Flesh House (16 page)

Behind him, he could hear Insch thrashing against his bonds. 'Sit still, Fatty, or I'll give her something to cry about.' And gradually the noise stopped.

Wiseman jabbed a fork into the pan and lifted out a slice of meat. It was perfectly cooked: the skin pale and tender, the inside moist, the edges caramelised. It dripped grease on the carpet, then on the bitch's dress, then her chin. Gravy and blood mingling.

'Eat.'

'Please ...'

'Not going to tell you again.'

She took a tentative bite. Chewed and swallowed. Wiseman glanced over his shoulder at the fat man, sitting there with a furious scowl on his bright purple face as the bitch ate the rest. 'Don't worry, plenty left for you.'

He dug another slice out of the pan and turned to Inspector Fat Wad. 'Here's the deal. You eat this, or I slit her throat.'

He ripped the duct-tape gag off.

Insch gasped and snarled and opened his mouth to shout something, but Wiseman rammed the slice of meat in. The inspector spat it out, shaking his head from side to side, swearing. Wiseman grabbed the fat bastard's ear and twisted.
Then
the fucker sat still.

Insch growled at him. 'I'll kill you ...' 'Really think I won't do it? Slit her throat?' He gave the ear another twist. 'Now
eat your fucking breakfast!
'

'I'll kill--

''OK, be like that. I gave you the chance to save her, and you blew it.' He walked over to the table and picked up the boning knife - it glittered against the bitch's throat.

She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and sobbed.

'Any last words?'

'Don't! I'll ... I'll eat it!' The fat git's face was pouring with sweat. 'Just leave her alone! She didn't do anything to you, it was me. I did it. Not her ...'

'That's better.' Wiseman laid the knife next to the frying pan and picked up the fork. He speared the slice the fat git had spat out - picking off a few stray dog hairs from where it had hit the carpet - then held it out for Insch to bite.

Insch stared at it, then at his wife, then back to the slice again. Took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. And bit. For a moment it looked as if he was going to vomit, but he chewed and swallowed instead. Shuddering as it went down.

'There's a good boy.' Wiseman smiled. 'Did you like that? Tasty and tender was it?'

'I'm ...' He gagged.

The bitch's voice was small and trembling. 'David? What's wrong?'

'Keep it down, Fat Boy, there's more where that came from.'

Insch didn't look at her. 'Nothing's wrong. It's all going to be OK.'

'Go on, Lardy, tell your lovely wife what the Flesher does. Don't be shy.'

'Tell me what? David...?'

'Tell her.'

'He killed at least a dozen people. Butchered their remains and ate them.'

The bitch's eyes went wide, then locked onto the frying pan and its tasty, meaty contents. 'Oh God ...'

Wiseman leant down and whispered in Insch's ear. 'You haven't asked where your daughters are.'

The fat man screamed.

22

Rennie barged into the history room, skidding to a halt on the tatty green carpet tiles. 'You'll never guess what!

Logan didn't look up. 'What happened to the tea?'

'Wiseman's called the BBC again: Torry Battery, two pm! The DCS wants everyone in the briefing room, now.'

The Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of CID drew a red 'X' on the whiteboard -' ... and the third set of marksmen will be here. Plainclothes officers will be in two cars parked here, and here. Another three will pose as dog walkers.' More squiggles on the board. 'Everyone else will be in unmarked police vans here ... and here.' He gave the nod, and someone clicked onto the next slide in the presentation: a grey and white outside broadcast van. 'The BBC are lending us this on the condition that one of their cameramen is present for the arrest.'

Rennie leant over and whispered at Logan,'There's a surprise. These TV buggers--'

The DCS glared at him. 'Do you have something to add, Constable?'

Rennie froze. 'Er ... I was just saying that there's a safety issue, sir. You know, with a civilian being present.'

Logan was impressed: it was a feat of weaselry worthy of DI Steel.

The DCS nodded. 'Good point. I don't need to tell you all how dangerous Ken Wiseman is. No one is to take any chances, but I want him in a cell, not a body bag. Now, any questions?'

Logan stuck his hand up. 'He called the BBC at quarter to eleven to make an appointment for two. That's over three hours. He's got to know they'd tell us about it, why give us so much notice?'

It was Faulds who answered. 'Wiseman has a serious persecution complex. This is his chance to go down in a blaze of glory, and he gets to do it all on national television.'

The DCS cleared his throat. 'As I was saying: no one is to take any chances.' He pointed at one of the firearms officers. 'Yes, Brodie?'

'Where's DI Insch?'

'The inspector is taking some personal time. Any other questions?'

Back in the history room, Logan peered at Faulds over a pile of crime scene reports. 'I still say he should be there.'

The Chief Constable sighed. 'As your DCS says, Insch has been under a lot of stress lately, he just needs some time--'

'I've called his house and his mobile a dozen times, what if something's happened?'

'Like what?'

'What if Wiseman's gone after him too? Insch was part of the team that put--'

'So was I. So were a lot of people. We had about a hundred officers working the case at one point. Insch was just a constable back then, your DCS was more influential in the prosecution than Insch.' He paused. 'But if it makes you feel any better, get a patrol car to swing past.'

Logan called the Oldmeldrum station - little more than a couple of rooms bolted onto the secondary school - and listened to the phone ring ... the call was diverted to an Airwave handset that hissed and crackled, with the faint sound of yelling and mooing in the background. 'Hullo?'

'This is DS McRae from FHQ, I need you to get a car round to DI Insch's house, South Road, number--'

'Aye, I ken where he lives. But I canna go roond there the noo. We've hid a fatal RTA - poor bugger in a Fiesta hit a coo on the road tae Turra. Some feel left the gate open: I've got coos and blood all ower the place.' Which explained the cattle noises in the background.

'How soon do you think you could--'

'God knows. Like a bloody abattoir out here.'

'Well ... do what you can, OK?' Logan hung up and fidgeted for a bit.

'You really
are
worried, aren't you?' said Faulds. 'How long would it take you from here? There and back?'

Logan checked his watch. 'If we floor it, about an hour and a half.'

'Right.' Faulds stood and grabbed his coat. 'But if we're not back before Wiseman's TV slot, I'll personally strangle you, OK?'

'Deal.'

They hurried down through the building, making for the rear podium. A small clump of cameramen loitered at the back door, smoking cigarettes and talking about focal lengths. Alec waved as Logan and Faulds pushed through the back doors.

'This is going to be so cool!' he said, following them to a pool car speckled with rust and seagull droppings. 'Can I ride with you guys? I've got a great idea for a travelling shot, all the way through Torry and up to the Battery, we--'

'Sorry, Alec.' Logan wrenched open the driver's door. 'We've got to go pick up Insch.'

'But ...' The cameraman looked at his watch, his colleagues, back to Logan and then at his watch again. 'But isn't he all the way out--'

'Yes, that's why we can't hang around talking to--'

'Shite ...' Alec clambered into the back seat. 'Come on then, let's roll!'

Logan put his foot down - the dual carriageway flashing past as they took the quick route through Bucksburn, past the airport, and out into the countryside, Bennachie looming vast and purple in the distance.

'So ...' Faulds watched the fields go by. 'I was talking to DI Steel this morning.' He left a pause, but Logan didn't have a clue what he was talking about.

'That's nice.'

The Chief Constable pointed at Logan's bruised face. 'She says your girlfriend beat you up.'

Gossipy old cow. 'Ex-girlfriend. And she didn't beat me up. It was an accident.' Lie. 'Do you really think Wiseman's going to be stupid enough to show up?'

'Don't change the subject.'

'There's nothing to tell, OK? We broke up. End of story.'

Alec peered through from the back. 'I dumped this girl once - law student - two weeks later she lets herself into my flat with a spare set of keys and craps in the bed. Then she covers it with the duvet and fucks off. Course, I come back steaming that night, with a quantity surveyor called Daphne. We tear each other's clothes off and jump into bed ... Fucking horrible it was. Went everywhere.'

An embarrassed silence settled into the car.

'What? I was just saying, OK?' Alec slumped back into his seat. 'Honestly, some people would find that kinky. I used to know this guy--'

Faulds turned and stared at him. 'Better leave it there, Alec. Don't want to spoil the magic.' In the end Wiseman had to stuff a dishtowel in the fat bastard's mouth to get him to shut up. Insch didn't look well, sat there, strapped to his armchair, face all covered with bruises and tears and snot. Trembling and furious.

Wiseman glanced at the clock - the telly people were expecting him at two - he had to get a shift on. 'Well, Fatso, I've got to go. It's been fun, but tempus fugit, and all that.' He grabbed Insch's nose and pinched the nostrils shut, watching him struggle for oxygen. He could kill him with two fingers. Just like that ... But it would be a waste.

He let go and Insch dragged a shuddering breath in through his podgy nose. 'But before I leave,' Wiseman wiped his fingers on the fat bastard's shirt,'have to decide what to do with you.' He picked up the boning knife and rested the point on that disgusting, huge stomach. 'I could open you up like the fat fucking piggy you are, gut you right here. Would you like that, Fat Boy?'

Insch glared at him, furious hissing noises coming from his flared nostrils.

'Thought so. But know what I'm going to do instead? I'm going to hurt you.' He slammed his fist into the bastard's face, rocking that angry scarlet head back on its huge pink neck. 'Made an appointment with the BBC - stupid bastards actually think I'm going to turn up, when I know the whole place will be swarming with cops.' He smiled. 'You know where I'll be while they're looking the other way, Fat Boy?'

Wiseman went upstairs and came back carrying a wriggling piglet with blonde pigtails, tied hand and foot.

The little girl took one look at her parents, and froze. He dumped her on the floor at Daddy's feet. 'Three daughters. That's one for you, one for me, and one for the pot.' Wiseman picked up the frying pan again, and poured the last of the fat and gravy over Insch's head. 'She was tasty, wasn't she?'

The bitch moaned and wailed behind her gag, but the fat man looked ready for murder.

'What will I do with my one? Hmm?' Bending down to stroke the piglet's hair. 'What will I do with my little girl?' He looked up into Insch's terrified face, then backhanded him again. 'Not that, you fucking pervert. I'm going to sell her. Get a lot of money for specialist livestock this sweet.' Wiseman winked. 'According to the paedos in Peterhead, they're easier to train if no one knows you've got them. No Social Services, no "concerned parents". You can do whatever you like.'

Insch shouted something behind the gag, thrashing back and forth, straining against the duct-tape, making the armchair creak. Wiseman picked up the girl and slung her over his shoulder. 'She's going to make some dirty old bastard very, very happy. And all because you fucked with me, Fatty. All because of you.' He turned and smiled at Insch's wife. 'You think about that next time he wants to put his dick in you.'

He could still hear them struggling as he closed and locked the front door. Throwing Brooks off the roof had been a bit of a letdown. He'd expected it to be a lot more satisfying, but it was over too quickly.

This was going to hurt that fat bastard till the day he died.

23

Logan slowed down as they reached the outskirts of Oldmeldrum. 'How we doing for time?'

Faulds scowled. 'Badly.'

'Not my fault there was a tractor.' He threaded the car through the village centre, making for Insch's house. 'Anyway, if we stick the siren on all the way back we can--' There was a familiar-looking Range Rover up ahead. It only stayed in vision for a second, and then it was hidden by the curve in the road.

'What?'

'I think that was Insch ...' Logan pulled up outside the inspector's house. Where the muck-encrusted four-by-four should have been, there was just a patch of oily gravel. 'Someone must've got through on the phone. Told him it was going down at two.'

'Are you telling me we came all this way for nothing?'

'We can still catch him.' Logan ignored the thirty limit all the way up to the T-junction. The Range Rover was just visible, driving along the A947 back towards Aberdeen. Logan followed it.

'What if it's not even his car?'

Logan accelerated, closing the gap. There were two vehicles between them and the four-by-four: a blue Audi and a tatty Daihatsu 4Trak, Logan peered past them at the car in front. 'No ... it's definitely Insch's.'

'Well, flash your lights, or something.'

Alec shuffled himself forwards. 'Jesus, that thing gets filthier every time I see it; you could grow tatties on that.'

Flashing the lights didn't seem to help so Logan leant on the horn. The driver turned, glancing back over his shoulder - only it wasn't Insch.

'Fuck!' Logan gripped the steering wheel. 'It's him!'

'What? Of course it's--'

'Wiseman! Wiseman's driving the car!'

'WHAT?'

He grabbed the car's radio handset as the Range Rover accelerated away uphill. 'He's seen us!' The road was too twisty to get past the Audi and the 4Trak. Logan fumbled on the dashboard for the siren switch, and the handset went flying: clattering down into the footwell. 'Bloody hell!' But at least the siren's wail made the slowcoaches get out of the way. Logan hammered it.

The black slab of Alec's HDV camera poked between the seats.

'Put your bloody seatbelt on!'

Over the brow of the hill. A hard right curve and the Range Rover was putting as much distance between them as possible. Round a wide bend, the four by four overtaking a JCB digger.

Logan put his foot down and followed suit, jerking them out into the opposite lane.

Faulds screamed:'TRACTOR! TRACTOR! TRACTOR!' A huge blue and white monstrosity was coming straight at them.

Logan slammed on the brakes and screeched the car back to their own side of the road in a cloud of swearing and burning rubber. The thing trundled past and he accelerated out and round the digger.

Up ahead, Wiseman threw the Range Rover hard right, leaving the main road for a little side one. Logan followed, the pool car's back end kicking out as they slid round the corner.

A loud CLUNK! and a fencepost went flying.

Faulds had one hand dug into the dashboard, the other wrapped around the handle above the passenger-side door. Teeth gritted, eyes wide. 'Who the hell taught you to drive?'

'I haven't done the pursuit training course, OK? I'm doing my best!'

A hump in the road and the car left the tarmac for a second. 'Oh God!'

'Call the station! Tell them we're after Wiseman!'

Alec's voice came from the back of the car. 'This is bloody brilliant!'

Faulds released his death-grip on the dashboard and scrabbled in the footwell for the radio handset as Logan wrenched the manky Vauxhall through a succession of snaking bends. Insch's Range Rover was getting closer and closer ... they were right behind it, siren blaring, lights flashing, completely unable to get past and cut Wiseman off.

'Single-track bastards ...'

'
Alpha Charlie Seven from Control, when do you
--'

'This is Chief Constable Faulds, we are in pursuit of--'

A sharp bend and the pool car brushed a drystane dyke on the passenger side - a squeal of metal and a shower of sparks as Logan struggled to get them back on the road.

'--Ken Wiseman. Will you watch where you're bloody going!'

'Do you want to drive?'

'--
repeat that? Wiseman? Are you serious?
'

Faulds went back to the handset. 'We need back-up, now!'

And then Wiseman slammed on his brakes. Logan was fast, but not fast enough; they clipped the back bumper. The pool car's nose jerked left and buried itself in a beech hedge, sending orange leaves flying.

Faulds dropped the handset again. 'Are you trying to get us all killed?'

'
What the hell was that?
'

The Range Rover pulled a hard left, through an open gate and into a field of brown stubble. Logan cranked the key in the ignition. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing ... 'Come on you bastard!' The engine roared into life. He reversed out of the hedge and put his foot to the floor, the tyres squealing as the car fishtailed into the field after Wiseman. But the Range Rover was built for this kind of thing, their scabrous Vauxhall wasn't. It slithered and slid, churning up the mud, snaking after the four-by-four as it rumbled straight across the field and out the gate on the other side.

'We're losing him!'

'--
repeat: what is your location?
'

'Come on, come on, come on!' The engine was beginning to sound like a cat in a tumble drier.

'Somewhere south of Inverurie--'

'OLDMELDRUM!' Logan fought the bucking steering wheel, barrelling them towards the exit. 'Not Inverurie! Three miles south of Oldmeldrum, just off the A497. Side road on the right, before you get to Hatton Crook. Where there was that minibus accident last year!'

They clipped the gate on their way out - the car lurching forward as it finally got its tyres back on solid tarmac. Treelined road, amber leaves, no sign of the Range Rover. 'Bastard!'

Logan floored it. Hard right. Hard left. Another right and--

A horse, pirouetting and snorting in the middle of the road. Faulds yelled 'LOOK OUT!' and Logan slammed on the brakes. The manky Vauxhall skidded to a halt.

'What the hell do we do now?'

'Honk your horn!'

Logan stared at Faulds. 'That's not going to help.' He clambered out into the cold afternoon. The animal looked half demented - eyes rolling, foaming white sweat at the neck, empty saddle, bridle swinging loose. There was no sign of the rider. And then Logan got a glimpse past the bucking, rearing monster: DI Insch's Range Rover was nose-down in a ditch, rear wheels spinning. Behind it another horse shifted from hoof to hoof, looking embarrassed while its rider lay flat on her back on the grass verge.

The sound of raised voices cut through the cold afternoon.

'You stupid - fucking - inconsiderate - fucking ...' it was a woman, dressed in jodhpurs, sweatshirt, and riding hat, covered in mud all down one side of her body. She was beating the living crap out of Wiseman as he tried to crawl away from the crashed Range Rover. 'Inconsiderate - wanking - bastard!' Each word punctuated with another blow from her short riding crop. 'It's bad enough we've got to put up with arseholes like you roaring round the countryside.' She gave up on the whip and kicked Wiseman in the ribs instead. 'YOU COULD HAVE KILLED US!'

Logan took one look at the spinning horse, and decided discretion was the better part of not getting his head staved-in by a flying hoof. He clambered over the nearest gate and hurried through the field. The front end of the Range Rover was a mess: steam billowed out from beneath the bonnet, windscreen shattered, headlights smashed, radiator buckled around a dirty big lump of stone, taking half the barbed-wire fence with it.

'You think there's no one else on the road? You think you own - the - fucking - road?'

Logan picked his way through the debris and grabbed her before she could castrate Wiseman with her riding boots.

'Enough!'

'Did you see what this idiot--'

'Stand over there and calm down!'

'--roaring round the corner in the middle of the road!'

Logan pulled out his handcuffs and she froze.

'If you touch me, I'll scream.'

'Oh for God's sake: I'm a police officer. Now go see if your friend's OK.'

Wiseman was curled up on the muddy grass, clutching one arm to his chest - probably broken. His nose certainly was. The butcher's face was a spider's web of tiny cuts, little flecks of glass sticking out of his bald head. He screamed in pain as Logan forced him face down and cuffed his hands behind his back.

'Kenneth Wiseman, I'm arresting you for driving without due care and attention ... And some other stuff we'll charge you with when we get you back to the bloody station. On your feet.'

It took three goes to get Wiseman upright. He might have been built like a rugby fullback, but he didn't put up a fight, just limped and swore and grimaced and cried as Logan dragged him back to the crashed Range Rover. Where the woman who'd just beaten up Scotland's most notorious serial killer was bent over her companion, holding her hand and talking softly.

'How is she?'

The rider lying spread-eagled on the grass raised a shaky thumb.

'I think her leg's broken. Lucky to be alive, that bloody idiot screaming round the corner in--'

'We'd better get her an ambulance ...' Logan fumbled through his pockets with one hand - looking for his phone - as he pushed Wiseman back against the inspector's ruined car. The butcher wobbled a bit, then slid down the door panel till he was sitting on the ground looking dazed. Then threw up in his own lap.

Logan jumped back, trying to escape the rancid splatter. 'Oh you dirty f ...' There was something in the Range Rover's boot, partially covered by a dog-hair-encrusted tartan blanket. A pale, white hand poked out from beneath it. 'No ...'

He ran round to the back and fought with the boot release. Locked.

'Damn it!' Logan grabbed a chunk of rock from the ground and swung it at the rear windscreen.

The glass buckled, but didn't break.

Again - sending a network of cracks racing across the surface.

Again - and the lump of stone punched a grapefruit-sized hole, sending little glittering cubes of glass all over the Range Rover's huge boot. Logan stuck his hand in and fumbled for the catch to lower the tailgate, then jerked the boot lid up and clambered inside.

'Oh God ... Sophie ...' Insch's youngest was lying on her side, partially covered by the tartan dog blanket, hands cabletied behind her back, legs tied at the ankle, silver duct-tape wrapped round her head, covering her mouth. Blood caking her nose. Face pale and waxy. 'Sophie!'

Logan ripped the tape off and put his ear to her mouth. She wasn't breathing. He stuck two fingers against her throat, feeling for a pulse ... it was there, but there wasn't much of it. 'Don't you die on me, Sophie!' He flipped her over onto her back and started breathing for her.

In - out - in - out - in - out.

A voice sounded behind him: Faulds,'What the hell do you think you're doing leaving Wiseman unsupervised out here?

He ... oh shit.'

In - out - in - out.

Electronic bleeping noises - numbers being punched into a mobile phone. 'Shut up and listen! I need an ambulance and I need it now!'

In - out - in - out.

'How the hell am I supposed to know? DS McRae told you where we were, didn't he? ... Yes!'

In - out - in - out.

' ... I don't care! Get someone out here now - we've a little girl who's not breathing!'

In - out - in - out.

Logan felt for a pulse again: it was getting weaker. 'She's Insch's daughter!'

'Oh God ... did you hear that? ... Yes ... yes, OK.'

In - out - in - out.

'Come on Sophie!'