Flesh House (13 page)

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 ordinance 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 DI 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--'

'No, no, no, no: she's not a bottle blonde. Collar and cuffs match, if you know what I mean.'

Logan started walking again. Rennie loped along beside him, a dopey smile on his face.

'Taking her to Spain next month. Two weeks of sun, sand, sangria, and S.E.X. She's like no one I've ever met before. I mean, you know? She's brilliant and funny and goes like a bunny! I'm giving serious thought to settling down.'

'Met her parents yet?'

'Christ no.' He stuck his hands deep in his pockets. 'So, fireworks? You up for it?'

Logan said he'd think about it.

'Hello?' Heather stood with her hands wrapped around the bars, staring out into the blackness. 'Hello? I'm thirsty ...'

Silence.

Darkness.

'Hello?'

She felt a hand on her shoulder.
'I don't think he's there.'

'But I'm
thirsty
...' The water had lasted longer than last time, but now it was all gone.

'I know, Heather, I know. But it'll all be over soon.'
Duncan wrapped his arm around her shoulders, the faint light of his blood halo just strong enough that she could make out the bars.
'And then you'll be with Justin and me forever.'

She looked at him, feeling the tears start to well up again. 'But I don't want to die ...'

'Shhhh ... it's OK - everyone dies, don't they?' He gave her a squeeze. 'Justin misses his mummy.'

'But--'

'Trust me, it'll all be OK. You just lie down and go to sleep.'

Heather tried to do what she was told, but it was impossible. 'It stinks in here.'

'Shhhh ... sleep.'

'What if he never comes back?'

'It'll only hurt for a while.'

Silence.

'Duncan, I'm scared ...'

19

They'd arrived early to get the best spot - down on the beachfront, right up against the crowd barrier. A bitter wind whistled in off the North Sea, making everyone shudder as they waited for the fireworks to start. Colin Miller pulled out a hip flask, took a swig, then offered it to Logan: rusty nail, the mixture of whisky and Drambuie going down like alcoholic central heating.

'He's getting a bit fussy,' said Isobel, wiggling something brightly coloured in front of her son's pushchair. Sean had been OK in Pizza Hut - smearing cheese and tomato all over himself, the table, and anyone daft enough to pass within reach - but they'd been standing out here in the cold for at least half an hour. Logan was surprised the kid wasn't screaming the place down by now.

All around them people waved luminous blue lightsaber things - sparklers without the sparkle - taking photos of each other on their mobile phones.

Colin checked his watch. 'Should've started by now, but.'

The display had been set up in the lee of what looked like a Victorian concrete bus shelter, sitting below the level of the road, halfway between the Beach Ballroom and the arcades. On the other side of the barrier, people in luminous yellow jackets were fiddling with a long table of boxes and wires.

'Maybe no one remembered to bring matches with them?'

'Aye, or they've run out of milk bottles for the rockets.' Miller passed the flask over again.

Someone tapped Logan on the shoulder, and he turned to find a grinning DC Rennie. 'Don't look so surprised,' said the constable, pulling his girlfriend through the crowd behind him,'we were speaking to McInnis: he said he'd told you this was the best spot to watch the show.' Rennie pointed at the girl beside him. 'You remember Laura?'

The natural blonde who went like a bunny gave Logan a little wave. 'Hi.'

Behind her a few more familiar faces from the station worked their way to the front, all looking as if they'd just come from the pub. Rennie wrapped his arm around the love of his life. 'And you'll never guess who we ran into ...' He pointed into the mass of lightsabers - a figure bundled up in a black padded jacket and black woolly hat was squeezing through, her face framed with dark curls, her nose and cheeks bright red. PC Jackie Watson.

She took one look at Logan and frowned. 'What happened to your face?'

He dragged on a smile. 'Didn't know you were back in town.'

'Got in half an hour ago. I phoned?'

'We--'

Swwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwoooooosh!
And the first rocket leapt into the indigo night, exploding in a vast ball of golden sparks that fizzed and crackled.

'Why didn't you call back?'

Swwwwwwwwwwwwwooooooooosh!
... BANG! More sparks.

'What?'

'I said, why didn't you--' BOOOOM!'--call back?'

'I've been out since--' CRACKKKLE!

The rockets were going off in a constant stream, turning the air into an iridescent rainbow of colour.

'Two months and you've not called once!'

'That's not true. You know that's not true!'

There was a little circle of embarrassed space forming around them. The press of bodies lessening as everyone made a point of staring at the display above, rather than the argument below.

'If you didn't want me to come home, why didn't you bloody well say so?' Jackie's face was lit for a moment in a glitter of gold, her eyes shining bright as daggers.

'Please, Jackie, let's not do this here. I--' BOOOOOM!

'It's not my fault I miscarried! It's not my fucking--' CRACKKKKKKLE!

Logan grabbed her by the arm, pulling her round so they had their backs to the clump of police officers. 'That's got nothing to do with it!'

'You think it wasn't hard for me?' She shook him loose. 'It was my fucking baby too!'

'It's not about the baby, OK? It's about you!'

She froze, and Logan ... Logan wished he could take the words back, but it was too late for that - he'd lit the blue touchpaper and now it was all going to blow up in his face. Jackie stared at him. 'You don't love me, do you?'

BOOOOOOOOM!

'Jackie--'

'No, come on, let's hear it. Let's--' BANG!'--hear you say it.' She prodded him in the chest with a rock-hard finger. 'Have the fucking guts to say it!'

A huge rocket exploded, a circle of red and green and silver, lighting up the beach for a second. A snapshot of summer on a cold November night. The crowd ooh-ed and ahhh-ed.

A heartbeat of silence.

'I don't love you.'

Jackie slammed her fist into his face. From up here the fireworks were beautiful - perfect spheres of fire that hung in the night sky, before fading away into darkness. Ken Wiseman took another mouthful of beer then crushed the empty can in his leather-gloved hand.

The flat was virtually empty, just a couple of cardboard boxes full of junk, a carpet that stank of dust and cats. Kitchen worktops that would never be clean again. An abandoned flat on the fifteenth floor of a tower block on Castlehill, with a panoramic view of the beach, its firework display, and the end of DCI Brooks' life.

Another flickering silver ball, then two seconds later the BOOM of its explosion.

Wiseman pulled a fresh tin of beer from the carrier bag on the kitchen worktop. 'You want a scoof?' He waggled it at the man lying on the lounge floor - hands and feet bound with black plastic cable-ties. 'No?' Wiseman smiled. 'How about one of these, then?' He took a running kick at the man's stomach, hitting him hard enough to lift the fucker off the floor, sending him rolling onto his back, groaning behind the strip of silver duct-tape.

Wiseman squatted next to him as the flat was momentarily lit by another firework. 'I should carve you up, you old fuck. Carve you into little bits.' He pulled one of his knives out and held the blade against the old man's cheek, just hard enough to break the skin. 'You'd be surprised how little difference there is between us and the animals. We all come apart the same way ...'

Another mouthful of beer. 'Fifteen years you took from me Brooks. Fifteen fucking years in that shitehole prison with fucking rapists and paedophiles. You see this?' He pointed at the scar that ran diagonally across his face. 'They jumped me in the showers. Fuckers held me down and pulled a sharpened spoon through my face. Dragged it across the bone. Slow and deliberate.' He shuddered and drank again. 'Fucking rapists telling me
I'm
sick. Thinking they're better than me. That they've got the fucking right!'

Wiseman stood and slammed another boot into Brooks' stomach. '"Gonnae peel yer face!" "Gonnae skin yer fuckin' heid!" They would've too, guard hadn't come.'

Flash - one, one thousand - two, one thousand - BOOM! Crackle ...

'My, my, my. Will you look at the time?' He grabbed a handful of the old man's jacket and heaved him up. 'You've got an appointment.'

The corridor outside the flat was deserted, just as Wiseman knew it would be. No one to see him drag Brooks into the stairwell and up three flights of stairs to the roof. The fire door was locked, but not alarmed. It didn't take much to kick it open.

Wind whipped across the concrete roof, and suddenly Brooks seemed to realize what was going to happen. He started struggling.

'Bit fucking late for that, don't you think?' Wiseman hauled the old man to the chest-high wall that ran round the edge. 'You remember what you said the night you arrested me? No?' He ripped the gag from Brooks' mouth, taking a big clump of moustache with it.

'Aaaaaaagh ... God damn, fucking, bastard--'

Wiseman bounced the old git's head off the wall.

'You told me you knew people. That I wouldn't last a month in prison. That the only way I'd get out would be in a bodybag.'

'You ...' Brooks coughed, a smear of blood on his lips. 'You sick f--'

Wiseman punched him in the stomach and the old man collapsed to the ground. 'Those going to be your last words are they?' He pulled the boning knife out again and sliced through the thin plastic strips holding Brooks' wrists together. Then did the same with the ankles.

'Ffffff ...' The old bastard tried to get to his feet, but his legs didn't seem to be working.

'Here.' Wiseman took a handful of shirt at the back of Brooks' neck, then grabbed the old bastard's belt and hauled him up. 'Let me help you ...'

Right over the wall and into thin air.

A huge ball of red, green and silver lit up the night sky.

For a moment the old man seemed to float, and then gravity got her claws into him. Brooks screamed: arms and legs pinwheeling as his body got smaller and smaller and smaller ... all the way down to the concrete car park, eighteen floors below.

He hit the ground like a meat pinata, flying debris setting off car alarms.

Wiseman peered over the edge at the smear of red, lit by the flashing orange indicators of wailing motorcars. Then he went back downstairs to the flat, picked up his empty beer cans, locked the door, and headed off into the night.