Flesh House. Stuart MacBride

      ‘We didn’t—’

      ‘Stuffed chunks of her in the freezer like she was nothing more than joints of bloody meat.’

      ‘I never—’

      ‘I had to tell her parents!’

      McFarlane slapped both hands over his ears. ‘Stop it!’

      ‘You didn’t even leave them enough for a decent burial.’

      ‘I DIDN’T KILL ANYONE! It wasn’t me! Ask him! Ask Ken! He’ll tell you—’

      ‘Oh we intend to, Mr McFarlane, soon as we catch him. And we’d also like a word with your wife …’ Faulds checked his notes, ‘Kirsty.’

      McFarlane’s face went fish-belly pale between the bruises. ‘She left me.’

      ‘We know that: where is she now?’

      ‘I … I don’t know.’ He stared at the tabletop. ‘She ran off with an electrician called Neil, OK? You happy?’

      ‘Not even vaguely.’ Faulds pushed his chair back and stood, towering over the shivering butcher. ‘I hope you’ve got a good lawyer, Mr McFarlane, because you’re going to need one.’

       12

      ‘You really think he’s involved?’ asked Logan as they drove back to FHQ.

      Faulds didn’t look round, watching the grey granite buildings drifting past instead. ‘Don’t tell me you bought all that, “It wasn’t me” crap.’

      The radio was on in the background: Jamie McLaughlin being interviewed on Northsound 2 about his book and the hunt for Ken Wiseman. ‘Did you ever dream when you wrote Smoak With Blood that it would all happen again?’

      ‘McFarlane just doesn’t seem …’ Logan frowned. ‘I don’t think he’d be any use. And from what I hear, Wiseman’s not the kind to carry passengers.’

      ‘Not in my worst nightmares. You know, Damien, when the appeal court overturned his conviction in 1995—’

      ‘And if McFarlane is involved, why didn’t we find any forensics in his flat, or his car? The amount of blood at the scene – we should have found something.’

      ‘—it was like everything I’d ever believed in was a lie. And now here we go again, right back where we started.’

      Faulds sighed. ‘I know.’

      ‘Right, I suppose we’d better have a record, then we’ll be back with Jamie McLaughlin, author of Smoak With Blood …’

      Logan joined the tail end of a queue of traffic, shuffling its way down Market Street. ‘What does it mean, “Smoak”?’

      ‘Soak, I think. Or something like that. Comes from a painting in Trinity Hall, where the Aberdeen trades meet. We interviewed pretty much everyone involved there during the original investigation – bizarre place, full of all this historical stuff and ancient paintings. We should probably pay them another visit, see if any of the 1990 suspects are still around …’ And then he started humming along to the song on the radio, just off-key enough to set Logan’s teeth on edge. The torture didn’t stop till the record did.

      ‘You’re listening to Northsound Radio Two, and I’m in the studio with Jamie McLaughlin—’

      ‘You know,’ said Faulds, ‘you should read Jamie’s book. It’s a good insight into what happened in eighty-seven. Remind me when we get back to the station, I’ll lend you my copy.’

      ‘And I understand sales of the book have rocketed?’

      ‘Then we’ll get that trip to Trinity Hall organized.’

      ‘—guilty about it, but the publishers have been swamped. There’s talk of a television series on Channel Four, and a new book to accompany it.’

      Faulds drummed his fingers on the dashboard. ‘And we should try a search for McFarlane’s missing wife as well. PNC, census records, Friends Reunited: the usual.’ He started up the painful humming again.

      ‘It’s weird, I don’t want to profit from other people’s misfortune, but … but it feels like my whole life’s been shaped by Ken Wiseman and the murders he commits.’

      ‘Dig out her statement when you get a minute. Should be on file somewhere. Probably a load of old bollocks about how her brother wouldn’t hurt a fly, but you never know. And then we’re going to book a restaurant; haven’t had a decent curry since I got here.’

      ‘I just have to pray that they catch him before he kills again—’

      Amen to that.

      ‘God, look at them,’ said Rennie, whispering like some sort of naughty schoolboy, talking behind the teacher’s back, ‘I’ll bet they’re figuring out how to blame this on someone else.’

      DI Insch, DI Steel and CC Faulds, stood at the front of the incident room arguing quietly amongst themselves.

      Rennie sniffed. ‘Not like it’s our fault is it? Insch should have called in the Environmental Health people from the start.’

      He was right, but Logan didn’t want to be overheard agreeing with him. ‘What happened to you last night then?’

      The constable grinned. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

      Logan thought about it, said, ‘Not really,’ and went back to his paperwork.

      ‘OK, OK, I’ll tell you.’ Rennie scooted his chair closer. ‘Her name’s Laura and we were at it all night. It ever becomes an Olympic sport, that girl could bonk for Scotland. She could suck a bowling ball through a garden hose.’ He sighed, happily. ‘Think I’m in love.’

      ‘It’s like Romeo and Juliet.’

      ‘Only with lots and lots of condoms.’

      The discussion at the incident board was getting heated, DI Insch heading his usual shade of beetroot.

      ‘What’s the book at?’ asked Logan, as Insch placed a huge finger in the middle of Faulds’s chest and poked.

      ‘Six hundred for lamping someone, three hundred for a heart attack.’

      ‘You’re taking bets on when Insch’ll have a heart attack now? What the hell is wrong with you people?’ Logan shook his head. Then put ten quid on the inspector punching someone before the week was out. From the look of things, it was probably going to be Chief Constable Mark Faulds.

      Insch turned and stormed out of the room, followed a beat later by DI Steel and an angry-looking Faulds. Maybe the end of the week was a little conservative: Logan doubted Insch would last till the end of the day.

      ‘Three cups of tea, two rowies and an Eccles cake.’ DC Rennie stuck the tray on top of a mound of dusty archive boxes, then helped himself to one of the cowpat-shaped discs of flour, lard, butter and salt, chewing as he handed out the mugs.

      Faulds accepted his with an exasperated smile – still on the phone with his Deputy Chief Constable. ‘I know it is, Arthur, but it’s the same every year …’ He grabbed the other rowie, lumbering Logan with the Eccles cake.

      The room looked even smaller than it had when Faulds had claimed it for his own yesterday, marking his territory with a laminated sheet of A4 taped to the door: ‘FLESHER HISTORY ROOM’. Someone kept sticking Post-it notes on it with, ‘ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE’ scrawled on them – it looked like DI Steel’s handwriting. The walls were lined with stacks of file boxes going back twenty-five years, each one representing another Flesher victim. Newcastle, Glasgow, London, Dublin, Manchester,