Flesh House (18 page)

Four Days Later

26

The Identification Bureau lab looked like a school science department on the caretaker's day off. Every available surface was covered in plastic evidence bags and reports. There were more bags in the cardboard boxes stacked by the door, another mound of samples piled up by the freezer.

A little radio sat on top of the superglue cabinet, filling the air with dreadful syrupy music.

Four days since DI Insch had tried to rip Wiseman's head off in Interview Room Number Two, and the investigation was going nowhere.

Logan picked a report from the top of the pile and flicked through the results. 'Nothing at all?'

The lab technician peeled off her facemask and scowled at him - there was a perfect outline of clean skin where the mask had been, but the rest of her face was stained with a thin layer of black fingerprint powder. 'You not think I would have said if there was? That I might
actually
be professional enough to recognize a bloody clue when I found one and tell someone?'

'Who rattled your cage this morning?'

'Don't start.' She pulled an empty whisky bottle from its evidence bag and slammed it down on the vacuum table. 'There's no one else in today: I've got a whole department's work to do, hundreds of sodding samples, and now they want us to DNA-type everyone who's been reported missing for the last four months! You have any idea how much paperwork that is?' She stood and fumed silently for a moment. 'And the bloody stereo's stuck on Radio Two: I've spent the last hour and a half listening to show tunes! Sunday my arse.'

'Feel better now?'

'How come it's never like this on CSI? Never see them drowning in paperwork, forced to listen to Elaine Paige.' She clicked on the power and the vacuum table whined into life, sucking away the excess aluminium powder as she dusted the bottle.

Logan flipped to the last page of the report. 'So ... not even fingerprints?'

'Which part of "nothing" are you having difficulty with? Believe it or not, some criminals actually wear gloves these days.'

Something from
Kiss Me Kate
warbled to a close and the news came on:'The headlines at four thirty:
Oil-workers strike in cannibal-meat protests; Government minister apologizes for affair; Interest rates set to rise; and memorial service for Inspector's daughter
--'

'We did get some fibres, but unless you get me something to match them to, they're bugger all use.'

'--
four-year-old Sophie Insch was killed on Tuesday during a high-speed pursuit by Grampian Police to capture Kenneth Wiseman. Mourners gathered today at Oldmeldrum Episcopal Church to pay tribute
--'

It had been one of the worst mornings of Logan's life: picking Insch up from his house, driving him to the church, sitting with him and his two remaining daughters while the vicar read the eulogy. Holding the girls' hands as their father cried. Their mother didn't even make it out of hospital for the service. The wake at the Redgarth afterwards ... then back to the house for tea and sympathy. And all the time Logan
knew
it was his fault.

He'd been the one driving the pursuit car, he'd forced Wiseman to crash.

' ... scumbags, eh?'

'Mmm? Oh ... probably.' No idea what she was talking about.

'I mean, look at all this!' She pointed at the mound of bagged hairbrushes and clothing. 'I have to scrape DNA samples off dirty underwear! How screwed up is that? And you know how many bits of meat we've actually managed to ID? One. And before you get all excited, don't. The chunk they found in the Leiths' freezer belonged to Valerie Leith. Bastard butchered her and left a slab of her thigh behind.'

'--
strike action on the North Sea oil platforms supplied with meat by Thompson's Cash and Carry in Aberdeen. The workers are demanding immediate medical evacuation back to the mainland for tests to be carried out. One of the catering companies involved, spoke to our reporter
--'

'And how the hell am I supposed to DNA-test every missing person? You have any idea how many get reported in Grampian every year? Fucking
thousands
!'

Logan let her rant for a bit, while he listened to the rest of the news. Then the radio announced it was time for
Pick of the Pops
. The IB technician said,'No you bloody don't!' grabbed it off the top of the superglue cabinet and stuffed it in the freezer, slamming the door on the jangly theme tune. 'Elaine Paige is bad enough; I am
not
listening to Dale Sodding Winton!'

'How's he taking it?' Faulds stuck a mug of milky coffee down in front of Logan. The canteen was quiet, just the two of them and the old man behind the counter.

'Not great. His house's been trashed, his dog's been put to sleep, he's got two traumatized kids, his wife's in hospital with a breakdown, and his daughter's dead ...' Logan stared into the depths of his mug. 'Usually he just gets angry about stuff; don't think I've ever seen him depressed before.'

'There's been an accident with that interview tape, by the way. Seems the whole ... ahem, "episode", was accidentally recorded over. Audio
and
video.'

Logan nodded. At least there'd be no evidence that Insch tried to assault a prisoner in custody. 'Thanks.'

'Bloody interview's going nowhere anyway. Wiseman won't even cop to the things we've got him red-handed for - it's like talking to a brick wall.' Faulds emptied a couple of sugar packets into his latte. 'I'm going to get the psychologist to talk to him. See if he can loosen the mortar a bit ...'

'Always works on the telly.'

'I really wanted a confession before I had to go home, but there's no chance of that now.' He took a sip of his coffee, then added another sugar. 'Got to get back to Birmingham tonight. Curse of the Chief Constable: they like to think they can manage on their own, but the whole place turns into
Lord of the Flies
if I'm away for more than a week.'

'You going to come back up for the trial?'

'Probably: couple of days, here and there. Depends what I've got on. But I'll make the sentencing. Hell or high water I'm going to see that bastard put away for the rest of his life.'

'Wait, wait, this is the best bit ...' Rennie pointed the remote control at the little telly in the CID office, cranking the sound up as Logan wandered in. There was a small knot of plainclothes officers listening to Chief Constable Faulds' voice booming out of the speakers, sounding terrified:'
TRACTOR! TRACTOR! TRACTOR!
' The picture lurched as the car braked hard and screeched back in behind a canary-yellow digger.

'Don't you lot have any work to do?'

Rennie grinned at him. 'Just doing a little teambuilding. Very impressive driving, by the way. I especially liked the way you tried to go through the hedge.'

'
Who the hell taught you to drive?
' Everyone laughed.

But Logan really wasn't in the mood. 'You do know a little girl died during that, don't you, Constable? Insch's daughter. The one we had a bloody service for this morning!'

The laughter stopped.'

She's lying there in the boot, bound and gagged, on her way to be sold to some paedophile. You still think it's fucking funny?' Logan snatched the remote out of Rennie's hand and hit the eject button. Everyone suddenly seemed to remember they had something important to do. Elsewhere.

Only Rennie remained, shuffling his feet. 'Sorry sir. I wasn't meaning to ... you know.' He pointed at the TV. 'Alec made it up. It's kind of a blooper reel. Now that we've caught Wiseman. You know: highlights of the case.' He coughed. 'They've even got that bit in it where DI McFarlane trips over and ... breaks his wrist ... it ... they put a funny soundtrack on it ...' He pulled the DVD from the machine and handed it to Logan.

'Sorry, sir.'

'Thought you were supposed to be dealing with those INTERPOL files.'

'DI Steel said it was a waste of time and I had to try identifying the other victims instead. So I'm trolling through the misper lists looking for fatties ... I mean larger men and women who fit the victim profile. Then getting stuff to DNA-sample. See if they match any of the chunks we found.'

'Yeah, I heard.' Logan turned the disk over - Alec had even made a cheesy label for the thing:'
GRANITE CITY
999:
LICENSED TO LAUGH
'

'Trouble is, half the buggers aren't even missing any more. Three thousand misper reports last year, and does anyone bother to let us know when their nearest and dearest turn up safe and sound? Do they hell. What are we, psychic?'

'Poor old Simon Rennie. Boo-hoo.'

'Yeah, well ... Word is we're going get a case review.

' Logan groaned. 'When?'

'No idea. Soon.'

'Who?'

'Strathclyde.'

'I see ...' Strathclyde Police - where Jackie was. He'd not heard from her since she'd trashed the flat. He should take a leaf out of those home security lectures they kept having to give and get the locks changed, just in case she decided to come back and 'redecorate' again.

'--tonight?'

He looked up to find Rennie staring at him. 'What?'

'You know, in the old days at least you used to pretend you were listening. Do - you - want - to - go - out - tonight? Bowling and beer. I can ask Laura to bring along a friend if you like? You know, now that you and Jackie ... well, you know.'

'Thanks,' Logan dropped the
Granite City
999 DVD in the bin.

'But I really don't feel--'

Rennie backed away. 'Hey, just think about it, OK? No need to be miserable all your life.'

'
Shhhhhhh, shhhhhh
...' A cool hand on her hot forehead.

'You're burning up.'

Heather shivered. 'Cold ...'

Duncan frowned.'
You don't look well
--'

Their dark metal prison stank: the acrid tang of vomit and the cloying reek of diarrhoea.

'Thirsty ...'

'
Sorry, Honey, there's no water left
.'

'But I'm thirsty ... oh God ...' She scrabbled into the corner and fumbled with the chemical toilet's lid, grabbing the seat and retching. It was like being punched in the stomach time and time again, but all that came out was a bitter trickle of foul-tasting bile. 'Oh God ...'

'
Shhhh
...
it'll be OK
.' Duncan helped her back to the mattress.'
How you feeling?
'

'I just want ... I just want to die ...' Everything hurt. Her throat ached, mouth dry, lips cracked, pounding headache, cramps - all signs of acute dehydration. She'd seen a programme about it on the Discovery Channel.

'
You're not well
.' He peeled a strand of hair from her clammy forehead.'
You need to rest.
'

'So tired ...'

'
That's because you're dying.
'

'I want ... to go ... home.'

'
I know, I know.
' He leaned forwards and kissed her on the forehead.'
You'll be with us soon, and it'll all be OK. Just you, me and Justin. No more darkness.
'

Heather nodded, it hurt less than trying to talk.

'It'll all be over soon.'

27

Logan wasn't really in the mood for getting pished, but he made a brave stab at it anyway. Four hours sat in the cramped viewing room with DI Steel - watching Faulds and his criminal psychologist trying to get something useful out of Ken Wiseman - meant that Logan was more than ready to go bowling with Rennie and a couple of people from work. There were only so many times you could watch a murdering scumbag tell a Chief Constable to go fuck himself with a cheese grater.

By the time Rennie's girlfriend, Laura, turned up at the bowling alley, they were all on their fourth pints. Logan wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved that she hadn't brought the promised friend with her.

More beer, then tequila, then chips. Then Logan called it a night, walking home to the flat alone, feeling drunk and more than a little sorry for himself.

The flat wasn't the same without Jackie's crap lying all over the place: the strange little porcelain things, the dozens of unidentifiable potions in the bathroom, the little tangles of hair on the carpet by the mirror in the bedroom. Cold feet beneath the duvet ...

Jammy bastard Rennie with his nice perky new girlfriend.

Logan collapsed into bed, sprawled out like a half-cut starfish, and stared up into the darkness. They'd caught the Flesher - everything should have been hunky dory. But it wasn't.

Eventually he drifted off to sleep, his dreams full of little dead girls and their grieving fathers.

Bright light. Hazy, painful ... but that was nothing new.

Everything hurt. Heather rolled over onto her side and squinted at the open door.

He was back!

She scrambled to her knees, fell over, crawled to the bars.

'P ...' Just enough water left in her body for a few burning tears.

HE WAS BACK!

The Butcher dragged someone new into the prison, dumped them on the other side of the bars, then turned and stared at Heather.

'P ...' She choked. Tried again. 'Please ...'

He pulled a bottle of water from his apron and handed it through the bars. Heather grabbed his leg, pulling him off balance, hauling him forwards till he was hard against the metal. Then she wrapped her arm around his leg, croaking,'Don't ... ever ... leave me again ...'

She fumbled the lid off the bottled water and drank, spluttered, brought most of it back up. Sobbing. 'Don't leave me! Don't leave me!'

The Butcher froze, then reached down and stroked her matted, greasy hair.

Everything would be OK now.

He was back.