've worked too long and too hard to get Angus where he is. But I'm agreeing to this meeting because there's a clear and immediate danger to human life. I need you to understand that if you reinforce his negative behavioural patterns, it could put him back years.' She paused, giving Logan a chance to say something, but he didn't. 'I'll bring him up from the cell block.' She paused, halfway to the door. 'We don't like to handcuff them when they're in the treatment rooms. Are you going to be OK with that?'

'Not really. No ...' Logan took a sip of water. 'We ... didn't get on too well last time we met.'

'I know. He's still got the scars.'

Logan tried for a smile, but it wouldn't stick. 'Snap.'

She looked him up and down, her voice softening. 'He really has made a lot of changes. The STOP programme--'

'I just want to get this over with. OK?'

She shrugged. 'You're the boss.'

No he wasn't - because if he were the boss he wouldn't bloody be here.

Angus Robertson really had changed. The scruffy man in the boiler suit was gone, replaced by an HM Prison mannequin: blue and white striped shirt buttoned up to the chin, a sharp crease in his jeans, black shoes polished till they shone. He'd even slicked back his thinning brown hair.

Robertson sat perfectly still in one of the room's two soft armchairs, hands folded in his lap. Face expressionless. And when he spoke it was as if something dead had slithered into the room. 'You're looking well.'

Logan just stared at him.

'Why thank you,' Robertson gave a fleeting smile. 'I've been working out.'

'I didn't say anything.'

'Please, I've rehearsed this conversation so many, many times. It would be a shame to waste--'

'What's with the fake English accent?'

Robertson smiled. 'Accent?'

'Fine, I don't care.' Logan's palms were sweating again; the man made his skin crawl. 'You said you had information--'

'Ah yes, Kenneth Wiseman. He was in the cell next door. Lovely man. We had many interesting chats about ...' Robertson made a tiny hand gesture. 'Life and death.'

'Where is he?'

'Now, now, now, let's not get ahead of ourselves. What are you going to give me in return?'

'Do you, or don't you know where Ken Wiseman is?'

'Quid pro quo, Sergeant McRae: I want my own meals. Prepared by someone who understands the needs of a gourmet like me, not the boiled crap they serve--'

'You're kidding, right? Gourmet? The closest you ever got to being a gourmet was saying "aye tae a pie". You're not Hannibal Bloody Lecter: you're a nasty wee shite from Milltimber.'

'I want my own chef!'

'Get fucked.' Logan stood. 'We're done here.' He was beginning to tremble - adrenaline priming the fight-or-flight mechanism. And right now 'fight' was winning - grab the little bastard by the throat and batter his head off the floor till it burst.

'But ... but
I made
you! I ... if it wasn't for me--'

'You're pathetic. A slimy piece of shite who had to kill women before you fucked them, because nothing living would have anything to do with you!'

Robertson clamped his hands over his ears. 'I didn't--'

'WHERE'S WISEMAN?'

'Stop shouting at me! Stop shouting!' The fake English accent was beginning to slip, exposing the Aberdonian underneath. 'I'm no' a bad boy! I'm no'!'

'WHERE'S FUCKING WISEMAN?'

'He told me stuff ... about the woman he killed ... and the man in the showers ... at night, when everyone else was asleep ...'

Logan took a deep, shivering breath. 'I'm not going to ask you again.'

Insch put his foot down, the windswept countryside flying past in shades of grey and miserable. Gusts of wind raked the trees and hedges outside the Range Rover's windows, making the car shudder as they flew down the A90 to Aberdeen.

'God that was bloody brilliant!' Alec, fiddled with his camera and grinned. 'It's going to look great when it goes out.'

'Oh Jesus ...' Logan turned round in his seat. 'You can't put that on the TV!'

Alec grinned. 'They're going to send me a copy of the treatment room's CCTV tape.'

'But--'

'And Angus Robertson signed a release.'

No surprise there: the little bastard would be desperate for another fifteen minutes of fame.

'I'll look like an arse!'

Insch nodded. 'Yup.'

'Nah,' Alec flipped the camera's tiny viewing screen round so Logan could see it. It was a shot of the CCTV monitor in the security room - where everyone else had gone to watch the interview. 'We'll slap in a bit of narration about how you're playing "bad cop" to get round his defences ... maybe get a psychologist in ...' On the screen a little Logan exploded out of his seat and started shouting, his voice tinny through the camera's built-in speaker. Then a prison officer barged in, claiming that this was setting Robertson's rehabilitation back years. Alec shrugged. 'You'll be fine.'

Logan groaned and went back to scowling at the scenery.

Heather lay back on the smelly mattress and stared up into the blackness. Dark. No sound. No light. No idea of time. Beginning to wonder if she was already dead - if she'd passed away and just not noticed.

She couldn't even cry any more. She'd lain for what felt like years, bawling her eyes out, sobbing for her husband and child, until there was simply nothing left. Not even--

'Are you OK?'

Heather screamed, scurrying back into the corner, flailing her arms around, trying to ward off the voice.

'Jesus, Heather, you look like a complete spaz. Calm down for fuck's sake.'

'D ... Duncan?' She peered into the dark. 'But ... you can't be ...'

One minute there was no one there, and the next: Duncan, wearing that goofy smile that always appeared when he thought he'd just done something awfully clever. Like coming back from the dead.
'Ta-da!'
There was a hole in the top of his head. It glowed bright red, glittering in his hair, making it shine like a scarlet halo.

Heather closed her eyes and punched herself in the stomach again.

'Come on, Honey, stop it.'

Teeth gritted. Another punch, torturing the already bruised skin.

'Heather! Stop it! Stop!'
Duncan grabbed her hand. 'Stop.'

'Let go of me - you're dead!'

'Shhhh ... it's OK, it's OK.'

'No it isn't! I--'

'Justin misses his mummy.'

'He ...' Tears ran down her cheeks. 'He's alive? Oh thank--'

'I'm sorry, Honey: everybody's dead, but you.'

'Noooooo ...' She went limp and let her dead husband rock her in his arms.

'Shhhh ...'
He kissed the top of her head and she found her tears again. 'You've been through a lot, and
you've not been taking your pills, have you?'

Heather could barely get the words out:'Duncan ... I'm ... so sorry ...' She cried and cried and cried. Then the sobbing trailed off and she just lay there, being held.

'There you go, feel better?' He smiled down at her wet face. 'I meant what I said: everything's OK, really.'

She almost laughed. 'I'm trapped in a little metal box, everyone I love is dead, and I'm talking to a ghost. How is that OK?'