Logan McRae Crime Series Books 4-6: Flesh House, Blind Eye, Dark Blood. Stuart MacBride

report!’

      Logan waited for her to disappear round the corner before sticking two fingers up in her direction.

      Steel’s voice echoed through the stairwell: ‘I saw that!’ Then the doors to the corridor slammed shut and Logan was on his own again.

      By the time he got back to the little office, Insch, Faulds and the PF were gathered round a desk, discussing Justin Inglis’s statement – the inspector casually doodling glasses and blacking out teeth on his photo of Margaret Thatcher. ‘Of course, it’s not conclusive,’ he said, ‘how could it be? The kid’s only three, but I’m pretty sure he’s telling the truth.’ Insch helped himself to one of the mugs on Logan’s tray, sniffed it, and wrinkled his nose. ‘I asked for a double mochaccino with extra cinnamon and chocolate – what the hell is this?’

      ‘Machine’s broken, so everyone’s got instant.’

      ‘Typical …’

      The PF reached for the vandalized ex-Prime Minister. ‘This could still be a copycat.’ She held up a hand before Insch could complain. ‘Playing Devil’s advocate: ever since that damn book came out everyone knows the Flesher wears a butcher’s apron and a Margaret Thatcher Halloween mask. On its own it means nothing.’

      ‘It means,’ rumbled Insch, ‘that Wiseman is up to his old tricks again. We found a package of human meat in the Inglises’ freezer for God’s sake!’

      ‘That’s exactly the kind of thinking that scuppered the original investigation – people leapt to conclusions, didn’t keep an open mind, didn’t follow procedure. Wiseman would still be in jail if the case had been airtight. I agree that it’s highly unlikely this is a copycat, but I want every possibility investigated.’ She took one of Logan’s coffees. ‘What do we know about the Inglises?’

      ‘Duncan Inglis works for the Council’s Finance Department. He’s twenty-eight. Got admitted to hospital last year when his wife cracked the toaster off his head. She’s twenty-five; diagnosed with postnatal depression after the birth of their son, been on medication ever since.’

      ‘Interesting.’ The PF took a sip of coffee, shuddered, then put her mug back on the tray. ‘So we have a history of violence.’

      ‘We’re looking into it.’

      ‘And the butcher, McFarlane?’

      ‘Went up before the Sheriff this morning: remanded in custody, no bail. He’s sticking to his story: no idea how all those bits of dead body ended up in his shop, and we’re all a bunch of bastards for picking on Wiseman again.’

      ‘My heart bleeds. How many search teams?’

      ‘Three, and roadblocks on all major routes out of Aberdeen. We’ve got posters up at the train station, harbour, airport, and nearly every bus stop in the city.’

      Logan chimed in with a report on the Automatic Number Plate Recognition System: ‘No sign of any vehicle he’s got access to leaving Aberdeen. And we’ve warned all the rental places.’

      The PF nodded. ‘CCTV?’

      ‘Nothing. All the cameras down the beach were pointing the wrong way – big fight outside that new nightclub.’

      ‘Right.’ She stood, hoisted her handbag over her shoulder, and made for the door. ‘Make sure you catch Wiseman, and soon. I don’t want anyone else turning up in bite-size chunks.’

      Half past eight and Logan was slumped at his desk in the pigsty masquerading as a CID office, trying to work up some enthusiasm for DI Steel’s vandalism report. And failing. Somehow it was difficult to care about a bunch of keyed cars and some graffiti in Rosemount when Ken Wiseman was out there turning people into joints of meat.

      Stifling a yawn, he printed out all the crime reports and started sticking figures into a spreadsheet. God knew when he’d actually get home tonight. Bloody DI Bloody Steel and her Bloody Report.

      ‘All on your lonesome?’

      Logan turned, and there was Doc Fraser looking more like someone’s granddad than a pathologist – beige cardigan, glasses, bald head, and hairy ears.

      ‘You want some coffee?’

      The pathologist held up a manila folder. ‘I won’t come in, I’ve got shingles. Give this to Insch when he gets in tomorrow, will you?’

      ‘Uh-huh.’ Logan took the folder and flipped through the contents – sheet after sheet of forms and ID numbers.

      ‘Tell him it’s the preliminaries on all those chunks of meat you dug out of the butcher’s, cash and carry, and that container.’

      ‘Logan was impressed. ’Already? That’s—’

      ‘I wouldn’t go getting your hopes up – this is just the indexing. It’ll be weeks before we get the proper results in.’ The pathologist sighed. ‘And don’t look at me like that, we’ve got five hundred and thirty-two individual lumps of meat and they all need to be DNA-tested. Like the bloody EU corpse mountain down there.’

      The pathologist reached in under his cardigan and started scratching. ‘We’re farming out samples to Tayside, Strathclyde, Lothian and Borders. Highlands, you name it. If they’ve got DNA-testing facilities they’re getting bits …’ He trailed off, looking out of the CID window at the bleak, spotlit square of car park. ‘We never used to get stuff like this. Back in the good old days it was one or two murders a year, all nice and neat.’ Another sigh. ‘Anyway … better get back to it. The Ice Queen may rule the day, but I command the children of the night!’ He pulled up one corner of his cardigan, pretending it was a cape, then stalked from the room like a hunched, beige Dracula. Who’d really let himself go.

       7

      Hot white blobs of light picked their way through the trees in the background, then the camera panned round to an overweight reporter as he told the nation that this was the second night Ken Wiseman remained at large. ‘… increased manpower, combing through woods and industrial units all over Aberdeen. Halloween is traditionally a time for trick or treating—’

      ‘Guising!’ Logan shouted at the television. ‘In Scotland we go guising, not trick or treating!’ He snatched his second tin of beer off the coffee table and drank deep.

      ‘—but this year the streets of the city are empty, left to the cold and the mist. Because this year, there really is a monster out there—’

      ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Logan excavated the remote control from the sofa’s cushions and stabbed the button, hunting through the channels for something decent to watch and coming up empty.

      Nothing to help him ignore the little red light on the answering machine.

      Another mouthful of beer and the tin was empty. Logan stifled a belch and got to his feet. Should probably get something to eat … The little red light blinked at him.

      He walked over, and pressed the button.

      ‘Message one: Hi Logan, it’s me…’ Jackie, the words alcohol-slurred and fuzzy. ‘I miss you, OK? I do. I miss you…’ He could hear raised voices in the background, a jukebox, a bandit pinging and bleeping to itself. ‘Just thought you should know.’ Beeeeeeep. And the tape rewound itself.

      He pressed the button again.

      ‘MESSAGE ONE: Hi Logan, it’s me … I miss you, OK? I do. I miss you…’ Pub noises. ‘Just thought you should know.’ Beeeeeeep.

      RRRRRRRRRRingggggggggggggg – the flat’s doorbell.

      ‘MESSAGE ONE: Hi Logan, it’s me … I miss you, OK? I—’

      RRRRRRRRRRingggggggggggggg.