Flesh House. Stuart MacBride

way through his rowie, staring at the death board as Logan pinned up another victim in chronological order.

      ‘So,’ said the constable, pausing to suck his fingers clean of grease, ‘Wiseman’s a chubby chaser then?’

      Logan pulled out the crime scene photo that went with the face – another kitchen splattered with blood – and stuck it on the board. ‘What?’

      Rennie pointed at the photos. ‘All the women: chunky. Most of the blokes too. Not wanting to speak ill of the dead and that, but the whole lot look like they could have done with a few less pies.’

      Logan opened a box file from Northumbria Police and dug about for the next victim. ‘If he’s killing them for meat, he’ll want a reasonable covering of flesh, won’t he?’

      Rennie shook his head. ‘Fat people got the same amount of muscle as thin ones, it’s just buried under lots of lard. I saw a programme on it. Mind you, my mum always says that when you’re cooking stuff, fat’s where all the flavour is.’

      ‘Thank you for that startling insight.’

      Logan looked at the Chief Constable, but he was still on the phone, laying on the calm and reasonable with a trowel: ‘Arthur, you’re perfectly capable of making the decision on your own … No … Arthur, if I didn’t think you were the best man for the job I wouldn’t have picked you …’

      ‘Do you think he roasts or fries them?’

      ‘You’re supposed to be going through the door-to-doors.’

      ‘Yeah, but it’s all twenty years out of date.’

      ‘Don’t whinge.’

      ‘But I’m bored.’ Rennie struck a pose. ‘Shouldn’t be in here, pawing through ancient history, I should be out there: fighting crime! I’m a lean, mean, detecting machine!’

      ‘You’re an idiot.’ Logan went back to the box and pulled out the coroner’s report. A small stack of glossy eight-by-tens slithered out, scattering across the grubby carpet tiles. Logan swore and started picking them up – each one showed a joint of meat, photographed from various angles as it defrosted.

      The victim’s picture was paper-clipped onto the scene of crime report. Logan put it up on the board with the others. Rennie was right – twice in one day, something of a record – every one of Wiseman’s victims was overweight. Not obese, but not skinny either.

      He worked his way through all the case files until the wall of death was complete. A collage of blood and pain that stretched all the way from a Glasgow shopkeeper in 1983 to Valerie Leith yesterday. All overweight. Other than that, Wiseman’s victims had nothing in common. They weren’t all blonde or brunette, nearly fifty per cent were men, some were Asian, one couple in Newcastle were from Trinidad, and yet something had brought them all into contact with Ken Wiseman. Something that meant the difference between a long and happy life, and a chunk of flesh in a morgue photograph.

      The crime scenes were a lot more regular – soaked bright red, or just signs of a struggle. A joint of meat left in the freezer as a parting gift.

      Logan stopped at the photo of the Leiths’ kitchen, remembering the hot copper smell. How could one person contain so much blood?

      ‘Bloody hell …’ Faulds flipped his mobile phone shut and stuck it back in his pocket. ‘Never become a chief constable, Logan. Yes, it sounds like a bundle of laughs: fancy uniform, people saluting, dancing girls, but it’s a royal pain in the backside.’ He covered his face with his hands and slumped back in his chair. ‘I have to go back to Birmingham. Tonight.’

      ‘But Wiseman’s—’

      ‘I know, I know: he’s going to call the BBC back and set up that interview, and we’ll come down on him like a ton of bricks. And I won’t be there, because no one wants to be responsible for policing bonfire night.’ He pulled his hands away, swore, and put them back again. ‘I am a lily, floating on a cool pond …’ Faulds sat up. ‘It’s no good; I’m going to have to go. The buck stops here, after all. Can you get someone to run me over to the airport?’

      Rennie nearly exploded out of his seat. ‘I’ll take you!’ Anything to get out of going through mounds of dusty paperwork.

      Logan went back to his post mortem report.

      The incident room door nearly banged off its hinges as DI Insch barged into the room. Glaring. ‘Where the hell’s that useless bastard Rennie?’

      Logan closed his eyes and counted to three, but Insch was still there when he opened them again. So much for wishful thinking. ‘He’s taking Faulds to the airport.’

      ‘He’s supposed to be reviewing case files!’

      ‘The Chief Constable pulled rank.’ Not strictly true, but it might save Rennie an ear-bashing when he got back. ‘You want me to pass on a message?’

      ‘Tell him I’m running this investigation, not Faulds. Remind him that I’ll rip his balls off and stuff them down his throat if he ever disappears without my say-so again! Understand?’

      Logan held up his hands. ‘Nothing to do with—’

      ‘In the meantime I want a rundown of all sex offenders over forty with a history of serious assault.’

      Logan checked the clock on the wall. Twenty past four, forty minutes to go till he was off duty. ‘Actually, sir, I’m in the middle of something for—’

      ‘Did that sound like a request to you, Sergeant?’

      Getting together a list of sex offenders over forty years old was only the start of it: Insch wanted them all cross-referenced to see who’d done time in prison since 1990 – when the first batch of murders stopped – and he didn’t just want them for Aberdeen either, Logan had to do it for the whole of the UK.

      He sent another query running on the computer, then pasted the results into a spreadsheet. Now he had data from every police force in the nation with electronic records going back far enough to be of any use; the others would take days, if not weeks, to respond to the inspector’s request. But right now it was twenty past five.

      Logan sent the list of names to the CID office printer. He’d dump them on Insch’s desk and slope off before anyone noticed.

      Chance would be a fine thing.

      DI Steel stopped him on the stairs. He was going down, clutching his folder full of sex offenders: she was going up, clutching her left breast through her charcoal-grey blouse. ‘Where’s your boyfriend, Faulds, then?’

      ‘He … er …’ Trying not to watch what she was doing.

      ‘Got this new bra from Markies, it’s all weird bits of plastic. Feels like a ballistic missile.’

      ‘Er … he’s off back to Birmingham. Rennie’s taking him to the airport.’

      ‘Oh aye?’ She stopped fiddling with herself. ‘So how come you’ve no’ sloped off early then?’

      Logan held up his folder. ‘Going through the sex offenders list for Insch, trying to find an alternative suspect.’

      ‘Bloody hell,’ said Steel, faking a swoon, ‘Fatty McFatfat’s considering other suspects? Did a herd of pigs just fly by the station window?’ She helped herself to the folder and riffled through the printouts, then tossed the lot back at him. ‘Waste of sodding time, but I suppose it’ll keep Chief Constable Knobjob happy.’

      She turned and started back down the stairs again. ‘Well, come on then – after you slap your pervy bastards on Insch, you and me are going on a little field trip.’

      Logan followed her, trying to get his list back in some sort of order. ‘Is it to the pub? Because if it isn’t—’

      ‘Have I ever steered you wrong?’

      He