Flesh House (29 page)

'Far as we can tell, it was all dumped in small batches, probably when he was getting rid of the bones. When we searched the place we found bits of at least seven individuals, all vacuum packed and slipped in with the other meat. Still waiting on DNA-test results for most of them, but we've IDed joints from Tom and Hazel Stephen, and Duncan Inglis.' He pointed back at the small side door. 'CCTV coverage of this part of the plant's a joke. It's all focussed on the perimeter - if you were already inside you could go where you liked: no one would know. And once it's packed away in here, who's going to notice an extra couple of joints?'

Faulds nodded. 'Show me the bone mill.'

The rendering plant had been down for four days, but the smell still permeated everything, overlaid with the chemical reek of trichloroethylene. 'The question we have to ask ourselves,' said Faulds, staring up at one of the new security cameras bolted to the bone mill wall,'is how the Flesher managed to get into a working abattoir without anyone seeing him.'

He started up the stairs, making for the hoppers. 'He's a big man. He stuffs the bones and offal in a bin bag - something heavy duty, thick plastic so it won't split - throws it over his shoulder and humps it up here. Can't see him doing that in the middle of the day, can you?'

Logan followed him up to the top of the stairs. 'DCS Bain did a walkthrough.'

'Did he now?' Faulds leant on the railing, staring down into the trough at the toothed screw at the bottom. 'And what conclusion did the great Chief Superintendent come to?'

'The Flesher probably has ties to the cleaning company that does the offices.'

'Clever. So he's got an excuse to be on the premises in the middle of the night, get a vehicle close to the building, and nobody's going to look twice if he's seen carrying bin bags.'

'We interviewed everyone who works for them: full-time, part-time, and casual. No joy. Bain's widened the net to friends and family.'

'Worth a try I suppose.' Faulds pushed himself upright and headed down the stairs. 'But it's not a cleaner.'

'How do you know?'

The Chief Constable stopped and turned to look at Logan. 'I've been chasing the Flesher for over twenty years.' He smiled. 'Who knows him better than me?'

44

The walls pulsed in the darkness, she could feel them, making the air taste of sparklers. Heather lay on her back, one arm thrown across her face, the pressure keeping her eyes from rolling out of her head. 'Kelley ... I don't feel good ...'

On the other side of the wall, the new girl was screaming again. Shouting. Swearing. Demanding to be let out. For a blissful couple of hours she'd been quiet - then she'd told them all about her sister and how she'd opened the door expecting the pizza guy, only to find the Flesher standing on the top step. How everything was covered in blood ...

Still, the calm had been nice while it lasted.

'Kelley?'

'Shh ... I'm here, Heather. It's OK. You just need a bit of sleep, that's all.'

'I think there was something wrong with the meat ...'

Silence.

'What? What was wrong with it?'

'Maureen. The new girl. She said her sister was diabetic. She'd be injecting herself with drugs ... I thought it tasted funny ... Oh God ...'

Kelley reached through the bars and gave Heather's hand a squeeze. 'They inject with insulin. It occurs naturally in the body. I doubt it'd even survive the cooking process. Maybe you got concussion when you banged your head?'

'Maybe.'

The screaming settled down for a minute and Heather breathed a sigh of relief. Then it started up again. 'That bloody racket isn't helping.'

She waited for Mr New to appear and tell her she was being cruel, but nothing happened. Maybe he was off giving Duncan's ghost a hard time? The sulky sod had barely showed his dead face since Kelley arrived. Or maybe it was Heather's fault? Maybe Duncan wasn't coming round so often because she was getting a little bit less mad every day? Now that she wasn't trapped in here on her own any more, maybe she was going slowly sane.

Heather laughed. Then groaned. Then thought about throwing up.

'You should take some of your medicine. He made me promise to give you your medicine if you weren't feeling well.'

'I don't feel well.'

Kelley let go of her hand and there was a scrabbling sound. Then a package was pressed into Heather's palm: tinfoil, wrapped around two small pills. 'You have to take these and get better. If you don't he'll come back and hurt me. Don't make him hurt me ...'

Heather didn't want to take them.

'
Now, Honey
--' Duncan poked her in the shoulder.

'Where have you been?'

'Heather? I'm right here.'

'
Just take your medicine
.'

'But it could be anything.'

'
Honey, if He wanted to hurt you He could turn you into veal chops any time he liked, couldn't He?
'

'
But
--'

'
But nothing. You're not feeling well, remember? You banged your head? And if you don't take them He's going to hurt Kelley. You want to make Him hurt her?
'

Heather ran a finger over the pills. 'No.'

'
So take your medicine and nobody has to die.
'

Operator:
Emergency services, which service do you require?

Caller (female):
It's him! From the papers and the telly! The Flesh bloke!

Operator:
It's OK madam, we
--

Caller:
I saw him! I was looking out the window and I saw him! He climbed in over the back fence!

Operator:
He's in your back garden?

Caller:
Not my garden, next door! I saw him - he had the mask and the apron. He went in the back door!

Operator:
Can you confirm your address for me?

Caller:
Seventy three Springhill Crescent, Northfield. Hurry!

Operator:
I need you to stay inside and lock all your doors and windows. The police are on their way.

Anderson Drive flashed by the car's windows, the city's lights glowing in the indigo night. Logan kept his foot flat to the floor, following in the wake of blaring sirens and flashing lights. Sitting in the passenger seat, Faulds turned the radio up.

'
Alpha Mike Three, this is Alpha Sixteen, what's your ETA, over?
'

'
Just coming up to the roundabout onto Provost Frazer Drive so about
--' the sound of a horn blaring in the background.'-- Jesus! LEARN TO DRIVE YOU WANKER!
Did you see that? Get the bastard's number plate
...'

'
Still waiting on that ETA, Alpha Mike Three
.'

'
Oh, right. Five, six minutes tops.
'

'OK,' said Faulds, as they flew through a set of red traffic lights,'who's had firearms training?'

Steel shouted through from the back seat. 'Don't look at me.'

'Alec?'

The cameraman shrugged. 'Not the sort of thing they do in the BBC.'

'Logan?'

'Last Christmas, but I've never been on an actual--'

'Good enough for me.' He picked up the radio handset.

'Control, this is Chief Constable Mark Faulds. Tell the Senior Firearms Officer he's to stay put till I get there.'

'
But, sir
--'

'I've handled dozens of these situations before. You don't get to be Chief Constable by hiding under a desk.'

There was some muffled conversation, and then the voice on the other end said,'
Yes, sir
.'

Faulds winked at Logan. 'You and I are going to be in at the kill.'

That was what Logan was afraid of.

Springhill Crescent was a strange conglomeration of semidetached houses, some were harled, but others were clad in dark brown wood, looking like something out of a Norwegian housing estate. Number sixty-two was the left-hand side of a pair, its exterior in need of a good coat of creosote. The upstairs lights were on, glowing in the cold night.

Logan ducked back behind a people carrier two doors down. 'Are you sure about this?'

Faulds grinned. 'You ready?'

'How the hell did you talk them into it?'

'Rank has its privileges.' Faulds ejected the magazine from his borrowed Heckler and Koch MP5 automatic machine pistol, checked the load, and slapped it back into place. Then did the same with his Glock 9mm. He squeezed the airwave handset attached to the shoulder of his black, bullet-proof jacket. 'Team Three, we are good to go.'

A click. 'Roger that, Team Three ... Sir, are you sure I can't--'

'Yes, I'm sure.' He peered round the side of the huge car. 'Any movement?'

'
Negative. Target is still in the building.
'

Logan adjusted the strap on his borrowed helmet, pulling it tight under his chin, then wrapped the black scarf around the lower half of his face, like the bad guy in a cowboy film. It smelt of stale cigarette smoke and onions.

Faulds did the same. 'You nervous?'

'Bricking it. You?'

'Stay behind me; you'll be fine.' He patted Logan on the back. 'Flesher's got a knife and a bolt gun, neither's going to go through your vest. OK?'

'
All teams - positions for entry.
'

'Here we go ...'

They ran for the front door, staying low through the gate and up the concrete driveway. Team One got there first, standing flat against the wooden wall to one side of the red door, waiting. Logan and Faulds stopped directly opposite. And then a burly figure dressed all in black lumbered her way up the path, carrying a one-woman battering ram.

She placed the striking end against the lock and nodded at Faulds.

The Chief Constable clicked on his Airwave again. 'Team two?'

'
Back garden is secure, we're ready to go in.
'

'OK, everybody on three, two, one--'

The constable swung her battering ram - BANG - the lock tore free of the doorframe and they were in.

Team one took the lounge, team two burst through the back door and into the kitchen, Logan and Faulds hammered upstairs.

Landing:'Clear.' Faulds kicked the bathroom door off its hinges:'Clear.' Bedroom one got the same treatment:'Clear' Bedroom two: the door banged back off the wall. 'Hands on your head! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD NOW!'

Logan charged into the room after Faulds, the machine pistol heavy and cold, even through his gloves.

A naked middle-aged woman was tied to the bed, covered in blood, screaming behind a makeshift gag. The Flesher stood over her, knife in one hand and a slippery chunk of offal in the other, face unreadable behind that rubber Margaret Thatcher mask.

'I SAID, PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!'

The Flesher dropped the knife. He was naked from the waist down, his trademarked butcher's apron draped over an exercise bike in the corner, allowing his erection to swing free.

Faulds pointed his gun at the offending member, and the Flesher slapped both hands over it.

'Other head.'

The muffled shouts from the bed got louder. The woman struggled against her bonds, screaming blue murder as Faulds forced the Flesher to his knees at gunpoint. Logan hurried over and untied the silk scarf gagging her.

'Aaaaagh ... You bastard!'

'It's OK, you're safe! You're safe!'

Faulds dragged the Flesher's hands behind his back and slapped the cuffs on.

The woman writhed, yanking at the silk scarves tying her wrists and ankles to the bedposts. 'You dirty bastard!'

Logan scanned her naked body, trying to figure out where all the bright-red blood was coming from ... only it wasn't blood.

'He's my husband!'

It was tomato sauce.

The press officer sat at Logan's desk in the history room, with her forehead resting on the Formica and her arms wrapped over the top. 'Oh dear Jesus ...'

Faulds leant back against the other desk, still wearing his borrowed SAS ninja outfit. 'When we left she was on the phone to one of those ambulance-chasing lawyers that advertise on the telly.'

The press officer hauled herself upright. 'Why couldn't it have been him? I really thought we'd finally come to the end of this bloody case, and now we've got a lawsuit to deal with.'

Logan finished off his post-incident report and stuck it in the 'out' tray. 'I can't believe she'll go through with it. Can you imagine what the headlines are going to be like? "Police raid kinky serial killer sex games", "Wannabe Flesher caught playing hide the sausage". Not exactly going to get them a lot of sympathy, is it?'

The press officer stared at him. 'They weren't photogenic, were they?'

'Not from where I was standing.'

'That's something, I suppose ...'

'If it helps,' said Faulds, peeling off his bullet-proof vest,'I've got that criminal psychologist coming in tomorrow. We could get him to do a piece on why people who dress up as mass murderers for sexual kicks are a menace to the gene pool?'

'Chief Constable!' She was on her feet like a shot. 'Are you suggesting Grampian Police should lower itself to character assassination just to avoid a lawsuit?'

'Yes.'

She smiled. 'Sounds good to me.'

'What you still doing here?' asked Rennie, plonking himself down on the edge of Logan's desk. Half past eight and the station was gearing itself up for another quiet night of underage drinking and random acts of vandalism.

Logan nodded at the pile of paperwork sent up by Tayside Police. 'Trying to catch up on those two sisters who got grabbed in Dundee.'

'I went on a stag night in Dundee once. Ended up in this strip club and--'

'What do you want?'

'Right.' Rennie clapped his hands together. 'Tonight: Archies, pints. Laura and me are off to a costume party later, but we can stop by for a few drinkies on the way.' He dropped his voice to a camp stage-whisper,'Laura's got this kinky schoolgirl outfit. She put it on last night, and I tell you--'

'Is this going to be one of those conversations where you tell me about your sex life and I fantasize about beating you to death with an office chair?'

'OK, OK.' The constable held his hands up in surrender. 'Jealousy's an ugly, ugly thing.' Pause. 'About you and Jackie: I was thinking--'

'Don't, OK?'

'But you're both mates, I mean I--'

'Just ... don't.' Logan pulled the crime scene photos from the pile and flicked through them.