Flesh House (36 page)

57

Logan tried HM Customs and Revenue, but no one would speak to him without a warrant. It was the same story at Elizabeth Nichol's bank, so he gave up and put a call through to the PC they'd left guarding the woman's ruined home - asking him to have a poke about and see if he couldn't find any payslips or bank statements.

Twenty minutes later the constable was back with the name of a haulage firm in Inverurie and a complaint about the number of journalists and TV people crawling all over Nichol's street.'
Had to chase two of the bastards out the back garden. Bit of backup would be nice!
'

Logan said he'd see what he could do, hung up, and tried the hauliers.

'
Hello, Garioch United International Distribution Limited, hope you're having a GUID day. How may I direct your call?
'

It took a while, but eventually Logan managed to persuade her to put him through to someone in charge.

'
Oh for God's sake. What now?
'

'Mr Arthur? This is Detective Sergeant--'

'
Don't you people have anything better to do? I told your colleague everything, OK? Now if you don't mind, I've got a golf game at--
'

'Who did you speak to?'

'
A woman. What's her name
...' There was some rustling at the other end.'
Michelle? No, Munro. Wanted to know about someone who used to work here. Elizabeth Nichol
'

'Used to?'

'
We had to let her go a couple of months ago. Shame: been with us eight years ... Look I've been through all this already and
--'

'What did she do?'

'
Driver. Trucks and vans. Used to do a lot of Eastern Europe drops for us, before we lost the bloody contract
.'

Which explained the collection of unpronounceable snow globes.

'What else did you tell PC Munro?'

'
She wanted a list of all Elizabeth's trips: destinations, clients, dates and stuff. As if we haven't got anything better to do than
--'

'You do understand she's missing, don't you? She's been abducted, her house trashed, there's a policewoman missing too: both their lives are at risk. I think that's a little more important than a round of bloody golf, don't you?'

There was an embarrassed silence, and then,'
What do you need?
'

'Everything PC Munro asked for, and a list of all your employees too. One last thing: Do you know Ms Nichol well?'

'
She's OK. Bit soft at times, you know, all that charity work and stuff. Forever doing sponsored this and fund-raising that
.' Pause.'
She really been abducted?
'

'Yes.' Logan dug a notepad out of his piles of paperwork and started asking questions.

By the time Faulds put in an appearance, Logan was scribbling things up on the whiteboard. 'Cup of tea?' asked the Chief Constable. 'I got packet of custard creams.' He dumped a Markie's plastic bag on his desk and peeled off his jacket. 'Bloody chucking it down out there.'

Logan stepped back and looked at his handiwork - a list of Elizabeth Nichol's friends and acquaintances. It wasn't exactly comprehensive, but it was all he could get out of the combined personnel at Garioch United International Distribution. At least now they had somewhere to start putting together a timeline of Elizabeth's last movements. He'd put another two columns on the side: one headed 'B
ROTHER
[?] J
IMMY
' the other, 'S
ISTER
[?] K
ELLEY
' With a couple of question marks under each.

Still no word from Rennie.

'I said, do you want a cuppa?'

'What?' Logan turned away from his scribblings. 'Oh, thanks. How did you get on with Professional Standards?'

'Thought my days of worrying about the rubber-heelers were long gone ...' Faulds peered at the board,'Who the hell are Garry-otch United thingumy?'

'It's pronounced, "Geeree" - the area round Inverurie - Elizabeth Nichol works ...
worked
there.'

'Geeree? Then why the hell's it spelt "Garry-otch"?' He went round the office picking up the dirty mugs, muttering,'Honestly, that's what's wrong with this bloody country: all the road signs are designed to make visitors look like arseholes ...' on his way out the door.

Logan tried Rennie on his mobile phone - the clank and scrape of cutlery on crockery, some swearing, then the constable was on the line:'
I'm having my lunch, OK?
'

'Jimmy and Kelley Nichol.'

'
I'm allowed lunch, aren't I? Even bloody mass murderers get lunch
.'

'Did you find them?'

'
No. Tried every spelling I could think of but they're not in the PNC, or on the electoral register. Maybe they emigrated because someone wouldn't let them eat their fish pie in peace?
'

Logan hung up and tried himself, but Rennie was right: there was no sign of Jimmy or Kelley in the Police National Computer.

He widened the search, looking to see if he could pick up Elizabeth's birth records, but the database didn't go back that far. So he tried her parents' details instead. Munro had left their names - Edward and Sheila - when she'd called in her final update on Thursday afternoon. Probably one of the last things she'd done before the Flesher grabbed her.

According to the PNC, Edward and Sheila both died in a car crash in 1970. So that was no bloody ...

Edward and Sheila - car crash ... Logan sat back in his seat and tried to figure out why that sounded familiar. Something to do with Steel and Alec and dead men with humorous facial hair ...
couldn't have kids of his own so they adopted a little girl from a broken home
...

Logan grabbed his phone and went hunting through his notebook, wanting contact details for the little old man who'd shown them around Trinity Hall.

The Fleshers' Boxmaster picked up on the fourth ring:'
EWAN MORTON SPEAKING
.' The familiar up and down lilt of a Fife accent.

'Mr Morton? It's DS McRae, we met last week? You were telling me about your mentor--'

'
Oh, yes, Sergeant McRae. I've been following the case in the papers. Dreadful isn't it?
'

'Your mentor: Edward, what was his last name?'

'
Nichol. Edward Nichol
.' Pause.'
Why?
'

'And the girl he adopted?'

'
Elizabeth? Lovely girl, she was at our silver wedding anniversary and--
'

'Did Elizabeth ever talk about her brother and sister?'

'
She didn't have-- Oh, you mean from before they adopted her. She used to have nightmares about her brother. I remember Edward saying she'd wake up screaming in the middle of the night. From what I gathered he took after their ... what is it they call them these days? ... Biological father? She had a pretty rough time growing up, so
--'

'Do you know what her original name was?'

The old man was starting to sound a little flustered.'
I ... no. I can't ... look, what's all this about?
'

'It's important.'

A sigh.'
I think it was someone associated with the trade, but not in the trade, if that makes sense? I know it wasn't another member
.'

'Can you find out for me?'

'
What? Well ... I'm supposed to be seeing my chiropodist
--'

'Thought you always wanted to help with a murder investigation.'

Ewan Morton's singsong voice grew an edge of steel.'
Don't worry, you can count on me
.' And to hell with his bunions.

The Fleshers' Boxmaster was as good as his word. Twenty minutes later he was back on the phone, sounding out of breath.'
Had to go to ... had to go to Trinity Hall ... Went ... went through all the minutes from ... from 1966
.' He went quiet for a while.

'Mr Morton? Are you OK?'

'
Just a little angina ... The minutes show that Edward adopted the daughter of a man called James Souter. He wasn't a member of the Fleshers, but he worked in a slaughterhouse as a butchery assistant
.' Another pause, and this time Logan could hear the puff of an inhaler in the background.'
It says here he had an industrial accident - sleeve caught in a bit of machinery, lost most of his arm. The Council took Elizabeth into care and Edward adopted her
.'

Logan was scribbling in his notebook. 'What about her sister and brother: any mention of what happened to them?'

'
Erm ... no, just Elizabeth
.'

'OK, thanks, you've been a great help.' Logan was about to hang up when he realised there was something he hadn't asked:'The slaughterhouse where Souter worked, what was it called?'

'
It was on the site of that big new place. What's it called ... mind's going ... the one in Turriff? Been in all the papers?
'

'Alaba Farm Fresh Meats.' Bingo.

'
Aye, that's the one. Never did understand why they couldn't spell "Alba" properly. You'd think someone would have said
.'

Logan barged into the main incident room. DCS Bain was deep in conversation with Faulds, while Wee Fat Alec played with his lens cap - on, off, on, off.

Logan marched over and Faulds looked up, smiled, and held out a mug of tea. It was cold. 'Ah, just in time. I want to get your opinion on--'

'We've got a suspect.'

'Oooh! Wait, not yet ...' Alec pressed buttons and fiddled his focus. 'Aaaaand ... Action!'

Bain scowled at him. 'What have I told you about that?'

'Sorry. Force of habit.'

'Jimmy Souter: he's Elizabeth Nichol's brother. Their father worked at the Turriff abattoir. Maybe Goulding was right: he's been building up to taking revenge on his sister.'

'What?'

'Mother abandons them; father loses an arm in an industrial accident; Elizabeth gets taken into care and adopted. She got a loving family, he got stuck at home with a violent, alcoholic father.' It hadn't taken long to dig up Daddy Dearest's criminal record: drunk and disorderly, assault, criminal damage, child endangerment, a couple of what they used to call 'domestic incidents' - one involving a frying pan full of bacon fat. It wasn't surprising the mother left. Just a shame she hadn't taken her kids with her.

'And does this Jimmy Souter have prior?'

'We don't know.' This was the bit that Logan wasn't so happy about. 'I can't find him anywhere - chances are he was adopted too, so he'll have a different surname now. I've got Rennie going through all the children's homes in Grampian for any record of him, Elizabeth, or their sister Kelley.'

Bain turned and asked Faulds what he thought, but Logan wasn't finished yet:'I did a search on the father: James Souter.

He's wasting away in a hospice up the coast, but he still owns a house. It's one of the dilapidated ones that backs onto Alaba Farm Fresh Meats. Number three.'

Bain grabbed a phone off the desk and put the call through to Control: they were going now, and they were going mobhanded.

58

Logan put his foot down, doing eighty on the twisting A947 north out of Dyce, lights and sirens blaring. Three vans - all loaded down with firearms-trained officers - two patrol cars and a couple of CID's scabby Vauxhalls, with Logan struggling to keep up at the tail-end of the convoy. Faulds was in the passenger seat, holding on for dear life, while Alec sat in the back, bouncing from side to side like an unattractive ping pong ball. He'd brought a friend with him: someone called 'Mike' from the BBC, there to watch his back when he went in with the firearms team. As if a dozen heavily armed officers wasn't going to be enough protection.

They went through Newmachar at full speed, then roared up the windy road to Oldmeldrum, tractors and four-by-fours getting out of their way.

Constant radio chatter.

Logan turned it down and asked Faulds to put a call through to Control. 'Get them to send someone out to Elizabeth Nichol's place - she might've been in contact with her brother. Tell them they're looking for photo albums, letters, postcards. Anything that might tell us where he lives.'

Faulds released his death grip on the dashboard for long enough to pull out his mobile phone. 'Why are we always trying to break the bloody sound barrier?' He punched a couple of numbers into the phone and gave a small squeal as Logan threw the car round the last bend and they hammered into Oldmeldrum, the convoy roaring straight through and out the other side.

Past Fyvie, Birkenhills, and Darra without even slowing down, and on to Turriff. The sky was almost black, golden shafts of sunlight spearing through gaps in the heavy cloud, making the little market town glow.

They killed the sirens as they passed the swimming pool, just the flashing lights to warn Saturday afternoon shoppers out of the way - not wanting to give Jimmy Souter too much advance warning.

'Kelley?' Heather whispered into the darkness. 'Kelley, can you--'

The door creaked open, spilling light into the cell, catching Heather kneeling on the mattress, holding onto the bars. She tried to duck, but it was too late: He was standing in the doorway staring at her, the front of His butcher's apron stained dark red.

She turned to ask Kelley ... but Kelley wasn't there - Heather was alone in the little metal cocoon.

There was a wheelbarrow sitting in the dirt corridor behind Him, and Heather could make out a tuft of blonde hair poking over the edge, white and red bones sticking up into the dank air.

'Oh God ...' How long had she been asleep?

The Flesher pointed at her, then at His stomach, head tilted to one side in question.

Heather's eyes went back to the wheelbarrow. 'Is that ... is that Kelley?'

The Flesher shook His head and pointed a blood smeared finger down the corridor. Where PC Screams-A-Lot had been. He did the stomach thing again.

'Yes, I'm hungry.'

He nodded, stepped back outside, picked up the barrow's handles and walked it out of view. The wheels squeaked away into the silence.

'
Do you think He's killed her?
' Duncan stepped through the bars, pausing on the threshold to look up and down the corridor.

'I ...'

'
Be a shame, that. She was nice
.'

'
Maybe
,' said Mr New,'
He's put her in the policewoman's cell?
'

'
Why would He do that? Unless He's going to kill and eat her?
'

'
Good point
.'

'He can't: she's my friend!'

'
Now, now, Darling,
' her Mother said,'
No point crying over spilt milk, is there? Or blood
.'

Heather clamped her hands over her ears. 'She can't be dead!'

'
Why not? We are
.'

Tears. 'She can't ...'

'
You know
,' said a new voice, one Heather hadn't heard before,'
you've still got the knife
...' And suddenly Duncan, Mother, and Mr New were gone.

She turned, but there was no one there. 'Hello?'

Just the empty metal cell.

Heather slid her hand underneath the mattress for the forgotten knife. The blade shone pale blue in the dim light that filtered in from the corridor outside.

'
There you are
,' said the voice,'
all you need to do is slip that into His guts when He comes back
.'

'I've never killed anyone ...'

'
If He's hurt Kelley, doesn't He deserve to die?
'

'But I'll be trapped in here.'

'
Oh, I'm sure He has the keys on him ... In fact, is it even locked? You've not checked for ages, have you?
'

Heather's eyes drifted across the bars to the heavy Yale padlock. 'Who are you?'

'
Who do you think I am?
'

And suddenly Heather knew. 'You're the Dark.'

'
The knife, Heather. That's how it works. If you want to be my favourite, you have to use the knife
.'

'But ...' She stepped across to the small gate set into the bars and reached up for the padlock. The Dark was right: it wasn't even locked.

Heather sat down on the mattress, the knife cold and vibrant in her hands. The Dark wanted her to do it. Kill the Flesher and be the favourite. Save Kelley. Take His place at the top of the food chain. Live forever in the Dark ...

A clunk and He was back, carrying a plate of food that smelt delicious. Liver, onions and creamy mashed potatoes.

He stepped up to the bars and Heather tightened her grip on the knife.

The abattoir car park was nearly full. The sounds of cattle and sheep echoed out from round the back of the huge building, where the unloading docks and pens were. Alaba Farm Fresh Meats was back in business. The convoy slipped past and up the small road on the other side - the one flanked with five dilapidated and deserted houses: their windows boarded-up or broken; gardens overrun with weeds and yellow grass; their red sandstone walls stained and blackened, glistening in the headlights.

The vans bounced to a halt on the potholed road. Then the doors were flung open and armed officers piled out, charging up to number three in the growing gloom.

Logan sat in the car with his fingers crossed, watching as the firearms team took their positions. Alec and his minder from the BBC bringing up the rear.

Warped plywood sheets covered the downstairs windows. The door looked as if it hadn't been touched in twenty years - the paint blistered away by weather and time, until there was nothing but grey wood left. The portable battering ram sent it flying inwards.

The black-clad figures swarmed inside.

Heather wasn't sure where the noise came from, but the Flesher looked up, His dark eyes invisible in the depths of the mask. Staring at the ceiling.

She slipped the knife out from behind her back and slid it into His belly, all the way up to the hilt. Hot blood poured over her hand, making the handle slippery and sticky at the same time as she pulled the blade out and plunged it back in again. And again. And again.

The Flesher didn't even make a sound.

The place was a mess: rotting carpet sending up clouds of dust as the firearms team swept through the building. Detective Constable Simon Rennie lurched into what had to be the lounge, the torch attached to his machine pistol picking details out of the darkness: a mouldering sofa; a couple of disintegrating armchairs; a fireplace full of broken crockery; windows boarded over.

He did the little nimble-toed dance they'd taught him during the firearms course - a swift three-sixty turn that covered all four corners of the room - then off round the furniture while someone else watched the door. 'Clear.'

Voices sounded in his earpiece:'
Upstairs is clear
.''
Kitchen: clear
.''
Bathroom: clear
.'

That only left the cellar.

Rennie joined the rest of the team at the door leading down from the kitchen. It was much brighter in here, thanks to the spotlights on Alec's TV camera, showing up the mouldy wallpaper, rotting table, brown-stained sink, curling linoleum floor.

'OK,' said the sergeant in charge,'we go on three. Rennie, Caldwell: you're on point. No mistakes and no getting shot, understand?'

'Yes ma'am.'

'On three: One ... two ...'

The Flesher looked down at Heather's hand - wrapped around the handle of the knife - then up into her eyes. Deep within those lifeless rubber sockets, Heather could see something glint as He cocked His head to the side and stared at her.

He stepped back from the bars, placed the plate with the liver and onions within easy reach, turned and left. He didn't bother closing the door.

Heather's legs gave way and she collapsed onto the mattress, still clutching the knife in her blood-soaked hand.

'
Honey, are you OK?
'

The Dark had been testing her.

It told her to stab Him and she had. It promised she'd be the favourite ... it
promised
.

'
Only you look like you've seen a ghost
.'

Maybe there was something wrong with the knife? She ran her thumb along the edge, pressing just hard enough to break the skin, and felt no pain. Pressed harder, till the blade sliced through the pad and scraped along the bone. Her blood mingling with His.

'
Seriously, you should lie down
.'

'He can't die ... He's part of the Dark, he's eternal.'

'
Ah
...' Duncan smiled.'
Only just figured that out, have you?
'

Heather held her thumb up, watching the cut surface ooze. 'Blood to blood.'

'
I know what you're thinking, but--
'

'Now
I'm
part of the Dark. I passed the test.'

'
Heather--
'

She laid the point of the blade against her stomach, just above her bellybutton.

'
Come on, Honey
,' Duncan knelt in front of her,'
Don't do this
.'

'Blood to blood.' She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and plunged the knife in. Once. Twice. Three times. Ripping it back and forth, slashing herself wide open, staining the mattress dark, shining red.

'
The knife's not real
.'

Stabbing, stabbing, stabbing ...

A dry hand wrapped around her own, holding it still.'
Heather, it's not real. You're imagining it
.'

She opened her eyes, looked down at her stomach. Nothing broken, nothing torn. Not even a drop of blood on her hands. 'But ... but the knife ... the Dark said ...' Feeling the tears start to come. 'The knife ...'

'
Shhh ... it's OK
.' Duncan wrapped her in his arms, holding her close.

'But it was real! It was--'

'
Shhhhhhh ... you've gone mental, remember? There never was a knife
.' He kissed the top of her head as she cried.'
It's just what's left of your mind playing tricks on you. Like talking to dead people
.' He placed a finger under her chin and tilted her head up until she was looking into his beautiful eyes.'
Even I'm not real
.'

'I don't want to be crazy ...'

He kissed her, then told her it was too late to worry about that now.