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

threw a finger in Logan’s direction. ‘Don’t! OK? Don’t even start. He must have spotted one of the cars on the way back here!’ For a moment it looked as if she was going to kick the mound of empty beer cans all over the room. ‘Bastard! We could have had him!’

       18

      Sunday afternoon and the phones were going non-stop: people calling in from all over the North East to say that they’d seen Wiseman, or had eaten something that was supposed to be pork or veal but was probably person. Would they get Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease?

      Logan listened for a minute to a PC trying to calm someone down on the other end of the phone. ‘No,’ she was saying, ‘you’re not going to get mad cow disease … No, sir, variant CJD is … There are only seven people in the whole of the UK with the disease at the moment, sir, so it’s highly unlikely … Yes, sir, it is impossible to say for sure.’ She slumped forward till her head was nearly resting on the desk. ‘Yes, sir … Environmental Health have set up a special hotline for … Yes …’ She gave him the number, hung up, and then her phone started ringing again. ‘Oh, bugger off.’ Click. ‘Hello, Grampian Police, can I help you?’

      Logan left her to it and headed back to the history room.

      Rennie was already there, contemplating a copy of the Daily Mail and mining his nostrils for little savoury nuggets. He stopped, snapping upright and wiping his finger on the underside of the desk as soon as he realized he had company.

      ‘Sir.’ He grinned. ‘Sorry. Miles away.’

      ‘Your brain’ll fall out your nose if you don’t stop picking it.’

      ‘Ahem. Yes … well …’ Rennie grabbed a pile of forms. ‘I’ve been going over those INTERPOL results Insch wanted.’

      ‘Anything?’

      The constable shrugged. ‘Depends. Kinda … difficult to tell, you know?’ He handed over a small pile of printouts. ‘Trouble is there’s no real MO.’

      Logan skimmed the forms. ‘I would have thought abduction and butchery were pretty damn distinctive.’

      ‘No. I mean … sometimes there’s heaps of blood, but mostly it’s just signs of a struggle and someone’s missing. That could be anything, couldn’t it? Doesn’t have to be Wiseman. And there’s hundreds more where these came from. Belgium, Israel, Romania, Kazakhstan you name it – half this crap’s probably just missing persons.’

      ‘Well,’ said Logan, ‘look on the bright side. Insch isn’t back till Tuesday. You’ve still got a day and a half to finish this lot up.’

      ‘Ha.’ Rennie poked the two box files sitting beside his desk. ‘Going to take a shit-load longer than that: INTERPOL’s a bloody nightmare. I stuck a notice up on I-24/7 three days ago and I’m bloody swamped. Scared to open my email now …’ He sighed. ‘And Ann Summers was out of chocolate body paint so we used golden syrup instead. Tell you, there are still bits of me—’

      ‘I don’t want to know.’ Logan handed the INTERPOL reports back. ‘Enter the lot into HOLMES, get it to look for patterns.’

      ‘That’ll take ages …’

      ‘You want Insch to rip off your sticky bits? Didn’t think so.’ Logan hung his jacket on the back of the chair. ‘Any word from Fingerprints?’

      ‘Message on your desk.’

      It looked more like an Ordnance Survey map than a fingerprint, but according to the accompanying notes there were over sixty points of correlation between the print they’d lifted from one of the empty Special Brew tins and Ken Wiseman’s right thumb. He’d definitely been at the house.

      DI Steel threw the printouts back at Logan, collapsed into her chair and told him to close the door so she could have a fag. Her office was a tip, covered in stacks of paperwork and half-empty cups of tea. ‘Tell you,’ she said, cracking the window open and lighting up, ‘twenty years ago nearly every DI kept a big bottle of duty free in their desk for moments like this. What have I got?’ She went rummaging. ‘Two packets of breath mints and a dirty magazine. And it’s no’ even mine!’

      She sent a stream of smoke billowing towards the open window. ‘The CC’s no’ exactly happy we missed Wiseman.’

      ‘Not as if we could have done anything about it though, is it – if he sodded off before we found out about the place?’

      ‘Aye, well, I said the same thing and he went off on one about excuses no’ being good enough for the victims or their families.’ She picked up the copy of Bondage World and flicked through it half-heartedly. Then dropped it in the bin. ‘Where the hell is he?’

      ‘We could try going through all the abandoned properties Wiseman’s sister had keys for. He’s obviously not worried about sleeping rough with—’

      ‘This may come as a shock, but I did actually think of that. Wiseman’s sister went missing, what: fifteen, sixteen years ago?’

      ‘Eighteen.’

      ‘You think anyone’s going to remember what bloody houses she had keys for eighteen years ago?’ Steel ran a hand through her devil-may-care hair. ‘No wonder Inspector Fatty went loopy, this sodding case is impossible.’

      Logan watched her wallow in self-pity for a minute, then asked, ‘You were in Aberdeen twenty years ago, right?’

      The inspector took the cigarette out of her mouth and winked at him. ‘I know, hard to believe, what with me being so young and attractive looking.’

      ‘You work the first Flesher case?’

      ‘Nope.’

      ‘Ever work with a DCI Brooks?’

      Steel laughed. ‘Basher Brooks? Nut job. Always having papers served on him. Got the job done though.’ She slumped a little further into her chair, cigarette dangling out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Remember this one time: we were raiding a B&B in Northfield, four blokes working a protection racket, and they had this dog. Rottweiler. Big fucker with teeth like this … And it’s barking and slavering and most of us are keeching our pants, but Brooks just grabs my truncheon and batters the thing’s head in. And the blokes – and all four of them built like brick shite-houses, mind – take one look at Brooks, covered in dog blood and bits of skull and brains, and confess to everything.’

      Her nostalgic smile faded away. ‘Course, it all went tits-up a couple of years later when someone died in custody. Only so many times you can get away with prisoners falling down the stairs. Why?’

      ‘Supposed to meet him for a pint last night with Insch and Alec. Never showed.’

      ‘No’ like Basher Brooks to miss a free drink. I remember this one time …’ And she was off again, telling stories of the Detective Chief Inspector’s alcoholic prowess until it was time to go home.

      Logan almost made to the back door before Rennie caught up with him, shouting, ‘Hoy!’

      ‘Bloody hell … what now?’

      ‘Bunch of us going to see the fireworks down the beach tonight, you wanna come?’ The constable had changed out of his polyester CID suit into jeans, leather jacket and lurid pink shirt, his hair jelled into random spiky tufts.

      ‘Thought you had a whole pile of INTERPOL reports to get into HOLMES.’

      Rennie grinned. ‘Worked my boyish charms on a couple of lovely ladies in the Support staff. They’re going to start chucking them in tonight. Anyway, fireworks: I’m taking Laura – going out for a couple of pints and a boogie afterwards?’

      ‘No way I’m spending another evening watching you crawl all over some poor peroxide—’