Flesh House (31 page)

'GET OFF ME!'

Logan staggered to his feet.

Wiseman was lying on his side, coughing up blood and bits of teeth. His face was a mess - nose flattened, one eye bright scarlet and already swelling shut, lip split, a gash on his forehead.

Insch roared again:'I'LL FUCKING KILL HIM!'

Logan glanced round. 'Will you shut him up?'

One of the prison officers braced themselves against the wall, holding on for grim death. 'What d'you think we're trying to do?'

Wiseman's shoulders were shaking - not surprising given the going over Insch had given him ...

And then Logan realized he was laughing. The crazy bastard was actually laughing. The butcher forced words out in a red froth of blood and spittle. 'You're fucked, Fatty. You hear me? Fucked!'

And he was right: there was no way in hell Insch was going to wiggle his way out of this one. He was well and truly fucked.

46

Heather stretched out on the mattress, content and full. She gave a little burp in the darkness then apologized, but Kelley didn't seem to mind.

'The pills helped then? You're sounding a lot better.'

'I feel a lot better.' She'd woken up to the smell of stew - rich and spicy and full of meat. 'Slept like a log.'

'You looked so peaceful.'

Heather rolled over onto her side and felt for the bars. They were cool beneath her fingers. Cool and constant. 'I wanted to be a vet when I was little. Was going to specialize in ponies and kittens.'

'What happened?'

'Didn't get enough O-levels. So what did I end up with? Answering the phone in a bloody insurance agent's.'

Kelley shuffled closer to the bars. 'I wanted to be a pilot, flying to all those exotic places you only saw on telly.'

'Did you?'

'No. Even tried to be an air hostess, but they said I wasn't glamorous enough ...'

They lay there in the Dark.

'Do you think it's too late for me to go back to university and become a vet?'

'Course not. And I'll get my pilot's licence! We'll fly all over the world.'

Heather laughed. Then stuck her hand between the bars and grasped hold of Kelley's. 'And if anyone's got a sick pony or kitten, I can look after it.'

'And we can solve mysteries and marry international jewel thieves!'

'And the jewel thieves will really be princes, and we'll live in a big castle. And have beautiful dresses.'

'And drink champagne every night.'

'And be happy ...' She smiled into the darkness, holding on to Kelley's hand. Maybe life wasn't quite so bad after all. Maybe everything was going to turn out all right.

'What the hell were you thinking?' The Chief Constable paced up and down the boardroom floor, the light flashing back from the shiny silver bits on his black dress uniform. 'I was dragged out of a meeting with the Joint Police Board because one of my senior officers seriously assaulted a murder suspect. In prison. IN BLOODY HANDCUFFS!'

Handcuffed or not, Wiseman had still managed to get a couple of shots past Insch's guard. A dark red scrape sat high on the inspector's cheek, the beginnings of a bruise beginning to blossom around it. 'He provoked me.'

'He provoked ... He was in bloody prison!' The Chief Constable picked up a couple of faxed sheets and hurled them across the table at him. 'You made a formal request in DS McRae's name to interview Wiseman as a suspect. Then you made sure the prison officer left him unattended. Then you assaulted him!'

Logan shifted in his seat and tried not to make eye contact, just in case someone dragged him even further into this mess than he already was.

Insch took the blue chill-pack off his knuckles for long enough to pick up the faxed complaint and give it a brief once over. Then tossed it back down again.

'Well, Inspector?' The CC leant on the table, looming over Insch. 'Care to tell us how this handcuffed prisoner provoked you?'

'He killed my daughter.'

'He ...' The Chief Constable slammed his palm down. 'Have you any idea what you've done? Have you?' He turned and pointed at the Procurator Fiscal. 'Tell him. Tell him what you told me.'

The PF had put on her pink tweed outfit today; the cheery colour didn't go with the expression on her face. 'By assaulting Wiseman in prison you've opened up a line of attack for his defence. Now they can claim your actions prove you'll do anything for revenge. That nothing you say can be trusted.'

'Do you understand, Inspector? You've compromised this case.' The CC turned his back on the room, arms folded, glaring out of the boardroom window. 'Everything you say happened in your house is now suspect in the eyes of a jury. Instead of abduction and torture and illegal imprisonment, we'll be lucky to get causing death by reckless driving!'

Insch nodded. Not saying a word.

'I knew it was a mistake letting you come back to work. Consider yourself suspended without pay.' He turned and addressed Logan. 'I take it Ken Wiseman wants to press charges?'

Logan coughed. 'Well, maybe we--'

'Does he want to press charges?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then we have no choice. Sergeant, take DI Insch down to the cell block and process him.'

'But--'

The CC stopped him with a finger. 'No. No buts. I will not turn a blind eye to one of my officers attacking a prisoner. I want him processed and stuck in a cell until the first available court slot tomorrow. Just like any other criminal.'

'Sir, Wiseman killed his daughter, surely--'

'I'm not going to ask you again, Sergeant.'

'It's OK,' said Insch, hauling himself to his feet,'I'd do the same if it was one of my team.' He stood for a moment in silence. 'Will you have to release him?'

The PF suddenly found the buttons on her pink suit of all-consuming interest. 'We're going to have to talk about that with his solicitor. But it's possible.'

Insch turned and walked from the room.

Logan took Insch's fingerprints and DNA sample in the little breezeblock cupboard laughingly referred to as the 'processing suite' in the basement of FHQ.

'Do you want me to call Miriam?'

The fat man didn't say anything, just picked up the name board and went hunting through the rack of magnetic letters. Holding up,'DAVID INSCH' so Logan could take his photograph.

Click. 'Turn to the right.' Click. 'Turn to the left.' Click ...

'Are you sure you don't want me to call Miriam?'

Insch picked the letters out of his name and put them back where they'd come from, then pushed past, making for the cells.

Logan opened the door to number five, asked Insch for his shoelaces, belt and tie, then got the inspector to empty his pockets into a plastic tray. Five pounds in change. A Swiss Army Knife. A wallet with two twenties, a driver's licence, three credit cards, a Tesco club card, and three photographs: Brigit, Anna, and Sophie.

'I'd ...' Insch cleared his throat. 'The photos ...'

Logan handed them over. 'What photos? I don't remember finding any photos.'

The inspector cupped them in his huge, bruised hand. Running a fat finger over Sophie's picture. 'Thank you.'

He didn't even flinch when Logan closed and locked the door.

PC Jackie Watson was waiting in the corridor outside, looking anywhere but at Logan. 'How is he?'

What was the point of lying?'Fucked up.' He chalked Insch's name on the board beside the door.

'He ...' She tried again. 'They're going to throw the book at him.'

'First offence, mitigating circumstances--'

'Strathclyde finished its review. We found significant shortfalls in his running of the investigation. Insch saw Ken Wiseman's name and decided he was guilty. He ignored procedure, didn't followed up leads. If it wasn't about Wiseman he didn't want to know.'

Logan stared at her. 'He's a good officer.'

'My DCI feels there's a case for negligence.' At least Jackie had the decency to look ashamed.

'But he's Insch!'

'It doesn't matter if he's Nelson Bloody Mandela. He cocked up.'

'So you're going to screw him over?'

'I'm not doing anything. Strathclyde were asked to review--'

'He trusted you.'

She scowled back at him. 'Don't even try to make this about me. Insch was so obsessed with Wiseman--'

'The bastard killed Sophie!'

'That's got nothing to do with it. I'm sorry, it was a horrible thing to happen, but he was obsessed way before that happened. It clouded his judgement.'

'Like you were obsessed with Rob Macintyre?'

Jackie froze. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'I covered for you. I
lied
for you.'

Pause. Two. Three. Four. 'We agreed never to talk about that again. It didn't happen.'

Logan took a step back. 'No. Of course it didn't. Nothing happened.' He looked her in the eye. 'You wanted to know why we split up? That's why. That's when it all went to shite: eighteen months ago. Not the baby, not the miscarriage, it was the night that never bloody happened.'

47

The sound of drunken singing echoed up from the women's cells downstairs as Logan handed over a wax-paper cup of coffee from the canteen. 'Busy tonight.'

Insch shrugged, took an experimental sip, and settled back on the blue plastic mattress. The rubbery coating creaked beneath him. 'Don't suppose you've got anything sweet on you?'

Logan dug out the handful of Quality Street he'd liberated from a big tin in the CCTV room. 'Chocolate might be a bit melty.'

Insch helped himself. The ice pack didn't seem to have helped much - the knuckles on his right hand had swollen up like purple Brussels sprouts. He struggled with the green foil.

'They say anything about how he is?'

'Broken nose. Couple of teeth. Cracked cheekbone.'

Nod. 'They going to let him out?'

'Why did you have to--'

'Are they going to let him out?'

Logan sighed. 'Possibly. Probably. I don't know. It's not looking good anyway.'

Insch finally managed to fight his way into the noisette triangle. 'You know he killed Brooks, don't you?'

'We've been onto the Federation: Big Gary thinks they might stump up the cash to get Hissing Sid to defend you. Maybe barter it down on account of diminished responsibility.'

'Diminished responsibility ...' The inspector picked his way into a toffee coin. 'I compromised the case and now they'll have to let that murdering bastard out on bail.' A predatory smile crept onto Insch's face.

'Sir? Are you OK?'

'You gave me the idea. If he goes down for thirty years I can't touch him. But if he's free ...'

'Don't tell me you did this on purpose!'

'Ken Wiseman's going to disappear.'

'You can't do that! You're a police officer--'

'Was. Was a police officer.' He looked up at Logan, his eyes dark and empty. 'The rules don't apply any more. Ken Wiseman and I are going to spend some quality time together when he gets out.'

Logan backed towards the door. 'No. No way, you're not making me an accessory.'

'You're supposed to be my friend.'

'You're talking about abduction and murder!'

'He killed Sophie. And he killed Brooks, and he killed all those people: hacked them up and--'

'You can't just appoint yourself judge, jury and executioner! There's no evidence he--'

'My wee girl's lying in a fridge in the mortuary with her insides in plastic bags! How's that for bloody evidence?' Insch was on his feet now, his face a thunderous purple in the cell's overhead lighting. 'He'll get out and start killing again. Bastards like Wiseman don't just stop, you know that: it'll never end. You want that on your conscience, Sergeant? Do you?'

'No. But I won't be an accessory to murder.'

Not again.

48

'
Do you have any idea what time it is?' said the woman on the other end of the phone. 'Everyone's locked down for the night - we're not supposed to disrupt their routines. You'll have to call back in the morning
.'

Logan checked his watch. Nearly eleven o'clock. The history room was littered with the 1987 case file - search reports, post mortem reports, IB reports, court transcripts, statements, psychological profiles, plastic bags full of forensic evidence: blood samples, a knife from the McLaughlin's kitchen, a hook from the derelict butcher's shop where their remains were found ...

'I know it's late, but I need to speak to him urgently.' Logan stared at the evidence bag sitting in the middle of his desktop: a square of blood-soaked carpet cut from the boot of Ken Wiseman's car. He'd read the analysis over and over again, trying to find something,
anything
that would keep the butcher in prison where Insch couldn't get at him.

The sound went all muffled - probably a hand over the mouthpiece - and then she was back on the line again.'
Give me your number and we'll call you back.
'

Fifteen minutes later, Logan's mobile rang: HM Prison Peterhead doing as promised. There was some back and forth, then a familiar fake English accent said,'
Detective Sergeant McRae, to what do I owe
--'

'I want to know what Wiseman told you about the woman he killed.'

A pause.'
I don't think it would be very ethical of me to
--'

'You said you talked about her. What did he say?'

'
Do I get my own chef?
'

'What do you think?'

'
Then I don't know anything.
'

'Thought as much. But then you never did, did you? Pretending you're so damn smart, when we all know you couldn't count to eleven with both hands and your dick.'

'
You don't get to say that to me! You don't! I spoke to my therapist and she says you're not allowed to undermine my self-esteem, you're
--'

'Fuck you and fuck your self-esteem, Robertson.' Logan hung up. Trembling. Angry. Feeling sick. He grabbed the carpet and headed for the IB lab on the third floor. Calling Angus Robertson had been a stupid idea.

He got as far as the lab door before his phone went again. HMP Peterhead phoning back.

'
He told me about it, OK? At night, when he thought everyone else was asleep. He told me about cutting her up. How it wasn't like butchering an animal. How the meat didn't lie the same along the bones. How sick it made him feel.
'

'Who was she?'

'
He buried everything out by Bennachie. Said it was all lies: he didn't eat anyone.
'

'Who - was - she?'

'
It was money. I think it was money ... She had something, or was connected to something
...'

'Will you focus? Who did Wiseman kill?'

'
Something ... something about
...' Robertson sounded as if he was on the verge of tears.'
I can't remember
...'

A voice in the background:'
Angus, if this is upsetting you, you can stop. You don't have to do this.
'

'
I don't know who she is. I used to know. I did! I used to know, but now I can't remember.
'

'
It's OK, give me the phone.' Rustle, clunk. 'Hello? DS McRae?
'

'Put Robertson back on: I need a name.'

'
Angus is upset, I
--'

'Oh boo-bloody-hoo. I need to know who Wiseman killed.'

She was obviously trying to keep her voice level.'
He was stabbed a couple of years ago; lost a lot of blood. There were some complications with the anaesthetic during the operation. There are some things he can't remember, it's very frustrating for him.
'

'It's no picnic this end either. I want to know--'

'
I think you could show a little sympathy for a human being in pain, Sergeant.
'

'A fellow human ... He murdered fifteen women and raped their dying bodies! Now put the bastard back on the phone.'

'
That's it - this interview is over. I'll be making a formal complaint about your behaviour, Sergeant. How dare you
--'

'Yeah? Well when he's stabbed you twenty-three times, you can lecture me on my bloody empathy skills.'

But she'd already hung up.

Logan stuck the phone back in his pocket - already starting to feel guilty about acting like an arsehole - and pushed through into the IB lab. They'd obviously not managed to fix the little stereo on top of the freezer, because Radio Two was still playing. Three IB technicians in white lab coats and latex gloves slouched around the central desk, drinking cups of tea and moaning about having to still be there in the middle of the night, testing mounds of mystery meat.

Logan dumped the evidence bag full of carpet on the desktop and asked if someone could do him a quick favour.

Samantha - the Identification Bureau's one and only Goth - brushed a long, dark curl from her pale face, and asked if he was taking the piss. 'We've got about nine million hunks of meat to get through.'

'It's for Insch.'

She prodded the bag with a chewed biro. 'What is it?'

'Blood-soaked carpet from nineteen ninety--'

'Oh Jesus. You not think we've got more urgent stuff to test?'

'It's from Wiseman's car: animal and human. They couldn't separate the DNA strands back then.'

Samantha picked up the bag and peered at the rust-brown contents. 'This stuff's nearly twenty years old.'

'Yes, but you're twenty years brighter than they were.'

'You really think shameless flattery's going to work?'

'Twenty years prettier too ... in a scary
Night of the Living Dead
kind of way.'

She tried to scowl, but a smile broke through. 'You're a rotten sod ...'

'Come on, bump it to the top of the queue. It's important.''

I can't--'

'Very important.'

Sigh. 'OK, OK. I'll see what I can do.

Phone. Ringing. 'Phhhhh ...' Logan tried to sit up in bed, but none of his limbs were working. The answering machine must have kicked in, because there was silence and then a bleeeeeeeeep.

Roll over. Pull duvet into cocoon. Sleep.

The phone started up again.

Logan squinted at the alarm clock: twenty-one minutes past four. He slumped back into the pillows and scrubbed his face with his hands, listening to the phone warble. 'Urrrrgh ...'

He padded through into the lounge, just in time to hear the answering machine finish its pre-recorded invitation to leave a message. The speaker crackled for a moment, and then a woman's voice said,'
Bloody hell, ask someone to do you a favour and
--'

He snatched the phone out of its cradle. 'Hello?'

'
What took you so long?
'

A yawn shuddered it's way free. 'It's half four ...'

'I
managed to separate out the human DNA from the rest of the garbage in your carpet sample, and yes, it was a vast pain in the arse, thank you for asking. Took bloody hours to amplify enough of it to make a viable sample.
'

Logan plonked himself down on the couch. 'Mmmph?' Another yawn.

'
Ran it through the database. Guess what: no direct hit.
'

'Bastard ... Sorry, I suppose it was a long--'

'
No direct hit, but I did get what looks like a familial one.
' She gave it a dramatic count of five before continuing. 'Want to guess who?'

But Logan already knew:'Richard Davidson - he's in Craiginches doing three years for possession, perjury, and aggravated assault. His mum disappeared the night the McLaughlins were killed.' They finally knew what happened to her.

'What? No, Ken Wiseman.
It would have been close enough to look like his blood in the mid nineties when they did the appeal, but it's not. It's female. You're looking for his aunt, mother
--'

'Sister. Kirsty McFarlane. She was supposed to have run off with an electrician eighteen years ago.'

Showered, shaved and feeling like shit, Logan waited for PC Munro to park the pool car, then climbed out into the cold November morning. Half past five and it was still pitch dark, the hollow streetlights glowing like wet gold against the indigo sky.

Munro locked the car and yawned, her breath a thin white cloud as she shook herself. 'Still don't see why this couldn't wait till later ...'

McFarlane's butcher shop had been given another graffiti makeover - four-letter words sprayed all over the plywood sheeting that covered the broken windows.

'I mean, the guy's going to be asleep and--'

'Just ring the doorbell.'

She shook her head, muttering to herself as she stomped up to the butcher's front door, then stopped, staring at the doorframe.

Logan stuck his hands in his pockets and waited. 'Today would be nice.'

'There's dog shite on the bell.' She prodded the door with the toe of her shoe and it swung open. 'Lock's busted. Looks like it's been kicked in.'

All that graffiti:'M
URDERING
B
ASTARD
!','C
ANNIBAL
','D
EATH
'S T
OO
G
OOD
F
OR
Y
OU
!','E
NGLISH
O
UT
' ... Logan told her to call it in. 'Tell them we've got a B-and-E, possibly in progress. Householder's life's been threatened.'

'Oh crap ...' She grabbed the Airwave handset from her shoulder and got onto Control as Logan stepped quietly over the threshold and into the long, dark hallway. The walls were covered in spray paint: profanity, threats, and 'UP THE DONS!'

He stopped at the foot of the stairs.

A faint glow of light broke the gloom from somewhere under the stairs. Logan crept round. It was coming from the internal entrance to the butcher's shop. The door was almost shut, but he could make out a torch shining on a paint-spattered wall. Mumbled singing, the words soft and slurred, the tune unrecognizable.

Logan eased the door open.

McFarlane was dressed up in his butcher's outfit - white coat, blue stripy apron, little white porkpie hat, sloshing petrol from a green plastic can all over the shattered deli counter. He gave a sudden lurch to the left, legs stiff beneath him as he tried to stay upright, getting petrol all down his trousers, and then he was stable again.

'Let me guess,' said Logan, stepping into the devastation,'you're having a going-out-of-business barbecue?'

McFarlane spun round, petrol and legs going everywhere as he slipped and crashed down on his backside. 'We ...' For a second he looked as if he was about to be sick. 'We're shut.' And then he was - all over himself.

The butcher's flat was oppressively warm, which only made the smell worse. McFarlane sat on the immaculate couch, in his immaculate lounge, wearing an apron stained with petrol and vomit. He cradled a silver photo frame against his chest, ignoring the cup of strong black coffee on the table in front of him as Logan introduced PC Munro.

Throwing up seemed to have done McFarlane the world of good. If it wasn't for the stink and the bloodshot eyes he could almost have passed for sober. 'I'm ... I'm sorry ...' He blinked back a tear. 'I didn't know what else to do ... twenty years I spent, building up the business ... I thought if no one got hurt ... I mean it's not as if the insurance company haven't had their pound of flesh from me over the years, is it? ... Place was ruined anyway ...'

'I'm afraid we've got some bad news, Andrew.'

The butcher didn't look up. 'I didn't have any choice ...'

'It's about your wife, Kirsty. We retested the carpet from Ken Wiseman's car boot - the human blood wasn't his, it was Kirsty's.'

McFarlane screwed his face into a knot, clutching the photo tighter. 'She was everything to me. Everything ...'

'PC Munro is a Family Liaison officer, she'll--'

'He killed her.'

'We think so. He told the guy in the next cell--'

'I watched him ... I watched him cut her up ...' He buried his head in his hands and sobbed.

Logan looked from the vomit-soaked butcher to PC Munro and back again. Trying not to grin. They had a witness - after all these years, they
finally
had something on Wiseman.