Flesh House (4 page)

4

I
NTERIOR
:
a cramped office. Two figures out of focus in the background, one emptying a filing cabinet. Chief Constable Faulds stands centre shot wearing a white SOC suit.

T
ITLE
:
Chief Constable Mark Faulds - West Midlands Police

F
AULDS
:
There were corpses all over the country: London, Birmingham, Glasgow, even Dublin. It was like nothing we'd ever seen. He'd break into the victim's houses and butcher them. And I don't mean hack them up, I mean he'd take them apart, turn them into joints of meat. And there was never any clues ... should that be "there were never any clues"?

V
OICEOVER
:
Whatever you're comfortable with.

F
AULDS
:
Feels strange doing this without a script.

V
OICEOVER
:
If you're worried about it, I'm sure DI Insch can--

F
AULDS
:
No, no. Used to do this all the time when I was young. Like riding a bike ... OK, let's take it from "joints of meat". [gives himself a small shake] Every time he struck the papers would give him a new name: the Birmingham Butcher, the Clydeside Ripper. It wasn't till they found Ian and Sharon McLaughlin's remains that he finally got his true name: the Flesher.

[pause]

Does that sound too melodramatic? It does, doesn't it? Shit ... Sorry, I'll start again.

[clears throat]

There were cases all over the country ...

The room smelt of Pot Noodles. It was a small office at the back of FHQ, half-heartedly converted into a makeshift editing suite. Logan stifled a yawn and gazed out of the tiny window. It wasn't much of a view - just a small square of waterlogged car park and the stairs down to the mortuary. You couldn't even see the sky from here.

He'd managed to grab a couple of hours sleep back at the flat, all alone in a cold and empty bed. The place just wasn't the same without Jackie.

There was a strangled
vwipping
noise as Alec rewound the tape and then Faulds' voice crackled out of the TV monitor:
'Shit ... Sorry, I'll start again.'

Alec hit pause, scribbled something down on his notepad, then shovelled another forkful of rehydrated noodles into his mouth. 'Mmmph, mmmph, mmm?'

Logan turned away from the window. 'You've got juice all down your chin, and I can't understand a word.'

Alec chewed, swallowed, then went in for another forkload. 'I said, "do you want to see the press conference?"'

'Not really.'

'No?' Alec tapped a couple of buttons on his bizarrely coloured editing keyboard and Faulds' face was replaced by a crowded room full of journalists. DI Insch, one of the media officers, and Aberdeen's very own Chief Constable were sitting at the front of the room, fielding questions like,
'Why was Ken Wiseman ever released?','How many people has the Flesher killed?','Why didn't Grampian Police make a stronger case against Wiseman in 1990?' and that perennial favourite,'Will there be a public enquiry?'

The camera panned to focus on DI Insch's big pink head. He did not look happy.

Alec pointed at the screen with his fork. 'Look at the expression on his face. Enough to give you nightmares.'

'Welcome to my world.'

'He always been a grumpy fat bastard?' Alec scraped out the last of the noodles, then upended the plastic container into his mouth, sooking out the juice.

'I'm not answering that on the grounds he'd have my balls if he found out.'

'Is it just me,' said Alec,'or does Insch have a thing for bollocks? Every time he threatens anyone it involves their testicles.' The cameraman dropped his empty Pot Noodle carton in the bin. 'Just between you and me, I think he might be a little repressed.'

'Yeah, you tell him that. I'm sure he'll love to hear it.'

'Spoke to my Executive Producer this morning: they're upping my budget. Couple of extra camera crew, more editing time. Think we might even get David Jason to do the voiceover.'

'You must be so proud.'

Alec sighed. 'You're a right ray of bloody sunshine today.'

'So would you be - I've got to go tell Insch we've no idea where Ken Wiseman is.'

There were times when living in Fittie was a pain in the backside. Yes it was all quaint and historical - a tiny seventeenth-century fishing village at the mouth of Aberdeen harbour, the little granite homes arranged around three small squares, facing inwards. Huddling together for warmth. A little slice of history, surrounded by warehouses and mud tanks on two sides, the harbour on the third, and the North Sea on the fourth. Beautiful ... But not being able to park anywhere near the front door was an absolute sod. Grumbling, Heather lowered her bulging plastic bags to the cobbled street and tried to rub some feeling back into her hands. She
should
get herself a bike, one of those little-old-lady ones with the basket on the front. Then she could just cycle up to the supermarket and kill two birds with one stone: get the shopping done, and get rid of some of this bloody baby fat. If you were still allowed to call it baby fat
three years
after giving birth.

She rummaged around inside one of the bags and came out with a bar of Dairy Milk, taking a big bite out of the chocolate and chewing unhappily.

Get a bike and go to Weight Watchers. Maybe that would stop her bloody mother banging on about how fat she looked every time the old bag came to visit. Heather picked up the shopping again.

Tonight she was going to treat herself to a bottle of wine and sod the antidepressants. Maybe there'd even be something good on the telly?

A loud shout sounded somewhere back along the beach, and she sighed. Stupid kids getting into stupid fights over who had the stupidest car. Out Bouley bashing: racing up and down the Beach Boulevard at all hours, in the souped-up hatchbacks their mummies and daddies bought for them. Like chimpanzees marking their territory to the constant background
bmm-tshhhh, bmm-tshhhh, bmm-tshhhh
of their stupid car stereos. And there was no point complaining to the bloody police: dispersal zone her arse ...

God, twenty-five and she was already middle-aged. Wasn't so long ago that she'd been the one out Bouley bashing with her girlfriends, and now look at her: whinging on about loud music and dangerous driving. That was what having a three-year-old did for you. Knackered all the time with no sex-life. Looking forward to
Celebrity X-Factor
on the TV.

One more pause to put the bags down - and then she was outside the front door, rummaging through her cavernous rubbish-tip of a handbag for the house keys.

Justin's pumpkin was sitting on the windowsill, a tealight flickering between the pointy teeth. Of course, she'd done the actual carving, but he'd drawn the face on in blue biro, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in concentration. Strange how one little person could bring so much joy, and so much misery, into the world ...

One more bite of chocolate then she hid the bar away - not wanting Duncan to know she'd been naughty - and let herself into the house.

'Duncan?'

No answer, but she could hear the telly on in the kitchen. Maybe he was making tea for a change?

'Duncan, can you give me a hand with these bags? Sodding things weigh a ton.' She dumped them in the hall and closed the front door behind her. 'You'll never guess who I ran into in Asda: Gillian. You remember? The one who married that guy from the radio and went off to live in Edinburgh?'

Heather shucked off her coat and hung it up, pausing to examine the mess that stared back at her from the mirror. 'Well, he only upped and left her for that bloke who used to do the weather on STV. And she's got three kids!'

She grabbed one of the carrier bags and wandered through into the kitchen. 'Talk about overcompensating ...'

Heather dropped the bag. It hit the deck with a clattering thud, tins of Cock-a-Leekie rolling out across the tiles.

Duncan was on the floor, slumped back against the kitchen cabinets, face bruised and bloody, mouth hanging open, dark crusts of red around his lips and nostrils.

'Oh God, Duncan!' She ran to him, grabbed his shoulders and shook. 'Duncan, what did you do?'

His hands were curled in his lap, the wrists held together with cable-ties.

'Duncan? Duncan: where's Justin? DUNCAN! --'

Something slammed into the side of her head and she sprawled across the tiled floor. Someone was in the house! Another blow to the ribs. Heather dragged her hands up, covering her head as a boot connected with the small of her back.

She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Pain stabbed through her head as someone grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her backwards and--

THUMP - her head battered into the kitchen cupboards. Blood on the handle: she could see it glinting in the spotlights as her head smashed against the cupboard again. The room spun.

Warm.

She spiralled backwards, teeth rattling as her head connected with the tiled floor. Justin ... Her little boy was upstairs ... She'd bought Ready Brek for his breakfast. Justin liked Ready Brek.

CRACK. And her head was bounced off the floor again.

Justin ... A spark went off in the middle of her head. JUSTIN! She had to save Justin! She had to get up right now and--

Black.

--right now. GET UP! She struggled and something heavy landed on her chest. Focus! Get up! Justin needs--

Hands wrapped round her throat and squeezed. She tried to fight back, to pull the hands away, but they were too strong. They--

Black.

--Eyes, go for the eyes! She clawed at her killer's face, but it was smooth, hard. The eyes just holes into nothingness. The thing had no eyes! The thing--

Black.

--NO! Justin needed her! Heather flung a hand out, fumbling across the terracotta tiles. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Tin! A tin of soup! She grabbed it and swung with all her might.

But her fingers wouldn't work. The can barely moved.

It rolled off quietly to lie beside Duncan's foot.

The world got darker, and darker, and darker, and--

Black ...

5

DI Insch looked like an over-inflated marshmallow in his white SOC oversuit. He pretty much filled the tiny lounge on his own, leaving Faulds to perch on the edge of a creaky sofa, while the Identification Bureau finished up in the kitchen. It was only a tiny house in Fittie, but it was stuffed with police photographers, IB technicians, and fingerprint specialists - turning a crime scene into a disaster area.

Logan dug out his notebook. 'Door-to-door turned up nothing - no one saw anyone coming or going from the house last night. Closest we've got are the next-door neighbours: they heard the kid, Justin, crying from about three o'clock this morning. When he hadn't stopped by noon they tried the doorbell. No reply. They've got a key in case of emergencies so they let themselves in ...' Logan's gaze drifted past the inspector's bulk to the blood-spattered kitchen. 'No sign of Mr or Mrs Inglis, but Justin was upstairs in his room. He'd barricaded himself in with a rocking chair and his toy box.'

Faulds picked a silver photo frame off the mantelpiece: mother and child grinning at the camera, the not-so-golden sands of Aberdeen beach stretching away behind them. 'They didn't hear anything last night?'

'Neighbours say the Inglises weren't exactly the most stable of couples. They'd be OK for a couple of months, then they'd go ballistic at one another. Throw things, screaming rows - usually about money - she put him in hospital once with concussion.'

'Hmm ... so we
could
be looking at a domestic here. Fight gets out of hand, someone gets seriously hurt.'

'I've been on to the hospital, no one called Inglis admitted.'

Faulds put the photo back where he'd found it. 'Perhaps she's killed him this time? She needs to get rid of the body, so--'

'Sorry sir, their car's parked about a two-minute walk away. The boot's still full of shopping and there's no sign of blood.

'Well ...' The Chief Constable thought about it. 'The harbour's at the bottom of the road, isn't it? She could have dragged her husband's body down there and thrown him in.'

Insch didn't quite laugh, but it sounded close. 'And then vanished into thin air, leaving her three-year-old son trapped in his bedroom with no food, water or access to a toilet? The poor wee sod had to crap in his wardrobe. No, this was Wiseman. He knows we're on to him and he's escalating again. Just like last time. The Inglises are already dead.'

Darkness. Darkness and slow, numbing pain. God, everything hurt! Her skull throbbed, her throat was full of burning sand ... cramp rampaged down her left leg and she choked back a scream as the muscle convulsed. Screaming only made her throat feel worse.

She rode it out, face screwed up in agony, then tried to work some life back into her limbs. It wasn't easy, not with her ankles strapped together and her wrists bound behind her back. Curled up on a filthy mattress that stank of fear and piss. And meat.

'Duncan?' it came out as a painful croak. 'Duncan, you've got to stay awake ...'

Duncan didn't say anything. He hadn't said anything for at least - what, an hour? Two? It was difficult to tell in the foetid darkness. 'Duncan, you've got a concussion: you have to stay awake!'

They were going to die. They were going to die in the stink and the black and no one would ever find them ... Heather blinked hard. Tears weren't going to help anyone. She had to get out of here. Had to save Justin. Had to find and save her son. And tears weren't going to help.

But she cried anyway.

I
NTERIOR
:
small house in Aberdeen, festooned with ornaments. Two men in the background wearing white SOC coveralls dust for prints.

T
ITLE
:
Chief Constable Mark Faulds - West Midlands Police

V
OICEOVER
:
So what do you think the chances are of finding them alive?

F
AULDS
:
Well, obviously we have to hope, but the reality of the situation is that killers like Wiseman ... I'm allowed to call him a killer on television, aren't I?

V
OICEOVER
:
I think he was acquitted wasn't he?

F
AULDS
:
Yes, but that doesn't really mean anything, does it? Let out on appeal because of a technicality isn't the same as being found not guilty. And he was given another fifteen years for beating that rapist to death in the prison showers.

V
OICEOVER
:
Yeah, but probably better safe than sorry. Or we can film two versions: one where you name Wiseman, one where we just say 'The Flesher'. How about that?

F
AULDS
:
OK. Ahem. [coughs] The reality of the situation is that serial killers in this kind of situation ... hold on, I said situation twice. Can we start over?

Logan and Insch stood in the kitchen, listening to Faulds making a mess of his third take. The inspector shook his head, then closed the door, saying,'Bloody amateurs ...'

The IB had left the place in a mess, as usual. All the surfaces were covered in a thin film of fingerprint powder - black on the kitchen units, white on the granite worktop. Little yellow tags marked the drops of drying blood, a smeared handprint on a kitchen cabinet, a clump of human hair stuck to a door handle, a broken tooth by the fridge-freezer ...

'Look at him, can't even get a simple speech to camera right. How the hell was he ever a professional actor? Unbelievable.' Insch shut the door as Faulds launched into yet another take. 'What's he been saying about the case?'

Logan shrugged. 'Not much. We spent the morning in the morgue watching them poke little chunks of meat. And then we dug out the Flesher files from the archives. There's bloody heaps of--'

'What about me?'

'You? ... er ... nothing.'

Insch scowled at the ruined kitchen, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Logan could almost hear the Machiavellian wheels turning inside that huge pink head.

'I don't get it:' said Logan,'if you can't stand Faulds, why did you ask him up here in the first place?'

'Because that was the deal. If you get a Flesher case, you call in the old investigating team - doesn't matter if you want their "help" or not, the useless sods turn up anyway. And lucky old me: Chief Constable Faulds had nothing better to do.' The inspector brooded for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision.' Call Control: get someone going through the CCTV footage. Whoever took the victims used a car, or a truck, or a van. Find it. And you'd better get the press office to set up a conference. Circulate the Inglises' photos. See if anyone saw anything.' He stopped for a moment, staring at a child's drawing of a ghost surrounded by happy skeletons, pinned to the refrigerator. 'Poor wee sod ... We'll need to talk to the kid. Find out if he saw-- Bloody hell.'

His phone was screeching out 'The Lord High Executioner' from
The Mikado
. Insch pulled the thing out, groaned, then hit the button. 'Hello Gary ... Yes ... Yes I know you did, but-- Because it's an ongoing investigation, that's why ... No ...' he rolled his eyes and stomped out of the kitchen, barging past Faulds and the cameraman on his way to the front door.

He slammed it behind him.

Faulds sighed. 'I see his temper's not improved much.'

'Yes ... well, he's under a lot of pressure, sir.'

'He a good governor?'

Logan thought about it. 'He puts a lot of criminals behind bars.'

'Which is a diplomatic way of saying, "utter bastard".'

He couldn't argue with that.

The press conference was not a happy place. As soon as the prepared statement had been read the savaging began: Wiseman was on the loose, people were dying and apparently it was all Grampian Police's fault. The Chief Constable went straight into damage limitation mode, but it didn't take a genius to tell what tomorrow's headlines were going to be like.

When the briefing was finally over, Logan told Insch the good news:'Social says we're OK to speak to the Inglis kid, but we need to keep it brief.'

'Good. You can--' Insch's phone was ringing again. 'Bloody hell, leave me alone!' He pulled it out and took the call. 'Insch ... Yes, Gary we're sure it's him ... no, we-- No. I can't. You know I can't, we went over this! ... But ... I don't see what that could--' The fat man sighed. 'Yes, yes I'll try ... I said I'll try, Gary. OK.' He hung up and swore.

Logan waited for Insch to explain, but the inspector just stuffed the phone back in his pocket and lumbered off towards the lifts.

It was meant to be a non-threatening environment: the walls painted a cheerful shade of yellow; Monet prints; two comfy sofas; a coffee table; a standard lamp; a widescreen television; and a box of battered plastic toys. But it still managed to be bloody depressing.

Back in the early days people would sneak down here in their breaks to sit on the sofa, drink their coffee, and watch reruns of
Columbo
on the telly. Then one by one they stopped coming, preferring the scarred formica of the canteen to the soft furnishings. There was something about listening to someone sobbing as they tried to tell you about the man who raped them, or the grown-up who made them do dirty things, that really took the 'happy' off a room.

A small boy in pirate-print pyjamas was sitting in the middle of a bright green rug, holding onto a tatty stuffed dog as if his life depended on it, and sneaking glances at the video camera in the corner. A child psychologist slumped on one of the couches, half-heartedly trying to build a house out of Lego. She didn't stop when Logan and Insch entered.

The kid froze.

'Hello,' said Insch, easing his massive bulk down till he was sitting cross-legged on the rug,'my name's David. What's yours?'

Nothing.

So Insch tried again,'I'm a policeman.' He pulled a handful of bricks and a little blue Lego man from the box, clicking them together surprisingly quickly for someone with such huge fingers. 'Do you like boats? I'll bet you do, living down in Fittie. Bet you see lots of boats.'

Justin looked up at the dead-fish eye of the camera, then back at Insch and nodded.

'Good,' the inspector smiled,'I like boats too.' He grabbed another lot of little plastic bricks, a passable fishing trawler taking shape in his hands. 'So, do you want to tell me your name, or shall we call you ...' Insch thought for a moment. 'Logan? Would you like that?'

The wee boy shook his head.

'Quite right too, it's a poopy name.' said Insch, ignoring the mutters of protest behind him. 'I bet your name's much cooler.'

'Justin.' Barely a whisper. But at least the kid was talking. And slowly the inspector teased the story out of him: how his daddy had picked him up from day-care, because his mummy was out shopping. They'd had fish fingers and beans and mashed potatoes for tea and done the washing up, then daddy was going to cook something for mummy called 'beef burnt onions'. Then the doorbell went and daddy answered it and someone came in and daddy fell over and hit his head on the coffee table. Then the someone gave Justin a whole packet of Maltesers and sent him to bed. Then the bad thing happened and Justin had to hide in his wardrobe till it got stinky, because his doggie did number twos in there. He held the stuffed dog up so Insch could see how naughty it had been.

'And what did the someone look like?' Insch asked, after telling the dog it shouldn't poop in people's wardrobes.

'He looked like a stripy man with a scary face.'

The inspector produced a sheet of paper, unfolding it to reveal a picture of ex-Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. 'Is this--'

Justin screamed and hid behind his naughty dog.

'Yeah,' Insch put the picture back in his pocket,'she has that effect on a lot of people.'