Flesh House (28 page)

42

DI Insch was back in the passenger seat of Logan's pool car, the tips of two fingers pressed against the side of his throat. Teeth gritted. Face still purple. Eyes screwed shut. There was no way Logan was getting in there with him till the inspector calmed down, so he wandered down the road to a little newsagents' and spent a couple of minutes browsing the magazines, then the selection of sweeties - buying a big bag of jelly babies and another of fizzy cola bottles. And a lottery ticket, just in case. Was it ethical to still use Jackie's birthday as two of the numbers?

By the time he got back to the car, Insch seemed to have settled down a bit. Logan climbed in behind the steering wheel and passed over the jelly babies, holding the cola bottles in reserve. Just in case.

The inspector dug his way into the packet, then ripped the head off some jelly mummy's pride and joy.

'Sir,' Logan started the car,'I think you need to go home, OK?'

More jelly babies were sacrificed, but it didn't seem to be appeasing the volcano. 'McFarlane was in it with Wiseman. The two of them together. Killing and butchering.'

Logan pulled out into traffic. 'We've got nothing on him. And before you go off on one: I know, OK? But look at him: all Andrew McFarlane wants to do is pickle himself in vodka. It's all he's
been
doing since his wife disappeared eighteen years ago. Half the time he wouldn't be sober enough to know what day of the week it was; Wiseman could butcher half of Torry downstairs and McFarlane wouldn't notice.'

'Sergeant ...' Insch's voice had taken on that ominous rumble, like a twenty-eight-stone, angry rottweiler.

'I'm just saying.'

'Well don't. Sophie's dead because--'

'You shouldn't be here. You should be at home, with your family.'

Insch slammed his fist into the dashboard. 'I DON'T HAVE A FAMILY!' Trembling with rage. 'That bastard took them. He took
everything!
'

His tea was cold. Logan took an exploratory sip, then spat it back into the mug.

'Hoy!' Steel scowled at him from the other side of the history room. 'Don't be so disgusting.'

'You want another coffee?'

'And would it kill you to scare up some biscuits? Rennie always manages.'

'So get Rennie to make your bloody--' Logan's mobile phone cut him off at the pass. 'Hello?'

Geordie, male, early forties.'
Aye, we've nothin' on the Weight Watchers front
.'

'Who is this?'

'
Bloody hell ... Detective Superintendent Danby, Northumbria Police: none of the Newcastle victims were in Weight Watchers. Went round all the relatives, know what I mean?
'

'Damn.'

'
Aye. Bloody tragic, lookin' at them photo albums all over again. Forgotten what half them looked like. Thought I'd always see their faces, every time I closed ma eyes
...'

'Sorry Superintendent, it was a long shot.'

'
I want you to remember they weren't just victims, OK? They were people. With families and friends who miss them. The Calverts raised money for charity. Jack coached kids five-a-side football. Emily won prizes at the local gallery, even got a bit in the papers about it. They didn't deserve what they got. They deserved better, know what I mean?
'

Logan did. He thanked the DSI, and hung up.

'Well?' said Steel.

'The Weight Watchers angle was a dud.'

Steel nodded, then fiddled with her hedgehog hair for a bit. 'You had your one-to-one with our Weegie blamemongers yet?'

'No.' And to be honest he wasn't looking forward to it either.

'Did me today while you were off playing with DI Fat-andGrumpy.' She tipped him a wink. 'Think that redhead DCI fancies me.'

Logan went back to his paperwork. 'Thought you were getting married.'

'Girl can dream, can't she? Now where's my bloody coffee?'

Tonight it was trout fillets in herb butter with seasonal vegetables: serves two. According to the packet anyway. Logan stuck it in the microwave and padded through to the lounge to check the messages on his answering machine.

'
MESSAGE ONE: Logan, It's your mother. You know I don't like talking to this thing
.' And then it was straight into haranguing him about hiring a kilt for his brother's wedding. Beeeeeeep.

The next message was from Alec wanting to know if Logan was up to anything interesting tomorrow, worried that the BBC were going to start cutting his budget if nothing happened soon. Beeeeeeep.

And then it was Colin Miller, voice low and urgent. 'Laz?
It's me. I need you tae phone me back soon as you get this, OK? I mean it: ASAP!' Beeeeeeep. END OF MESSAGES
.'

Logan called him back. 'Colin?'

'Aye?' There was something small and snottery wailing in the background.'
Hold on a minute darlin' Daddy's on the phone, but. Laz? Laz, you want to go out for a pint tonight? Please?' More high-pitched screaming. 'Shhhh, shhhh ... yes, Daddy knows. Daddy'll change it in a second. I'll even bring the stuff you wanted from the paper's archives? Come on man, I'm dying here
...'

'When?'

'
Prince of Wales: half seven?
' Another voice in the background, nearly inaudible, but it sounded like Isobel, asking the reporter if he was aware that their son was crying.'
Sorry, Izzy, it's work - need me to cover somethin' for tomorrow.' Then back to the phone. 'OK, but I can't be there till half seven at the earliest. I've got a family to look after, and that comes first
.'

Thank God the screaming had finally stopped.'
It's not her fault, Heather
.' Mr New sat back against the bars.'
She's frightened, her sister's dead and she's trapped in a strange, scary place all on her own. You can't blame her
.'

'Did I say anything?'

'
No, but you were thinking it
.'

True.

'
So
,' Duncan nodded at the plate of cold meat resting in her lap,'
do you think that's her? The sister?
'

Heather picked up another cutlet, bit into it, and chewed for a bit. 'Probably ... tastes a bit ... funny. Sort of metallic.' But at least it wasn't off like those last slices of Duncan. Heather didn't fancy another bout of food poisoning. She tore off a chunk, washing it down with a mouthful of water.

The plate had been there when she'd woken up, head throbbing, mouth like ash. Along with the pills. Kelley said the Flesher was worried about her - that he'd picked up her unconscious body and laid it on the mattress, then gone to get some medicine. Little round pills that Heather had forced down. They made her teeth feel squeaky, but took the pain away.

She chewed, thinking ...'Kelley? Kelley, are you awake?'

'Do you need another pill?'

'What did He say? When He made you promise: what did He say?'

'That ... that if I didn't get you to take your medicine he'd hurt me.'

'Oh ...'

'Heather?'

'Yes?'

'Tell me about Justin again.'

So she did: from the moment of conception, right through to when he was eighteen and off to university to become an architect. The life he'd never have. Then Kelley told the story of her little boy, and how it was all a mistake and the doctors gave him back to her and he grew up to be a famous actor.

Then they sat quietly in the darkness, eating slices of the girl next door's murdered sister.

And then Kelley asked,'What's she like? Your mum?'

Heather grimaced. 'I never did anything right in her eyes. After Dad ... died, it was as if everything was my fault. She hated Duncan ...'

Her cellmate was silent for a minute. 'I ... I lied to you. It wasn't my boyfriend who got me pregnant. I've never had a boyfriend. How pathetic is that? Forty-nine and I've never had a boyfriend ...'

'Kelley, it's not--'

'It was my father ... Mum died when I was six. And he ... he said he had needs ...'

'Oh Jesus.' Heather could hear her crying. She slipped her other hand through the bars, searching for Kelley's.

'I ... I cut all my hair off, dressed like a boy.' Sniff. 'But he was drinking so much ...' Deep breath. 'Then he had this accident. And ... and he got ... he got even worse.'

'Shhhh ...' Heather laced her fingers through Kelley's. 'It's OK. The bastard's dead right? The car crash?'

'No ... Social Services took me away from him when I was eight. I got ... I got adopted by a lovely old couple ... they never hurt me ...'

Heather bit her bottom lip, but it didn't stop her own tears. To go through all that, and end up here, in the Dark, waiting for something horrible to happen. Waiting to die. 'Oh Kelley, I'm so sorry.'

'When ... when they ... after the crash my dad came to see me in the foster home ... He ... he was so drunk ... I couldn't stop him ...'

Heather and Kelley held hands, both of them crying in the darkness as Kelley told how her father would visit his little girl every week until she got pregnant. After that, he never showed up again.

It was strange: before all this - the kidnap, the prison, the Flesher, the Dark - Heather would
never
have cast herself in the role of avenging angel. She was soft and fat and weak. Someone to be ignored, or pushed about, walked all over. But if she ever got out of here, she swore she would track Kelley's father down and cut the bastard's heart out.

Then eat it.

43

The Tuesday morning briefing was a pretty dismal affair - they now had two more victims: Sandra and Maureen Taylor from Dundee. Their flatmate had returned from a long weekend in Edinburgh to find the kitchen soaked with blood.

'Tayside Police,' said DCS Bain,'have identified the blood as Sandra Taylor's; she was a type one diabetic. It looks like the attack happened some time on Sunday evening. They've emailed up all the details, make sure you read them!'

Two more victims and still no sodding clue.

There was a bit of discussion about whether this was another copycat or the Flesher hunting outside of Aberdeen, and then everyone was given their assignments and told to go catch the bastard.

Back in the history room, Logan sat at his desk, eating a breakfast muesli bar and wishing the Environmental Health hadn't confiscated half the bacon in the city. There was nothing like a bacon buttie to set you up after a night in the pub. Except maybe a steak pie, and they were like hen's teeth these days as well.

He pulled out the folder Colin Miller had given him in the Prince of Wales, and spread the contents across the desk - printouts and photocopies of articles from 1987 to 1990. A chunk were about the McLaughlins and their disappearance, but most were the missing person and food-poisoning stories he'd asked for. Which were about as much use as Rennie's INTERPOL reports; it was impossible to tell what might be connected and what was just random stuff.

So Logan went back to the articles on Jamie McLaughlin and his missing parents. Why had they never found any sign of the third victim, Catherine Davidson? Directly after the attack, the papers were full of her photo, but as time went by she drifted into the background and the media concentrated on the tragedy of little Jamie McLaughlin. Eventually Catherine Davidson was simply forgotten.

Logan flicked through the sheets again. Colin had been thorough, there was even a piece from before the attack: an article dated the eighth of October 1987 about how Ian McLaughlin had joined the team at Lindsey Arrow and was going to help them become a driving force in the field of Liner Hangers and Well Completion. Whatever that meant. McLaughlin wasn't exactly a pretty man, but then neither was the thin bloke with the Zapata moustache he was shaking hands with. Welcome to the oil industry.

Logan finished his tea and stuck all the printouts back in the folder. At least Ian McLaughlin had got to enjoy his fifteen minutes of fame, all the other Flesher victims got theirs post mortem. Well, except for one of the Newcastle women.

He looked at the death wall, trying to remember who it was, then went for a rummage in the old file boxes by the radiator, till he found a small stack of yellowed newspaper clippings. 'B
AINBRIDGE'S
B
RIDGE
I
S A
W
INNER
' was the headline, above a photo of Emily Bainbridge, grinning away like mad as she showed off her big oil painting of the Tyne Bridge. She'd come first: a cheque for one hundred pounds and an exhibition planned for the Autumn. She was dead three weeks later.

Three weeks ...

He went back to Colin Miller's printouts and pulled out the article on Ian McLaughlin again. Eighth of October 1987: a Thursday. Three and a bit weeks before Halloween and the McLaughlin's death.

'Oh you beauty ...' He fired up his computer and went onto the
Aberdeen Examiner's
website, doing a search for all the current victims, looking for news stories published before their deaths. There weren't any. So he tried the same thing with the P&J and Evening
Express sites
. Then sat back and swore. So much for that theory.

He stared at the screen ... mind you, the papers didn't post ev
erything
on-line, did they?

He picked up the phone and put it down again. After the Weight Watchers fiasco he didn't want to stick his neck out without something more conclusive than two newspaper articles from twenty years ago. He tried the phone again, dialling Colin Miller's mobile. Engaged, so he tried the
Examiner's
News Desk instead.

There was some muffled conversation then the Glaswegian's dulcet tones sounded in the background,'
Can you no' see I'm on the bloody phone?
'

'
It's your copper boyfriend
.'

'
I'll boyfriend your arse with my-- No Mrs Wilson, I didn't mean you ... Aye, I agree, there's no need for language like that, I'm sorry ... Aye
...'

'
You going to speak to him or not?
'

Silence.

'
He'll call you back
.'

Steel dumped another stack of reports on Logan's desk. 'There you go - Tayside say if you want anything else give them a shout.'

Logan stared at the pile of SOC, IB, and door-to-door data. 'I don't even want this lot.'

'Aye, well, we've all got out crosses to bear.' She struck a pose. 'You think it's easy being this gorgeous?'

'You said I was supposed to check up on those Polish police reports.'

'And did you?'

'Yes ...' Logan realized his mistake as soon he'd said it.

'Perfect, then you're free to do this now, aren't you?'

'But--'

'Ah, ah, ah.' She waggled a finger at him. 'Remember the golden rule: you--'

Logan's phone rang and he snatched at the excuse:'Hello?'

But it wasn't Colin Miller, it was an annoyed Chief Constable with a Brummie accent:'
Where are you? I've been waiting here for ages
.'

'Waiting?'

Steel asked,'Who is it?'

'Faulds.' Back to the phone. 'I don't understand, sir, where--'

'
Aberdeen airport. You were supposed to pick me up at eleven!
'

'I was?'

'DI
Steel assured me
...'

Logan pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the inspector. 'Thanks a heap.'

She shrugged. 'Oops?'

'I'll be there as soon as I can.'

Forty minutes later Logan was heading out the road to Turriff, with Faulds in the passenger seat and his luggage in the boot. Logan kept sneaking glances at the Chief Constable's face - it looked as if someone had given him a going over. The bruise on his forehead was starting to fade around the edges - dark purple tinged with greeny-yellow, a scab on his cheek, another bruise blending into his goatee. He hadn't shaved for a couple of days either.

'Didn't think we'd be seeing you back again so soon, sir.'

'I can't believe she didn't pass on my message.'

'She's been a bit ... preoccupied with the investigation.'

'That's one way of putting it.' He went back to staring at the scenery.

'If you don't mind me asking ...' Logan coughed. 'You look a bit ... er ...' Try again. 'I called when we IDed Kowalczyk on the abattoir's CCTV, but they said you had a couple of personal days...?'

'You know,' said Faulds, watching the sun-flecked fields go by,'I heard about your solution to the Leith case. Very impressive.'

'It was a team effort.'

'Of course it was. But every good team has to have a leader, otherwise it's just a mob. I was surprised to see DI Steel giving you so much of the credit.'

Logan shrugged. 'She's not as bad as everyone says.' Which wasn't strictly true, but Faulds didn't need to know that.

The Chief Constable's phone went off just past Fyvie and he disappeared into a convoluted conversation about staffing levels and Home Office statistics. All very boring stuff. So Logan gave up on eavesdropping and let his mind wander instead: what was he going to have for his tea? Would he ever see Jackie naked again? Could he fake diarrhoea to get out of going to his brother's wedding? Whatever happened to Catherine Davidson?

According to the background reports she worked as a dinner lady at her son's school. She liked horses - went riding in Hazlehead Park whenever she could - wanted to go to Spain for her holidays, talked about running a bed and breakfast ... And no one had seen or heard from her since the night Ian and Sharon McLaughlin died.

If you wanted to get rid of a lot of suspect meat there were worse places than a school canteen. Who'd ever know?

' ... himself with a pineapple. Some people, eh?'

Logan glanced across at his passenger. 'Sorry, sir?'

'Never mind, I probably shouldn't be complaining about my officers anyway.' Faulds stuck his phone back in its holster as Logan drove them through Turriff. 'I'd forgotten how much I missed this: out on a case instead of stuck behind a desk, or shaking some slimy politician's hand. Must've driven half my team mad when I got back from Aberdeen last time. Poking my nose in ...'

He watched the market town with its collage of red sandstone and grey granite buildings go by. 'You know,' he said, touching the glass,'I grew up in a little place like this ...'

Logan turned the pool car into the road with Alaba Farm Fresh Meats at the end of it.

Faulds peered through the windscreen at the large plastic sign with its grinning butcher pig. 'This it?'

The massed armies of the national press had gone, but a couple of die-hard journalists were parked by the high, chain-link gates, scrambling out of their cars as Logan pulled up at the barrier.

'Do you have any suspects?''Will Alaba Meats be torn down?''Do you think the Polish community is responsible for the killings?''How would you react to claims that this is just an attempt to pin the blame on ethnic migrants?''How many bodies have you identified from the remains?'

Logan kept his mouth shut and let Faulds do the talking as they waited for the security guard to open the gate, then drove round to the little office block bolted onto the side of the abattoir. 'Hmm ...' said Faulds, stepping out into the sunny afternoon,'the smell's ... interesting. Sort of a greasy bleach ...'

The receptionist made them sign in and offered them coffee. Mr Jenkins would be down in a minute.

Mr Jenkins turned out to be a grey-haired man in his fifties, with a paunch that made him look six months pregnant. He showed them upstairs to an office on the second floor, overlooking the car park, and sank behind a desk overflowing with paperwork. 'Forty years I've been in this game. Forty years! And now the only buggers who'll take my calls are the sodding supermarkets.' He waved Logan and Faulds towards a pair of leather visitor chairs that squeaked and farted as they settled into them. 'Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful they've not dumped us like everyone else, but they were screwing us on price before all this started. You imagine what they're doing now? Barely worth opening again.'

He leant forward and poked the desk. 'There's been an abattoir on this spot since the year dot. And I'm not talking about the fifties or sixties, I mean since the sixteen hundreds. When I was a kid there was a slaughterhouse in every wee town in Scotland. We used to cut the carcasses in half, chuck them on a flat-bed truck, cover them with tarpaulin and stick them on the next train to London. Didn't even have refrigerated carriages back then. And did everyone die of food-poisoning? Did they buggery. Now it's all factory freezing and EU regulations and health inspectors.'

'If it's any consolation,' said Faulds,'policing used to be the same.'

Logan couldn't add to that. It'd been wall-to-wall forms and procedural guidelines ever since he'd joined. 'At least they're letting you open again.'

Jenkins scowled. 'Tomorrow. You would not believe the hoops we've had to jump through. Sixty new security cameras, twice as many guards, and I've got to have some moron from the Environmental Health on staff full time. And guess who pays for it all: me, that's who.' He picked up a thick wad of paper from his desk and wiggled it at them. 'Every single joint has to be tied back to a specific animal, not just a batch like every other place. Every knife has to be sterilized before you can use it on a new quarter. We used to do fifty, sixty carcasses a day. Be lucky to get through thirty now. You got any idea what that's going to do to our cashflow? Bastards made us throw away every side of beef in the place, and all the stuff in the aging sheds. Bloody criminal.'

'Well,' said Faulds,'to be fair, they did find a whole heap of human remains in there.'

'There was nothing wrong with the rest of the meat!'And so it went. On and on and on ... Until the receptionist buzzed up to say that someone from the Environmental Health had turned up for a spot inspection.

'It's OK,' said Faulds, before Jenkins could go off on another rant. 'We'll see ourselves out.'

But first the Chief Constable wanted to see where the Flesher disposed of the bodies.

Logan led him round to the ageing shed. The place was spotless - the shelves and plastic bins emptied and cleaned, the concrete floor scrubbed to within an inch of its life. Everything reeked of bleach.

'So ...' Faulds did a quick three-sixty, his breath fogging in the refrigerated air,'how did our boy get the meat in here?'