Flesh House (33 page)

52

One woman screaming would have been bad enough, but two of them going at it like blue-rinse foghorns was doing PC McInnis's head in. Kingswells was meant to be a sleepy little commuter town, not a septuagenarian war zone: the battle line drawn through a dying leylandii hedge. Both sides were squaring off outside a pair of identical yellow-brick boxes, ignoring the misty drizzle that drifted down from the cold November sky as they screamed at each other.

McInnis had another go:'Look, can we all please calm down. We--'

'This was a nice place to live before you moved in!'

'Oh why don't you go shove a cactus up your--'

'Ladies, if we can just--'

'Should be ashamed of yourself!'

'Just because
you've
got cobwebs growing down there doesn't mean the rest of us can't have sex!'

'Don't you talk to me like that!'

PC Guthrie had retreated back to the patrol car, out of the rain - lazy bastard - leaving McInnis to play United Nations.

'Ladies, why don't we go inside and--'

'There's a wee thing called Viagra. You should get some for your William, maybe perk the poor old sod up a bit. God knows he could use it.'

'How dare you!'

'If we could all just--'

Guthrie stuck his head out of the car window and shouted:'McInnis!'

'I'm
busy
.' He turned back to his battling pensioners. 'I need you both to--'

'Someone's spotted the Flesher in Kingswells: three streets from here!'

'Holy shit!'

He sprinted back to the car and jumped in behind the wheel, ignoring the outraged cry of,'What about my bloody hedge?'

McInnis put his foot down, leaving two smoking trails of rubber behind.

The whole car shuddered as he slammed on the brakes. Lights and siren blaring. First on the scene.

They leapt out of the car and swept the undergrowth on either side of the road with torchlight. Raindrops glittered in the beams like shards of falling glass as the drizzle gave way to proper pelting-it-down rain.

It was a stretch of wasteland between two housing developments, tarted up with a tarmac path and a couple of streetlights. PC Guthrie took a couple of steps into the darkness and bellowed,'MRS YOUNG?'

'How's she supposed to hear you? Turn off the siren!'

And the night was suddenly quiet - just the drumming of rain on the car roof, the soft hiss of it falling on trees and bushes, and the gurgle of the stream at the bottom of the ravine.

McInnis had a go. 'MRS YOUNG? VICKY? IT'S THE POLICE!'

'There's got to be miles of scrub and bushes out here.'

'MRS YOUNG?'

A new sound joined the shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh of rain - distant sirens as patrol cars hammered along the Hazlehead Road, more coming over the back from Bucksburn. The cavalry was on its way.

'Did Control say where she was--'

A woman screamed.

'Over there!' McInnis ignored the path and half-ran, half-scrambled down the slippery embankment with Guthrie hot on his heels, torchlight bobbing across wet grass, stones and bushes.

'MRS YOUNG?'

They slithered to a halt at the foot of the slope, rain drumming off their peaked caps and black jackets. 'OK,' said Guthrie,'you go left, I'll go right.'

McInnis snorted. 'Bugger that! If the Flesher's out here we should stick together, so--'

'Don't be such a big jessie. There's a woman out there getting murdered, remember?' He stumbled off into the downpour, following the beam of his LED torch. It wasn't long before he was swallowed by the night.

McInnis swore, then waded out into the knee-high grass. This was ridiculous - probably just a hoax, or some kinky sex game gone wrong, like those idiots in Northfield with all the tomato sauce. Nothing was going to happen. False alarm.

He swung his torch across a mountain range of gorse bushes.

'MRS YOUNG?'

He didn't see the patch of mud that sent him sprawling. One minute he was upright, and the next he was lying flat on his back, watching his torch spin through the air ... It came down somewhere deep inside the prickly bushes - clattering through the branches till it finally hit the ground. 'FUCK!'

A pause, then the Airwave handset on his shoulder started ringing: Guthrie.'
Are you OK? What happened? You need help?
'

There was no way McInnis was going to say he'd slipped and fallen on his arse. 'I'm fine. Dropped my torch.'

'
Moron
.'

'Up yours.' McInnis ended the call and struggled to his feet. Everything was soaked through: trousers, jacket, socks, T-shirt, pants. 'Bloody marvellous ...' He could see the faint gleam of his torch leaching out beneath the line of gorse bushes. For a second he considered just leaving the damn thing, but it wasn't as if he could get any wetter.

He edged his way forward in the dark.

The torch was no more than a couple of feet from the outer cordon of spines. McInnis hunkered down and tried to reach it.

Thorns scratched the back of his hand as he fumbled in the shadows. Stupid bloody torch. Come on ... Branch, rock, something horrible and sticky - please not dog shit, please not dog shit-- torch! McInnis grabbed it, thankful no one had seen him make an absolute tit of himself.

And as the torch came out of the bush, its beam glittered back from something dark and oily. Blood. His hand was covered in blood. There was something white further back. It was a foot.

McInnis froze, then slid the beam up: ankle, leg, thigh, buttock ... a woman, lying on her front, naked except for a pair of control-top knickers and a substantial bra. Her neck had been slashed so deeply the head was barely attached. Very, very dead.

'Oh, Jesus.' He sat back on his haunches. Mouth open wide as the rain hammered down all around him. He reached for his Airwave handset and punched in Guthrie's badge number.

It was picked up on the second ring.'
Aye?
'

'It ... I've found her.'

'
She OK?
'

Pause. 'No. She's ...' he drifted to a halt, all the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. The sound of the rain had changed - the soft hammering of water on vegetation had been overlaid with a new, harder noise. As if there was something else ...
someone
else there.

'
What?
'

McInnis stood. Trying to pretend he hadn't noticed anything. Oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-shit.

'
Where are you?
'

He whipped round, snatching his baton from his belt, ready to crack the bastard's head open ... But there was nobody there. Just the rain and the bushes and the weeds and the grass and the darkness.

'
McInnis: what the hell's going on?
'

Idiot. Scaring himself like that. He turned back towards the bush. 'Nothing. We need to get the IB out here and ...' The Flesher was standing right in front of him.

'Oh,' McInnis could barely get the words out,'shit.'

And then the Flesher hit him.

Darkness.

'Ah Jesus!' McInnis sat up, coughing, water streaming down his face, a bright light shining in his eyes.

'You OK?'

Everything smelt of blood. 'Where...?'

Guthrie peered at him. 'Bloody hell! What happened to your nose?'

McInnis shuddered, spat, and held out a hand, getting Guthrie to haul him to his feet. 'How long?'

'Is she in there?' Pointing at the bush.

'How long was I out for?' Another shudder. His nose felt as if it was on fire.

'Not long. A minute? Two? I saw your torch: nearly killed myself getting here. Tore the arse right out my trousers.'

McInnis wiped a hand across his mouth, it came away covered in red. 'He was here: the Flesher. I
saw
him!'

'Which way did he go?'

'I don't bloody know, do I?'

The wailing sirens were getting louder - flashing blue lights bouncing along the road as a patrol car San Franciscoed over the speed humps, making for Vicky Young's address. He could hear another one on the opposite side of the ravine. They could still catch the bastard.

McInnis swept his torch over the surrounding grass and bushes. Three tracks led away into the damp undergrowth. One went up the hill, back towards the patrol car, another headed off to the right - where Guthrie said he'd come from - and the third snaked away to the left.

McInnis staggered into a run, following the trail of flattened grass.

'What about the body? We can't just leave--'

'She's not getting any deader, is she?'

There was a stream at the bottom of the ravine, swollen by the torrential rain. Guthrie slithered to a halt at the water's edge. He was on his Airwave handset again, telling Control where the body was, while McInnis tried to work out which way the bastard had gone.

Upstream, downstream ... no sign of flattened grass on the other bank.

McInnis picked his way around a small pile of boulders, following the course of the stream. Heading away from the road.

'Aye,' Guthrie waved his torch back towards the patrol car,'down here, we're in pursuit of--'

McInnis froze. 'Will you shut up a minute?'

'Look, I'm only trying to--'

'Shhhh!' There was a clump of brittle whin, six foot further up the slope, its seed husks rattling in the downpour. Not quite loud enough to hide the faint sound of sobbing coming from inside the bush.

Pulling out his pepper spray, McInnis inched forwards. 'Police! Come out with your hands up and no one gets hurt.'

Guthrie crept round the other side. They made eye contact for a second and McInnis mouthed,'On three.'

One.

Two.

Three: Guthrie grabbed the nearest branch and yanked it back. The person hiding in there squealed and tried to scrabble away, but there was nowhere to go. It was a woman: mid to late forties; only partially dressed - pale skin glowing in the torchlight; no shoes; her trousers ripped and stained; her blouse torn, the buttons missing, the material soaked with bright red blood.

McInnis put the pepper spray away and held out his hand. 'You're going to be OK.'

She squirmed back against the branches, clutching a big leather handbag in front of her like a shield. Her bruised face was twisted and filthy. 'Don't touch me! Please don't touch me!
Please
!'

'It's OK. We're the police. You're safe now.'

'Please ...'

McInnis straightened up and ran his torchlight across the rain-hammered night. There was no way they could leave her alone out here in the dark while they went after the Flesher.

'Son of a rancid bitch.'

The bastard had got away.

53

'Who stinks like a brewery?' DI Steel, turned in her seat to sniff at Logan. 'You bathe in beer this morning?'

The briefing room was full, everyone waiting for DCS Bain to turn up and hand out the morning assignments. Up till now the discussion had been exclusively Flesher-related: speculation and rumour leaving reality far behind as the tale of PC McInnis's clash with Aberdeen's most notorious serial killer was told and retold.

Logan pointed at the green-faced constable sitting next to him. 'That's Rennie you can smell. He went for the world record vodka-and-Red-Bull-get-pissed-quick-athon last night.'

'Oh, aye?' The inspector grinned. 'And there was me thinking our wee boy looked like shite'cos he'd been up all night shagging Luscious Laura.'

Rennie went pale, and then bright red. 'Not feeling too good.'

'If you're going to puke, do it in that direction: Laz's suit needs a good clean, he won't mind.'

'No one's being sick on anyone. We--' Logan sat up straight. 'Look out: Bain.'

The Detective Chief Superintendent had finally appeared - Faulds, the ACC, the Procurator Fiscal, and the DCI from Strathclyde following on behind. The room fell silent.

'Right,' said Bain, nodding to a constable who killed the lights,'Elizabeth Nichol.' A face appeared on the screen behind him - middle aged, bleached blonde hair with grey-flecked roots beginning to show, her face a patchwork of bruises. 'Alpha Nine Three discovered her less than two hundred yards from the body of Vicky Young.'

Click
and the photo changed: night time, a woman in bloodstained underwear lying face down beneath a gorse bush, the skin tones bleached out by the photographer's flash. 'Her throat was cut through to the bone, she was nearly decapitated.'

Click
and they were looking at a kitchen table covered with bits of human body. 'Marcus Young.'
Click
- a severed head, lying under the table.

Click
- back to the battered, terrified face of Elizabeth Nichol. Bain picked up a stack of paper from the desk beside him and handed it to the nearest constable, telling him to take one and pass the rest on. 'This is the preliminary victimology report on our survivor.'

Logan accepted the pile from a queasy-looking Rennie and handed it on to Steel. According to the cover sheet, the Family Liaison officer they'd assigned Elizabeth Nichol was the same one he'd taken to see Andrew McFarlane: PC Munro.

'Read it later,' said Bain. 'The gist is that Nichol went to the Youngs' house to borrow a cookery book. Mrs Young was out shopping, but her husband asked Nichol in to wait. She says the doorbell went fifteen minutes later and when Young went to answer the door he was forced back into the hall and beaten. Nichol panicked and ran.'

'Not bloody surprising,' muttered Steel.

If the Chief Superintendent heard her, he wasn't letting on. 'Next thing she knows, she's wandering round the waste ground at the back of the houses in the rain. She comes across Vicky Young's body and is accosted by a man fitting the Flesher's description. They struggle, but Alpha Nine Three turns up and she manages to escape. PC McInnis found her hiding in a whin bush. Her clothes were torn and covered in blood.'

Click
- a cutting from the
Aberdeen Examiner
appeared. 'M
ARCUS
M
AKES
M
ERRY
': a story about how Marcus Young had written a comedy play that was going to be performed on Radio Scotland. 'This article was published three and a half weeks ago. Just like all the others.' Bain pointed at the screen. 'The MO fits, the butchery fits, the description fits, the victim selection fits.'

The DCS smiled into Alec's television camera lens. 'We have a living witness, backed up by an experienced police officer. We have a crime scene that was abandoned before the Flesher could finish. This represents a very real breakthrough in the investigation - we're one step closer to catching this bastard.'

'Aye,' Steel said in a smoky whisper,'and I'm sure that's a great fucking comfort to Marcus and Vicky Young's families.'

Bain stared at her. 'Did you have something to add, Inspector?'

'Aye, I'd like to widen the door-to-door radius round the Youngs' house - the bastard knows there's police everywhere, he's going to keep running till he's nowhere near the scene. Might even have abandoned his vehicle.'

The DCS nodded. 'Good point: get right on it.'

'Come on, Laz,' she stood,'you heard the man--'

'Actually,' said Faulds,'I was hoping to take DS McRae with me to interview our surviving victim.' He smiled at the inspector. 'Hope you don't mind?'

'Mind? Me? Why would
I
mind?' She grabbed Rennie by the collar. 'Come on Boozy Boy, the fresh air will do you good.'

'I meant to ask' said Faulds as they drove out of Aberdeen on the A947, heading north,'How's David doing?'

It took Logan a second to realize he was talking about Insch. 'Not so good. They need to operate, but ...' He shrugged and put his foot down, overtaking a Renault Espace full of ugly children and assorted dogs. 'I don't know ... it sort of feels like he's given up.'

Faulds was quiet for a while, looking out of the car window as the countryside went by. 'It's actually quite pretty, in a never-ending-green-and-brown-slog-of-muddy-fields kind of way ... Ooh, look: sheep. Just to break up the monotony.' He smiled. 'Do you like it here?'

'Never really thought about it. Lived here most of my life, so ... well, you know.'

'Have you thought about what you're going to do next?'

'Go through the abattoir security tapes again?'

'I meant in the slightly longer term. I've got a couple of openings coming up in Birmingham. Detective Inspectors - of course you'd be on secondment to start with, and you'd have to forget all this haggis-munching Criminal Justice Scotland Act nonsense: learn PACE, like a proper police officer. But I think you'd make a good addition to my team.'

Logan turned and stared at his passenger. 'A DI in
Birmingham
?'

'Come on: you're intuitive; determined; good attention to detail; you jump to conclusions, but you're not afraid to listen to alternatives; open minded; loyal; and do you think you could keep your eyes on the road?'

'I ... yes ... sorry.' Logan gripped the steering wheel and pulled them back into their own lane.

'I run a fast-track programme for real coppers, not just jumped-up overachievers with law degrees. Up here you could be a DS till you're drawing your pension. With me, if you keep on the way you're going, you could be looking at a Chief Inspector's job in four or five years.'

Faulds left an expectant pause ... and when Logan didn't fill it, he said,'You're not exactly biting my hand off here.'

'Actually, sir, I was wondering what it'd be like: leaving everything behind. Starting again from scratch. Not knowing anybody.'

'Your family's here, aren't they? You're worried about missing them.'

'Dear God no.' Smile. 'Trust me, that's a bonus. My mum's a nightmare.'

'Yeah, my foster parents were the same. So, if it's not your family...?'

A new life in Birmingham: he could leave all the guilt and bad memories behind. A clean slate.

'Look,' said Faulds,'sleep on it. I'm only going to be up here for another couple of days, but if you let me know tomorrow I can get the paperwork started. Four weeks' time you could be Detective Inspector McRae of West Midlands Police.'

Logan had to admit he liked the sound of that.

Newmacher had started out as a tiny village, but as with most places within commuting distance of Aberdeen it had contracted a nasty dose of developer's spread: housing estates breaking out like acne as more and more people squeezed into cheek-by-jowl brick-clad boxes.

Elizabeth Nichol had a 1970s bungalow in a little grey culde-sac. An unmarked car sat outside the house - the back seat cluttered with yellowing newspapers and empty wax-paper cups from Starbucks. Logan parked behind it.

'Rule one,' said Faulds, climbing out into the sunshine,' if you're going to be on my team I need you to be goal-orientated ... Don't look at me like that: I know it sounds wanky, but there's a reason. We don't just bumble about hoping some wonderful clue will fall into our lap; we go in with pre-defined goals.' He pointed at Logan. 'What are we trying to achieve here?'

'See if Nichol can remember anything more about that night. Go over the physical description again.' Logan stopped to think for a moment. 'Find out if there's a connection between the Youngs and the Flesher. Maybe there's more to it than just the newspaper cuttings: he might have made contact.'

'Good. Now lets go see if some wonderful clue will fall into our lap.'

Elizabeth Nichol's house was a cathedral of kitsch. Pride of place went to her massive collection of snow globes from all over Europe: Poland, Moldova, Croatia, Lithuania, Slovakia, Croatia, and a lot of other places ending in 'ia' that Logan couldn't pronounce. They filled a bank of floor-to-ceiling shelves that dominated the lounge.

Elizabeth herself was a small, nervous-looking woman who fidgeted constantly with her blouse: tugging at the collar, brushing off imaginary lint, picking at the buttons.

PC Munro sat in a floral armchair by the window, leaning forward every now and then to pat her on the arm and tell her it was all right, she was safe now.

Elizabeth made them a pot of tea, sat back down on the couch, fidgeted a bit more, stood, picked up a snow globe, looked out the window,'Would ... would anyone like something to eat? It's no trouble, really, I was going to have something myself. Just leftovers really ...' She put the snow globe back with the others. 'Sorry ... it's stupid ...' The tears were starting.

PC Munro got up and put an arm around her shoulder. 'It's OK.'

'I just wanted to feel useful.' She sniffed and rubbed at her eyes. 'I'm such an
idiot
.'

'Nonsense, it's a lovely offer,' said Faulds. 'I've got to go have lunch with some boring old fart from the council, but I'm sure DS McRae and PC Munro will join you.'

'Er ...' Logan looked at Munro, then Faulds, and finally at Elizabeth Nichol. 'Well ... only if it's not any bother.'

Elizabeth assured him it wasn't and bustled off into the kitchen.

'So,' said Faulds when the muted roar of an extractor fan kicked in,'down to business: why isn't she still in hospital?'

The FLO pulled out her notebook. 'Discharged herself. She has a thing about doctors and nurses. Won't take witness protection either. Those Muppets were here earlier, trying to bully her into it.'

'Not acceptable. I'm not having the only surviving victim of the Flesher running around unguarded.'

'She doesn't
want
a guard; won't even let us put a patrol car outside the house. She wants to pretend it never happened. As far as Elizabeth Nichol's concerned, if you stick your head in the sand nothing can hurt you.'

'Then you'll have to stay.'

Munro was lost for words. 'You ... what? I ...'

'You're her FLO aren't you?'

'But I'm supposed to be investigating her background, establishing victimology.'

'And do you really think that's more important than making sure she stays alive?'

'What?'

'Nothing's going to happen, but if anything does you'll be here to call for backup. We'll get a couple of cars doing lowprofile surveillance - Nichol won't even know about it - they'll be thirty seconds away. You see anything suspicious, you call them in. No heroics.'

Munro tried again:'Look, sir, I'm supposed to be off at two, I've got--'

'Have you finished the background report yet?'

'I ... not as such, but--'

'Well, what
have
you done then?'

'I did the preliminary report.'

Faulds didn't look impressed. 'You've been here all morning; where's the family history, work record, timeline?'

'I ... it's not easy, OK? She won't settle down for more than two minutes at a stretch. She's nervous. Probably still in shock.'

'Look,' said Faulds,'you've got an opportunity here to prove to everyone you're not a screw-up--'

'What? I'm
not
a screw-up! Who's saying I'm a screw-up?'

'After that business with William Leith--'

'That wasn't my fault! How was I supposed to know he killed his wife? He said it was the Flesher: everyone--'

'Some people would think an experienced FLO wouldn't have made that kind of mistake.'

'That is
so
...' She looked at Logan, but he had no intention of getting involved. 'I'm doing my best.'

'That's what worries me.' A friendly smile blossomed on Faulds' face as Nichol returned from the kitchen with two heaped plates of mince and tatties.