Flesh House (23 page)

'You've always been Inschy's favourite. He needs someone to talk to, and you're it. Besides, what's the worst that can happen? He shouts at you a bit? Least it'll make him feel better. You no' think we owe him that?'

Logan swore. But the inspector was right: he owed Insch that much. 'OK, OK, I'll go see him.'

'Good lad.' Steel hauled herself out of the chair and headed for the door, calling over her shoulder,'But for God's sake don't tell him I sent you! Got my reputation as a hardnosed bitch to think about.'

Half four and Steel still wasn't back. Logan sat with a fresh cup of tea and the old Media Office file on Ian and Sharon McLaughlin - all the press releases, the follow-up articles culled from the newspapers, speeches written for whoever was Chief Constable at the time. One of the newspaper clippings included a photo of Ex-DSI Brooks outside the Sheriff Court, a thin and hirsute DC David Insch standing off to one side.'
SUSPECT REMANDED IN CUSTODY
'

He laid the article out on the desk and sat back, staring at the death board. How many of them died because Brooks couldn't get over his Wiseman-focussed monomania?

Logan called Colin Miller and asked for a favour.

'
What, again? You still owe me lunch from last time
.'

'Do this one and we'll call it dinner - takeaway Thai?'

'
I'm listening
...'

'Need you to go through the paper's archives. Missing persons, housebreakings, outbreaks of food poisoning, CJD ... that kind of thing. 1987 to 1990.'

There was silence on the other end.

'
You gonnae tell me what this is all about?
'

'Nope.'

'
You expect me to go huntin' through three years worth of pish, and you're no' gonnae tell me anythin'?
'

'Look we--'

'
Exclusive. I get the scoop on whatever it is, or I'm no' liftin' a finger
.'

'I'm just trying to put the original investigation into context.'

'No exclusive, no deal.'

Logan said he'd see what he could do. 'It's up to the inspector.'

'Which one: Fatty or Wrinkly?'

'Steel. Insch is on compassionate leave. His daughter--'

'
Fuck - sorry, man, I forgot. Look, I'll do what I can, but I've got to go interview some scientist at the Rowett this afternoon. "Hepatitis C in the food chain: how safe is your dinner?" kind of thing
.'

Just what they needed, the papers stirring up more panic.

'
Tell you what: the Howff, eight o'clock, buy us a pint and we'll talk about that exclusive.
'

'OK, we ...' Logan closed his eyes and swore quietly. 'I can't tonight, I've got a thing. Tomorrow?'

'
Fine, but you're buying
.'

'Deal.' Logan hung up and went back to the McLaughlin case file - putting off the inevitable, until guilt and hunger got the better of him. Like it or not, he had to go see the parents of the little girl he'd got killed.

Logan pulled the CID pool car up to the kerb and killed the engine. Then sat there, looking out at the night-shrouded countryside. Psyching himself up. Two deep breaths. Count to ten.

Count to ten again.

'Come on ...' Logan grabbed the plastic bag from the passenger seat.

There were no lights on at the front of the house, but a dented Renault Clio with'
I'M DRIVING COURTESY OF TAM'S TURRIFF MOTORS
!' emblazoned down the side, was parked in the drive where the inspector's Range Rover usually sat. Logan tried the bell.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrringggggggggggg ...

It was cold out here. The faint yellow glow of streetlights filtered through the trees, making the autumn leaves shine like reptile skin. A gust of wind sent a couple swirling to their death, adding to the greasy slick that littered the front garden.

He pressed the bell again.

One more time, then he was going to give up and go home.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrringggggggggggg ...

A light blossomed above the door.

'Inspector?'

Clunk, jingle, and the door drifted open a crack. Then came the sound of someone shuffling off back into the house.

'Inspector? Hello?' Logan put one hand on the wood and pushed. The hallway was in darkness, but down at the far end he could just make out Insch's rounded bulk as he placed a foot on the stairs and began to climb.

Logan stepped inside and closed the door behind him. 'Are you OK?'

Insch just kept on climbing, the stairs creaking as he disappeared from view.

'Oh God ...' Logan peered into the lounge: it was a disaster area. The settee and armchairs upturned, stuffing ripped out, wooden frames buckled, coffee table a heap of twisted metal and broken glass. The dining room was just as bad: chairs broken, table on its side - a perfect circle of scorched varnish just visible in the gloom.

Insch must have run out of steam by the time he'd reached the kitchen. Logan backed out into the hall and crept up the stairs.

He found the inspector sitting on the floor in the corner of a small bedroom, surrounded by stuffed animals. The faint orange glow of a plug-in nightlight glittered back from dozens of black plastic eyes. A hand-painted sign on the door said,'
SOPHIE'S SECRET PALACE [?]BEWARE OF THE DRAGON
!!!'

Logan stopped at the threshold. 'How's Miriam?'

Insch sniffed, wiped his nose on the back of his hand, then picked up a fluffy unicorn. His voice was small and ragged:'She was going to be a doctor. Or a ballerina. Or an astronaut. Depended on what day it was ...' He hadn't showered or shaved in a couple of days; his jowls covered in dark-blue stubble, heavy black bags under his eyes, clothes rumpled and stained. The smell of stale alcohol oozed out of him.

Logan picked his way through the furry minefield of bears and dinosaurs and pigs and dragons, then sank down with his back to the unmade bed. 'Everyone at the station's asking for you. They're getting up a collection. Going to get a park bench dedicated to Sophie.' It had sounded so appropriate when Steel had told him about it yesterday, now it just sounded hollow and crass.' ... I'm sorry.'

'She left me. Miriam. She got out the hospital, took the girls and went to her mother's.' Another sniff. 'Said she couldn't bear to look at me anymore. That it was my fault.'

'Sir, I--'

'Wiseman was after me, and they paid for it.' He wrapped his huge arms around the little unicorn, buried his face in its fur.

Logan closed his eyes and stepped off the cliff:'I wasn't your fault, it was mine. If I hadn't chased Wiseman--'

'He was going to sell her to a paedophile. Right now, she'd be ...' The huge man shuddered. When he looked up his eyes sparkled with tears. 'How do you explain to a child's mother that her little girl's better off dead?'

'I'm so sorry ...' Logan pulled open the carrier bag, and dragged out four tins of Guinness. 'Got them at that wee supermarket in Newmacher. Still cold.' He held one out.

Insch took the tin, clicked the ring pull and drank deep.

'Here,' Logan went back into the bag for a family-sized packet of jelly babies and a box of Terry's All Gold,'The chocolates were for Miriam.'

The inspector stared at the bag of little pink, red, green, purple, and yellow figures. 'I can't eat those. Borderline diabetic as it is ...' Then he snatched the bag from Logan's hand and tore it open, stuffing baby after baby into his mouth. Chewing on automatic. Washing them down with more Guinness.

Logan pulled the tab on his own tin and raised it. 'It's going to be OK.'

'No.' Insch shook his head, clutching the little furry unicorn to his chest. 'No it's not. It's never going to be OK again.'

The kitchen light seemed harsh and artificial after the soft glow of Sophie's bedroom. They sat at the kitchen table, Insch hunched over a glass of whisky and a mug of sweet, milky coffee, the steam curling up around his bald head. Logan slid the opened box of All Gold back across the tabletop.

Insch didn't look up. 'Has he confessed?'

'Denying everything: says I beat him up. You imagine that? He'd have me for sodding breakfast. Besides Alec got the whole thing on camera.'

Insch took a Caramel Nectar and stuck it in his mouth, followed by a sip of whisky. 'Did he ... is Sophie on it?'

Logan didn't want to answer that one, but he didn't see that he had any choice. 'Yes.'

The inspector nodded. And helped himself to another chocolate. 'I want you to do something for me.' His voice was a dark rumble, colder than the November night howling against the kitchen window. 'I want you to go to Craiginches and you tell Wiseman that I'm sorry.'

Logan nearly choked. 'Did you say--'

'I should never have assaulted him. I was a policeman, he was a prisoner, I had no right.' Insch downed half his whisky in one go. 'I looked up to Brooks. He was everything I wanted to be: he got the job done. Put people behind bars. He bent the rules, but it ... it took me a long time to realize he was wrong. The ends didn't justify pounding the crap out of suspects. Made us no better than they were.' The last of the whisky disappeared. 'You'll tell him?'

'Are you sure?'

The inspector held the cut crystal glass in his huge hand, twisting it so that little diamonds of light sparkled on the tabletop. 'And then you tell that piece of shit I'm going to be waiting for him.'

'Sir, you can't do that. He's--'

'I don't care how long it takes: I'm going to rip his balls off with my bare hands and feed them to him.'

'But--'

'No bastard is ever going to find his body.'

'It's
over
. Even if we can't pin the Flesher killings on him, after what he did to you and Miriam and Sophie, they'll never let him out. He's going to die in Peterhead Prison.'

Insch looked up, his eyes dangerous and black. 'I know. And I'm going to be there when he does, with my hands round his throat.'

33

Thursday morning lashed against the tiny window of the Flesher history room, the wind and rain playing counterpart to the ping and groan of the solitary anaemic radiator. Logan stuck his finger in his ear and tried again, shouting into the phone:'No, not McKay, McRae: Mike, Charlie, Romeo, Alpha, Echo.'

Static. A high-pitched buzzing noise.

'Is this Detective Superintendent Danby? Hello? You left a message about the Flesher's Newcastle victims?'

More buzzing, and then:' ...
know what I'm sayin
'?' The DSI's voice was like a Geordie foghorn.

'Sorry, I can barely hear you.

'
Look, I went through the files, right? There's nothin' in there about them bein' in Weight Watchers.
'

DI Steel slouched into the room, but Logan got his hand up before she could open her mouth. 'I know,' he said,'I've got a copy of the investigation reports here. But did anybody ask the families? I mean, if there wasn't any reason--'

'
So what are you expectin' me to do? Go round and ask the poor bastards' relatives if they were tryin' to lose weight? It was nearly twenty years ago: know what I mean?
'

'Look, I wouldn't ask, but we've got some victims here who were members and--'

'
And you think this is how he finds them
.'

'Well--'

'
I'll stick a couple of woodentops on it, OK? Can't say fairer than that, know what I mean?
'

'Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.'

'
You can thank us by catching the bastard
.'

Steel waited for Logan to hang up, then plonked herself on the corner of his desk and peered at his notes. 'Oh for God's sake: you were supposed to chase up this Weight Watchers thing days ago. What the hell have you been doing?'

'I did. That was Newcastle getting back to me. And how come you're so bloody cheery this morning?'

She scowled at him. 'Don't start, I'm no' in the mood. Where's Defective Constable Rennie?'

'Bain's got him going through more of those INTERPOL reports.'

'Yeah, like that's going to help.' She stuck her hands into her armpits and turned to face the death board, in all its bloodstained glory. 'Susan proposed last night.'

'Congratulations?'

''Cos I don't have enough to worry about. Last year it was all, "Let's get a cat!" now it's, "Let's get married!" You know what's next, don't you? Bloody babies.' She shuddered. 'Creepy little bastards ...'

The inspector started rummaging through the paperwork on Logan's desk. 'So come on then: how is he? Insch.'

Hunched up and crying at the kitchen table. Planning revenge. Depressed. Dangerous. Destructive. Drinking away his pain. Grieving ...'He's OK.'

Steel nodded. 'Thought so. Hard as nails is our Inschy.' She stopped at the plastic wallet containing Wiseman's second - better typed - confession and skimmed through it. 'This is appalling ...'

'Got a call from Craiginches - Ken Wiseman beat the living hell out of Richard Davidson last night. Thought I should go up, have a word. Maybe ask him about that,' He pointed at the confession.

'What, Wiseman won't speak to Faulds, or Bain, or me, or that Liverpudlian psychologist toss-pot, but police hero DS Logan McRae'll get him to talk?'

'I only meant--'

'Ah, like I care.' She dropped the confession back on Logan's desk. 'It's the mighty DCS Bain's investigation now. You can do whatever you like, I'm off for a fag.' She stood. 'I'd say take Alec with you, but he's got his camera glued to His Holiness DCS Bain's arse.' Putting on a whiny voice for:'Oh Detective Chief Superintendent, you're so big and clever!'

Probably just as well - Logan didn't really want a BBC film crew there while he passed on Insch's message.

'But don't forget we've got that bloody case peer-review with Strathclyde at half twelve.'

'But I'm not--'

'If I have to be there so do you. And you're no' wriggling out of it, so don't even try. Half twelve: if you're late I'm going to ... do something nasty to you. Can't be arsed thinking what at the moment, but it won't be pleasant.'

Wiseman coughed, then spat whatever he'd brought up onto the scuffed linoleum floor. The interview room wasn't exactly straight out of
Better Homes And Prisons
magazine, but the glob of glistening phlegm didn't help. The butcher's face was a mass of bruises, elastoplasts, little white butterfly stitches, and scabs.

Logan took another sip of what passed for coffee from the vending machine in reception. 'Little birdy tells me you and Richard Davidson had a falling out.'

Wiseman shrugged. 'Some people are born stupid.'

'You put him in hospital: broken leg, cracked ribs, concussion--'

'Little shit came at me, crying about his mummy.'

'Not think you're in enough trouble, Ken?'

'What are they going to do: arrest me?'

Fair point.

'I've got a message for you. From DI Insch.''Let me guess: he's going to kill me? Only way I'm getting out of Peterhead Prison's in a body-bag?' Wiseman snorted. 'Heard it all before. His mate Brooks said the same thing. Look what happened to him.'

Silence.

'He says he's sorry.'

The ex-butcher frowned, sat back in his seat and pursed his lips, looked down at the handcuffs holding his left wrist to the plaster cast on his right, then up at the camera bolted to the wall. 'What for?'

But there was no way Logan was going on record saying Insch assaulted a prisoner, even if it was seventeen years ago. 'I want to talk to you about your confession.'

'Thought that's what we
were
talking about.'

Logan pulled the plastic envelope from his pocket and placed it on the desk. '"I did it. I did it and I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt her, but I did. There was a lot of blood--"'

'I know what it says.'

'"Afterwards I did not know what to do, so I disposed of the body by cutting it up--"'

Wiseman lurched forwards, banging his grubby fibreglass cast on the scarred tabletop. 'I said I know what it fucking says!'

Logan smiled. He'd just been using the confession and Richard Davidson's assault as an excuse to pass on Insch's message, but somehow he'd managed to hit a raw nerve. The butcher was so blase about everything else ...'Who was she?'

'She wasn't anyone. I made it up. It's what they wanted to hear. They said they'd--'

'Remember Angus Robertson? The Mastrick Monster?'

'I don't have to sit here and listen to this.'

Logan pointed at the interview room, the camera, the officer standing by the door. 'Prison, remember: not a social club. Robertson said your cells were next to each other. That late at night you'd tell him about the woman you dismembered and the guy you beat to death in the showers.'

'You going to take Roberson's word for it? Lying little bastard killed fifteen women--'

'Who was she?'

'Fuck you.'

'Your car boot was full of blood.'

'And you're full of shite.'

Another sip of horrible coffee. 'Why did you run, Ken?'

'You deaf? I said ...' It seemed to take him a moment to catch up with the change of subject. 'What was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for that fat wanker to stitch me up again? Like last time?'

'Someone's still out there killing people.'

'My heart bleeds.'

'Who was she? The woman?'

'Fuck. You.'

Logan tossed his plastic cup of plastic coffee in the bin, a little geyser of milky brown erupting as it hit the bottom. 'Fine. Lie all you want, but I'm going to find out.'

Wiseman burst out laughing. 'Oh, big scary policeman!'

'Get him out of here.'

Logan made it back to FHQ just in time see a line of Grampian's finest disappearing into the boardroom. DI Steel, loitered at the back, scowling at him. 'What did I bloody tell you?'

'Traffic was awful, OK?'

She grabbed his arm, speaking in a sharp, smoky whisper,'Listen up: you follow my lead in there - no volunteering information, no verbal diarrhoea, no pointing bloody fingers. We present a united front to these Weegie bastards. Understand?'

A voice from inside:'Inspector? We're ready to start.'

'Just a minute.' And back to whispering again,'Everything was done by the book.'

'Thought this was supposed to be a review to help us identify new ways to tackle the case.'

'Oh don't be so sodding naive. What do you think they'll do to Insch if they think he cocked this one up? Give him a pat on his fat arse and a big bag of sweeties?'

That voice again:'Inspector?'

'Remember - everything done by the book.' She turned and pulled Logan into the boardroom. 'Sorry, sir, DS McRae was having difficulty tying his shoelaces and I had to supervise.'

DCS Bain waved them towards a pair of empty seats. 'When you're quite ready.'

Logan settled in beside Steel, and ... oh ...
fuck
was the only word that sprung to mind. The Strathclyde contingent were at the head of the boardroom table. The DCI they'd sent up to run the case review sat in the middle - red hair, sharp suit, statuesque in a mid-forties kind of way; to her left was a bearded sergeant with a face full of acne scars; and on her right, taking notes, was PC Jackie Watson. Fuck, fuck, and thrice more: fuck.

'Will you sit down? Making me feel sick, pacing about ...' Steel was onto her second stick of nicotine gum, chewing with her mouth open as Logan marched up and down the history room. Pretending to read a witness statement from January 1988.

'Why did it have to be her?'

'Why do you think? She's got a foot in both camps, she knows all our dirty little secrets and-- look either you sit your arse down or I'll twat you one.'

'Didn't look at me the whole meeting, as if I was a bloody stranger.'

'Hell hath no fury like a Ball-Breaker scorned.' Steel puffed out her cheeks and tried to blow a bubble with her gum. No luck. 'What time is it?'

'Twenty to five.'

'Time for one last cuppa before we hit the pub then. Get them in, eh?'

Logan started collecting the mounds of dirty mugs. 'Can't tonight, I've got a prior appointment.'

'Oh aye? Hot date? Randy Rachael from the PF's office sniffing around again, is she? Or have you got yourself an eighteen-year-old nymphomaniac like Rennie? Trying to make Watson jealous, are we?'

He wasn't rising to that. 'Faulds kept saying we should go see Trinity Hall, speak to someone in the Flesher's Incorporation about the original investigation. I got an appointment with their Boxmaster.'

'What is he, a superhero? Boxmaster and Carton Boy, saving the world from the evil forces of plastic packaging?'

'Sort of a cross between deputy club president and accountant, I think.'

'And this can't wait till tomorrow?'

'Only time the guy could make it. You want tea or coffee?'

'Surprise me.'

When Logan got back from the canteen, Alec was slumped in one of the visitor chairs, moaning about DCS Bain. 'You know where I spent all day? Bored off my tits filming meetings. Yesterday too.'

Logan handed the inspector's coffee over.

'Ooh, ta.' Steel took a slurp. 'That's what you get for following Bain about, isn't it? Should have stuck with the A-team, you disloyal bastard.' She swept a hand through her startled-terrier hair. 'We're much prettier too.'

Alec just sagged deeper into his chair. 'You guys aren't up to anything exciting are you?'

The inspector nodded. 'Fifteen minutes I'm off to the pub.' She pointed at Logan. 'Laughing Boy here's going to Trinity Hall because he's got no mates.'

And at that the cameraman perked up. 'Cool! Can I come?'

Logan shrugged. 'It--'

'Hold on a minute ...' Steel put her coffee down and squinted at him. 'You planning on solving anything while you're there?'

'Doubt it,' he picked up the list of trade members interviewed in 1990 and stuck it under his arm,'half these guys were in their late fifties when Brooks spoke to them seventeen years ago. Most of them'll be making sausages in that great butcher's shop in the sky by now.'

'Aye, well,' Steel grabbed her coat. 'I'm no' taking any chances. If Alec's going, so am I.'

The little old man who met them at the side door to Trinity Hall was all smiles, cardigan and wrinkled suit. 'I've always wanted to help out in a murder enquiry,' he said, ushering them in to a tiny stairwell. 'I love
The Bill, Frost, Midsomer Murders, CSI, Wire in the Blood
, only that's not really a police show, is it? More one of those psychological things. I met someone from Taggart once.' He stopped with one hand on the institution-green double doors. 'Now, would you like the tuppence ha'penny tour, or the full Trinity Hall experience?'