Flesh House (2 page)

Detective Constable Rennie stood beside the freezer's heavy steel doors, hands jammed deep in his armpits, nose Rudolfred, dressed like a ninja version of the Michelin Man in layers and layers of black clothing.

'It's freezing in here,' said the constable, shivering,'think my nipples just fell off.'

Logan stopped, one hand on the freezer's door-handle. 'You'd be a lot warmer if you actually did some work.'

Rennie pulled a face. 'The Ice Queen thinks we're all too thick to help. I mean, it's not my fault I don't know what I'm looking for, is it?'

'What?' Logan closed his eyes and tried counting to ten. Got as far as three. 'For God's sake; you're supposed to be looking for
human remains
!'

'I
know
that. I'm in there, standing in a sodding freezer the size of my house, looking at rows and rows of frozen bits of bloody meat. How am I supposed to tell a joint of pork from a joint of person? It all looks the same to me. A hand, a foot, a head:
that
I could recognize. But it's all just chunks of meat.' He shifted, stomping his feet and blowing into his cupped hands. 'I'm a policeman, not a bloody doctor.'

And Logan had to admit he had a point. They only knew that the joint of meat found in the offshore container was human because it had a pierced nipple. Farmers were an odd lot, but not that odd.

Logan hauled open the heavy metal door and stepped into the freezer ... Dear God it was cold - like being punched in the chest by a bag of ice. His breath went from mist to impenetrable fog. 'Hello?'

He found Dr Isobel McAllister on the other side of a stack of cardboard boxes, their brown surfaces sparkling with a crisp film of white ice. She'd traded in her white SOC oversuit for a couple of dirty-blue parkas and a set of padded trousers, the ensemble topped off with a red and white bobble hat bandaged onto her head with a tatty maroon scarf. Not exactly her usual catwalk self. She was picking her way through a mound of frozen mystery meat.

'Anything?'

She scowled up at him. 'Other than hypothermia?' When Logan didn't answer, Isobel sighed and pointed at a big plastic crate stacked with chunks of vacuum-packed meat. 'We've got about three dozen possible pieces. If it was on the bone it'd be a lot easier to spot; cows and pigs have a much higher meat to bone ratio, but look at this,' she held up a pack labelled 'D
ICED
P
ORK
'. 'Could be anything. I'd expect human meat to be redder - based on the amount of myoglobin in the tissue - but if it's been bled and frozen ... We'll need to defrost and DNA-test all of this before we'll know for sure.'

Isobel pulled over another cardboard box, sliced through the plastic strapping, and started picking her way through the contents. 'You can tell
Inspector
Insch it'll take at least two weeks.'

Logan groaned. 'He's not going to like that.'

'That's not my problem, Sergeant.'

Oh, when she wanted someone to babysit her kid, or suffer through her endless digital camera slideshows of the sticky-fingered, dribbly little monster, he was 'Logan', but when she was pissed off at work he was 'Sergeant.'

'Look,' he said,'it's not
my
fault Insch had a go at you, OK? You think he's bad tonight? I get him all bloody day--' Clunk. Logan froze, eyes sweeping the shelves of frozen goods, hoping it wasn't Alec with his camera. Things were bad enough without being caught complaining about Insch on national television. 'Hello?'

'Sergeant McRae?' Mr Thompson peered around a stack of boxes marked 'F
ISH
F
INGERS
'. 'I've found the dockets ...' he trailed off and stared at the pile of meat as Isobel added another chunk to the crate, the frozen pieces clattering against one another like ceramic tiles. 'Is ... is that all...?'

'We won't know till we test it.' Logan held out his hand, and the rumpled man looked puzzled for a moment, then tried to shake it. 'No,' Logan took a step back, leaving him hanging,'the dockets?'

'Oh, right. Right. Of course.' He handed over a crumpled sheet of yellow A4, covered with biro scribbles. 'Sorry.'

Thompson fidgeted nervously as Logan read. 'What's going to happen? I mean if that ...' He swallowed. 'What am I going to tell my customers?'

Logan pulled out his mobile phone and scrolled through the contacts list. 'We're going to need names and addresses for everyone who has access to this freezer. I want staff records, customers, suppliers, the lot.' An electronic voice on the other end of the line told him the number he was dialling was busy, please try again later.

The man in the crumpled suit shivered, wrapped his arms around himself and looked as if he was about to cry. 'We're a family firm, been here thirty years ...'

'Yes, well,' Logan tried for a reassuring smile,'you never know: the tests might come up negative.'

'I wouldn't go getting Mr Thompson's hopes up,' said Isobel. She sat back on her haunches, breath a cloud of white around her head as she lifted something out of the box at her feet. From where Logan was standing it looked just like another chunk of pork, and he said so.

'That's true ...' she turned the joint of meat over,'but pigs don't usually have tattoos of unicorns on their backsides.'

2

Insch was in the sweetie section, surrounded by catering-sized packs of Crunchies, Rolos, Sports Mixture, and fizzy flying saucers - eyeing them up as he spoke on the phone,'Yeah, I'm sure.' The inspector listened for a moment, chewing on the side of his thumb,'No ... no ... if the bastard sets foot outside his house I want him picked up. ... What? ... I don't care what you arrest him for, just bloody arrest him! ... No, I don't have a warrant ...'

Insch's face was starting its all too familiar slide from florid pink to angry scarlet. 'Because I bloody well told you to, that's why!' He snapped his phone shut and glowered at it.

Logan cleared his throat, and the glower turned his way. 'Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Iso ... Dr McAllister's found at least one piece of human remains in the freezer. And about another forty possibles.'

The inspector's face lit up. 'About time.'

'Only trouble is, some of those are catering packs of diced meat. She says they'll have to defrost and DNA-test every chunk, otherwise there's no way of telling if a pack's got bits of one, two or a dozen people in it.' Deep breath. 'It's going to take at least a fortnight.'

And Insch went straight from angry scarlet to furious purple. 'WHAT?'

'She ... it's what she said, OK?' Logan backed off, hands up. Insch gritted his teeth and seethed for a moment. Then,'You tell her I want those remains analysed and I want them analysed now. I don't care how many favours she has to call in, this takes top priority.'

'Ah ... maybe that'd sound better coming from you, sir? I--' The look on Insch's face was enough to stop Logan right there. 'Fine, I'll tell her.' Isobel was going to kill him. If the inspector didn't do it first. The big man looked like an unexploded bomb.

Logan had a bash at defusing him. 'According to the cash and carry's records the meat in the container came from a butcher's shop in Holburn Street: McFarlane's.'

'McFarlane's?' A nasty smile twisted Insch's face.

Logan pulled out the docket. 'Two sirloins, half a dozen sides of bacon, a pack of veal ...'

But the inspector was already marching towards the exit, uniformed constables and IB technicians scurrying to get out of his way. 'I want a search warrant for that butcher's shop. Get everyone over there soon as it's organized.'

'What? But we haven't finished here yet.'

'The remains came from McFarlane's.'

'But we don't know that. This place isn't exactly difficult to get into. Anyone could have--'

'And I want an arrest warrant for Kenneth Wiseman.'

'Who the hell is--'

'And tell the press office to get their backsides in gear: briefing at ten am sharp.'

An hour and a half later Logan and Insch were sitting in a pool car outside McFarlane's butcher's shop,'GOOD EATS

G
OOD
M
EATS
' according to the sign above the big dark window.

Holburn Street was virtually deserted, lonely traffic lights changing from red to green and back again with no one to watch them but a couple of unmarked CID Vauxhalls, a police van full of search-trained officers, a once-white transit van belonging to the Identification Bureau, and two patrol cars. All waiting for the Procurator Fiscal to turn up with the search and arrest warrants.

Insch scowled at his watch. 'What the hell is taking so long?'

Logan watched him fight his way into a small jar of pills - thick, sausage-like fingers struggling with the child-proof lid - then throw a couple of the small white tablets down. 'Are you OK, sir?'

Insch grimaced and swallowed. 'How long's it going to take you to get to the airport from here?'

'Depends if the Drive's busy: hour, hour and a half?'

'There's a Chief Constable Faulds coming in on the BMI redeye. I want you to pick him up and bring him back here.'

'Can we not just send one of the uniforms? I'm--'

'No, I want
you
to do it.'

'I should be helping organize the search, not playing taxi driver!'

'I said NO!' Insch turned on him, voice loud enough to make the car windows rattle. 'Faulds is a slimy tosser - a two-faced, backstabbing bastard - but he's a Chief Constable, so everyone scurries round after him like he's the bloody Messiah. I do
not
want some idiot PC in the car with him telling tales out of school.'

'But--'

'No. No buts. You go pick him up and you don't tell him any more than he needs to know. And with any luck we'll have this whole thing wrapped up before he even gets here.'

Anderson Drive stretched across the city: from a horrible roundabout at Garthdee to an even more horrible one at the other end. Half past seven and Logan was stuck in the middle of a snaking ribbon of scarlet tail-lights shuffling their way towards the Haudagain roundabout. Dawn was little more than a pale yellow smear, its faint light making no difference to the thick pall of grey cloud that loomed over the city.

Some halfwit had broken the car's stereo, so all he had to listen to was the clack and yammer of the police radio - mostly people hustling to and fro, trying to keep out of DI Insch's way as 'Operation Cleaver' was thrown together. The fat git had been a pain in the backside ever since he'd started on that stupid diet. Eighteen months of tiptoeing about, trying not to set the man off on one of his legendary rants.

'This is Alpha Nine One, we are in position, over.'

It sounded as if they were ready to go.

'Alpha Three Two, in position.'

'Aye,' is is Alpha Mike Seven, we're a' set tae go too. Just gie the word.'

Logan should have been with them, kicking down doors and taking names, not babysitting some tosser from Birmingham.

By the time he was leaving the city limits a light drizzle had started to fall, speckling the windscreen with a thin, wet fog, making the tail-lights of the taxi in front glow like volcanic embers as DI Insch gave his motivational speech.

'Listen up: I want this done by the numbers, understand? Anyone steps out of line, I'll tear their balls off and shove them up their arse - do I make myself clear?'

No one was daft enough to answer that one.

'Right. All units, in five, four, three, two ... GO! GO! GO!'

And then there was shouting. The sound of a door being battered off its hinges. Bangs. Thumps ...

Logan turned the radio off, sat in the long line of traffic waiting to turn towards Aberdeen airport, and sulked.

The airport was busy this morning: the queue for security backed up the length of the building - nearly out the front door - business commuters and holidaymakers nervously checking their watches; clutching their boarding passes; worrying about missing their planes while the tannoy droned on about not leaving baggage unattended.

The BD672 was supposed to have landed eight minutes ago, but there was still no sign of anyone getting off the thing. Logan stood on the concourse, next to the twee tartan gift shop, holding up a sheet of paper with 'CC FAULDS' scribbled on it in big biro capitals.

Finally the doors at the far end opened and the passengers on the 07:05 flight from London Heathrow staggered out.

Logan didn't think Faulds would be too hard to spot, he was a Chief Constable after all. He'd be in full dress uniform - hoping it would let him cut through security and get extra packets of peanuts on the plane - with some obsequious Chief Superintendent in tow to carry his bags and tell him how clever and witty he was.

So it came as something of a surprise when a gangly man in jeans, finger-tip, length black leather jacket, Hawaiian shirt, shark's tooth necklace, and a little salt-and-pepper goatee beard stopped, tapped the sign in Logan's hands and said,'I'm Faulds. You must be...?'

'Er ... DS M
C
R
AE
, sir.'

Was that an earring? It was: Chief Constable Faulds had a diamond earring twinkling away in his left ear.

Faulds stuck out his hand. 'I take it DI Insch sent you?' The accent wasn't marked, just a hint of Brummie under the received pronunciation.

'Yes, sir.'

'So let me guess: you're not to tell me anything, and basically keep me out of the way. Yeah?'

'No, sir. I'm just to give you a lift into town.'

'Uh-huh. And that needed a detective sergeant?' Faulds watched Logan wriggle for a moment then laughed. 'Don't worry: I used to do the same thing when top brass descended on me from other divisions. Last thing you want is some desk-jockey coming in and telling you how to run your investigation.'

'Ah ... OK ... The car's--'

'Do you have a first name, Sergeant, or would that spoil your air of mystery?'

'Logan, sir.' He moved to pick up the Chief Constable's bag, but Faulds waved him away.

'I'm not a senior citizen yet, Logan.'

They crawled back into Aberdeen through the rush-hour, with Faulds on the phone, drawing Logan into a strange three-way conversation about the body parts they'd found the previous night.

'What? Of course it's raining: it's Aberdeen. ... No, no I don't think so, hold on ...' The Chief Constable stuck his hand over the mouthpiece. 'Do you have an ID for any of the victims?'

'Not yet, we--'

'Not gone through the missing persons' database, or the DNA records?'

'We only just found the remains, sir. They're still frozen solid. The pathologist--'

And Faulds was back on the phone again. 'No, they've not done the DNA yet. ... I know. ... You heard? ... Yes. That's what I thought.' Back to Logan again. 'You don't need to defrost the whole thing - the sample you need for a DNA test should be small enough to come up to temperature in seconds. I'd better have a word with this pathologist of yours when we get in.'

'Actually, sir, that might not be--'

But Faulds was back on the phone again. 'Uh-huh ... I think you're right ... Did he?' Laughter. 'Silly sod ...'

He'd hung up by the time Logan was fighting through the long queue that trailed back from the Haudagain roundabout. Two lanes packed solid with cars and a bus lane full of orange cones. Faulds looked around at the collection of shiny new vehicles full of bored-looking people investigating the insides of their noses, while the drizzle drifted down. 'Is this going to take long, Logan?'

'Probably, sir. Apparently this is the worst roundabout in the country. Been questions raised about it in the Scottish Parliament.'

Faulds smiled. 'About a roundabout? You whacky Jocks: and they said devolution wouldn't work.'

'They estimate it costs the local economy about thirty million a year. Sir.'

'Thirty million, eh? That's a lot of deep-fried haggis pies.'

Logan bit his tongue. Calling the Chief Constable a condescending wanker probably wasn't the best career move.

They sat in uncomfortable silence, just the squeak of the windscreen wipers interrupting the stop-go of the motor as Logan inched the car forward. At least the bloody roundabout was in sight now.

And then Faulds burst out laughing. 'You are so easy to wind up!' He settled back in his seat. 'Come on then, I know you're dying to ask.'

'Sir?'

Faulds just smiled at him.

'Well ... I was ...' Logan snuck a glance at his passenger: the clothes, the earring. 'You're not exactly what I expected, sir.'

'You heard the words "Chief Constable" and you thought: doddery old fart with no sense of humour, who dresses up like a tailor's dummy because he's got an embarrassingly small penis and truncheon envy.'

'Actually, I was wondering why someone as senior as you would come all the way up here to sit in on a local murder enquiry.'

'Were you now?'

'Yes, sir.' Logan accelerated into the maelstrom of traffic, swung round the roundabout - trying not to get squashed by the articulated lorry heading straight for them - and finally they were on North Anderson Drive. Halleluiah! He put his foot down, overtaking a doddering old biddie in a clapped-out Mercedes. 'I mean, why not send a DI, or a Superintendent?'

There was a pause. 'Well, Logan, there are some things you just can't delegate.' He checked his watch. 'This raid DI Insch is on?'

'That's where we're going now.'

'Excellent.' Faulds pulled out his phone again and started dialling. 'Don't mind me, just got a couple of calls to make, we-- Fiona? ... Fiona, it's Mark: Mark Faulds ... course I do, darling ...'

They abandoned the pool car down a little side road and hurried out into the drizzle.

'You know,' said Faulds as they crossed at the traffic lights outside Country Ways, collars up and heads down,'I've been to Aberdeen about a dozen times, and it's always sodding raining.'