Читать книгу Logan McRae Crime Series Books 4-6: Flesh House, Blind Eye, Dark Blood - Stuart MacBride - Страница 37

It was half past four before the joiner turned up to board up Brooks’ back door. Logan watched him nailing the huge sheet of plywood into place, doing his best to ignore the man’s rambling moan about all these Eastern Europeans coming over here and undercutting honest tradesmen like him. Then asked if Logan needed any jobs doing on the QT for cash …?

Logan did one last circuit of the house, making sure the IB hadn’t left anything behind, then stepped out into the rainy night and locked the front door.

A lone rocket screeched into the dark orange sky, exploding in a tiny puff of golden sparks. Not exactly spectacular.

He climbed behind the wheel of his pool car and sat there, listening to the rain tapping on the roof, looking out at Brooks’ house. Maybe he should go round and tell Insch the place was all his? Not that it’d do the inspector any good – there was nothing there to link Wiseman with Brooks’ death. The Butcher was too clever for that.

Logan turned the key in the ignition and set the windscreen wipers going. They’d emptied Brooks’ freezer, just in case it contained any human remains, but he doubted they’d find any. The man who’d led the Flesher investigation back in 1987 hadn’t been turned into meat, he’d been turned into pavement pâté.

Logan took the scenic route to Insch’s house, driving through the old town centre. A clot of schoolchildren lurked in the bus shelter: some smoking cigarettes, some ‘Oh-my-God’ing into mobile phones, one or two making abstract patterns in the air with hot white sparklers.

A scream.

Logan snapped upright in his seat – a young girl, no more than six years old, was being chased by a little boy in a Margaret Thatcher fright mask.

‘Jesus …’ In his day they’d played cowboys and Indians, not serial killer and victims. He pulled out into the town square, past the weird sandstone statue of a sailor, and onto South Road.

Insch’s home, ‘Dunpromptin’, was a large granite box set back off the road, shielded by a high wall and mature trees, the leaves amber and russet, like frozen fireworks. Logan creaked the gate open and headed up the path. Another rocket exploded in the distance, this one slightly more impressive than the last anaemic attempt.

He leaned on the bell, watching the green sparkles fade away.

He counted to sixty, then tried again. A deep ding-donggggggg sounded somewhere inside the house. Still no answer.

Maybe they’d gone out?

So much for Insch being desperate to see round his dead friend’s house. Bloody man was like mercury these days: I want this, I want that, I want something completely different. A vast, bad-tempered child.

Logan tried one last time, then headed back to the car.

‘Shhhhhh …’ Wiseman held a finger to his lips as the last peal of the doorbell faded into silence. Then waited five minutes, just to be sure whoever it was had fucked off. Then took his hand off the bitch’s mouth.

She was a good girl, didn’t scream this time. Learned her lesson. She wasn’t much to look at – let herself go a bit after the kids – but then, given the fat git she’d married … No accounting for taste.

He pulled out a couple of cable-ties and fastened the bitch’s wrists behind her back, then wrapped another set around her ankles. Just like her darling husband and the three little girls upstairs. One big happy family.

Wiseman smiled at her. ‘Now then, where were we?’

The fat bastard lay flat on his face in the middle of the carpet – spread out like a beached whale, bright red oozing from the back of his bald head.

‘He ever tell you about me?’

She whimpered and shook her head.

‘No? That’s not polite, is it, Insch?’ Wiseman heaved the fat man over onto his back and slapped a strip of duct-tape over his mouth. ‘How could you not tell your lovely wife that you fucked my life over?’ Wiseman sat on Insch’s barrel chest, spat in his face. Then slammed a fist into it. The whale’s blubber shuddered, and two dark, piggy eyes cracked open.

‘The kraken awakes! Hey, Fat Boy: miss me?’

Insch struggled, breath hissing through his nose as he tried to break his bonds.

‘No point, Lard Arse. Most people can’t snap one cable tie, never mind six. You’re going nowhere.’ He patted Insch’s chubby cheek. ‘I can’t believe you never told her how you beat a fucking confession out of me! Eh? How you told the court I fell …’ Wiseman slammed his fist into Insch’s face, ‘down …’ punch, ‘the …’ punch, ‘fucking …’ punch, ‘stairs!’

He sat back and flexed his hand. ‘See, your law-abiding, police officer husband liked beating up suspects, didn’t you, Fatty?’ He stood, took two steps back and slammed a foot into Insch’s ribs.

The bitch whimpered. ‘We … we’ve got money! You can have it! Just let us go!’

Wiseman pretended to think about it for a minute. ‘No.’

‘But … but they’ll come looking for us! You can’t—’

‘Oh, shut up.’ He tore off another strip of duct-tape and sealed her cakehole. ‘What’ve I got to lose, eh? These bastards catch me they’re going to screw me over. Just like last time. I’ve seen the papers: what is it, five, six murders? You think two more are going to make any difference?’

She mumbled something behind her gag, eyes wide, terrified.

‘Shhhh …’ He dropped down in front of her, stroked her hair, cupped her podgy face in his hand; smiling as Fatty thrashed about on the floor, making angry, impotent noises. ‘I’ve been waiting for this for ages. Believe me, there are worse things than dying. There’s being banged up with fucking sickos and kiddy-fiddlers for fifteen years. There’s getting raped in the showers. Now why don’t you settle back and enjoy the show? It’s going to be a lonnnnng night …’

Heather sat, knees drawn up to her chest, ears straining at the darkness.

‘I don’t understand, what—’

‘Shhh!’

Duncan pulled on his hard-done-by face. ‘I was only asking.’

‘Can you hear it? I can hear it …’

‘Maybe you should eat something?’

‘I can hear it breathing.’

‘Heather—’

‘Something’s out there.’ She pointed out into the darkness, where the bars were, and Duncan shuddered.

‘Don’t think about it.’

‘You know what it is, don’t you?’

‘There’s still plenty of pork left. Or is it veal? I can’t tell.’

‘Duncan – tell me!’

‘Where do you think he’s gone? I mean, he left enough food—’

‘DUNCAN!’

When he replied it was little more than a whisper. ‘It’s the Dark.’

Heather pushed herself back into the corner, praying that the line of bars would be enough to keep the Dark from breaking through. ‘What … what does it want?’

‘What do you think?’

Breathing in the darkness. Watching her. Waiting.

‘It wants me …’

The morning briefing was a pretty dismal affair – DI Steel standing in for Insch who hadn’t turned up that morning. Probably hungover after a night in the Redgarth, drinking to DSI Brooks’ memory. So Steel was just going through the motions till he turned up: no new leads, no new victims, no sign of Wiseman. Same as yesterday and the day before.

She wrapped up the meeting with a half-hearted chorus of ‘We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!’ then let them all get back to whatever jobs Insch had given them before he’d been suspended. Which left Logan and Rennie back in the Flesher history room, clambering up the north face of Ancient Paperwork Mountain.

By half past ten Rennie was off making tea again – anything to escape all those INTERPOL reports – when Faulds reappeared. The Chief Constable dumped his suitcase by the radiator, stretched, yawned, and slouched into his seat. ‘Sorry I’m so late, but I couldn’t face the redeye.’ He fumbled the top off a waxed cardboard cup of coffee. ‘Why does everyone have to go feral on Guy Fawkes Night?’

Logan looked up from the latest in a long line of crime scene reports. ‘Fireworks?’

‘It’ll make my life a lot easier when they ban the bloody things. Seven children with third-degree burns. One little girl lost most of her left hand … mind you, she was trying to stuff a rocket up some poor dog’s bum at the time: wanted to see if it would explode. What’s wrong with people today?’

There was no answer to that, so Logan went back to work. But he could feel Faulds watching him.

It took the chief constable nearly five minutes to pop the question: ‘So … what happened to your face?’

‘I’d rather not talk about it, sir.’

Faulds stared at him for a while, shrugged, then asked for an update on the case, nodding and groaning as Logan went through everything that had happened since the CC left for Birmingham on Friday.

‘So basically,’ said Faulds, when Logan had finished, ‘I go away for three days and it all goes to rat-shit.’

‘Something like that.’

The Chief Constable sniffed. ‘I can’t believe Wiseman threw Brooks off a roof. I mean, he was a Neanderthal and his methods were … questionable, but he didn’t deserve that.’

It was hard to imagine who did. ‘We’ve got CCTV footage of someone helping Brooks into the tower block. He looks plastered – post mortem turned up traces of heroin in his system, Isobel only found one injection site.’

‘Poor sod. At least we’ve got CCTV—’

‘We can’t make an ID. It’s a council system so the resolution’s terrible, and the guy’s wearing a hoodie, never looks at the camera.’ Logan pointed at a fresh collection of photos on the wall of death. ‘We found the flat he kept Brooks in; according to council records the last tenant was a Mrs Irene Grey. She went into hospital for a cataract operation, caught MRSA. Died two months ago.’

‘And?’

‘Turns out her son is one Martin Grey – doing twelve years in Peterhead Prison for abduction, rape and forced imprisonment. Grabbed a sixteen-year-old boy and kept him chained and drugged for nearly a week.’

‘Jesus…’

‘Martin and Wiseman were in the same cell block.’

Faulds took a sip of his coffee. ‘Circumstantial at best. We need prints, fibre, witnesses …’

‘None of which we have. Wiseman’s had years to plan all this, he’s taking precautions, wearing gloves, cleaning up after himself.’

‘I don’t like the thought of someone bumping off retired senior police officers with impunity.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk for a bit. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘Up in the air at the moment. Insch hasn’t been in yet.’

The Chief Constable checked his watch. ‘Not still suspended is he?’

‘No, but Brooks’s death hit him kind of hard. The DCS says we should give him a couple of days to—’

Faulds was already dialling. ‘I’d better give him a call, let him know we’re here if he needs to talk.’ He held in silence for a moment, then left a message asking Insch to call him back. ‘Not answering his mobile.’

Logan tried the inspector’s home number. It rang and rang and rang and, ‘You’ve reached the Insch residence. I’m afraid we’re not able to come to the phone right now…’

‘Aren’t you popular.’ Wiseman listened as some policeman’s voice echoed out of the answering machine. ‘… can call the station as soon as you get this. Thanks.’ Bleeeeeeep. He hit the delete button.

‘How you doing, Fat Boy? Hungry? You have to be hungry, look at the size of you!’

Insch could only scowl. Poor bastard. Ha, ha, ha.

He wasn’t looking too pretty this morning: his piggy face all swollen and covered with bruises. It had taken a shit heap of duct-tape to strap the fat git to an armchair, but it was worth it just to see him wriggle. Wiseman grinned, and placed the hot frying pan down on the dining room table. The smell of scorching varnish filled the air, covering the stink of two people tied to their chairs for over eighteen hours with no access to a toilet.

‘Mmm …’ Wiseman prodded the meat in the sizzling pan. ‘Want some?’

Insch’s eyes were like burning coals. If looks could kill, the fat bastard would be a walking doomsday device.

‘Where are my manners, eh? Ladies first.’ Wiseman grabbed the stinky bitch by the hair, pulled her head back, and gripped one end of her tape gag. ‘If you shout, try to raise the alarm, warn someone, any of that shite, I’ll kill you.’ The tape came away with a patina of smeared lipstick. She burst into tears.

‘Please. Please let us go! We won’t tell anyone! You can just leave and no one will know!’

Wiseman stared for a moment, then slapped her. ‘LOOK AT MY FUCKING FACE!’ He hit her again. ‘What am I going to do? Shave off my beard and buy a ginger wig? Think that’ll work? Think people won’t notice the big,’ he hit her again, ‘fucking scar?’ Once more for luck: snapping her head round, blood and spittle dribbling down her chin.

Behind him, he could hear Insch thrashing against his bonds. ‘Sit still, Fatty, or I’ll give her something to cry about.’ And gradually the noise stopped.

Wiseman jabbed a fork into the pan and lifted out a slice of meat. It was perfectly cooked: the skin pale and tender, the inside moist, the edges caramelised. It dripped grease on the carpet, then on the bitch’s dress, then her chin. Gravy and blood mingling.

‘Eat.’

‘Please …’

‘Not going to tell you again.’

She took a tentative bite. Chewed and swallowed. Wiseman glanced over his shoulder at the fat man, sitting there with a furious scowl on his bright purple face as the bitch ate the rest. ‘Don’t worry, plenty left for you.’

He dug another slice out of the pan and turned to Inspector Fat Wad. ‘Here’s the deal. You eat this, or I slit her throat.’

He ripped the duct-tape gag off.

Insch gasped and snarled and opened his mouth to shout something, but Wiseman rammed the slice of meat in. The inspector spat it out, shaking his head from side to side, swearing. Wiseman grabbed the fat bastard’s ear and twisted. Then the fucker sat still.

Insch growled at him. ‘I’ll kill you …’

‘Really think I won’t do it? Slit her throat?’ He gave the ear another twist. ‘Now eat your fucking breakfast!’

‘I’ll kill—’

‘OK, be like that. I gave you the chance to save her, and you blew it.’ He walked over to the table and picked up the boning knife – it glittered against the bitch’s throat.

She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and sobbed.

‘Any last words?’

‘Don’t! I’ll… I’ll eat it!’ The fat git’s face was pouring with sweat. ‘Just leave her alone! She didn’t do anything to you, it was me. I did it. Not her …’

‘That’s better.’ Wiseman laid the knife next to the frying pan and picked up the fork. He speared the slice the fat git had spat out – picking off a few stray dog hairs from where it had hit the carpet – then held it out for Insch to bite.

Insch stared at it, then at his wife, then back to the slice again. Took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. And bit. For a moment it looked as if he was going to vomit, but he chewed and swallowed instead. Shuddering as it went down.

‘There’s a good boy.’ Wiseman smiled. ‘Did you like that? Tasty and tender was it?’

‘I’m …’ He gagged.

The bitch’s voice was small and trembling. ‘David? What’s wrong?’

‘Keep it down, Fat Boy, there’s more where that came from.’

Insch didn’t look at her. ‘Nothing’s wrong. It’s all going to be OK.’

‘Go on, Lardy, tell your lovely wife what the Flesher does. Don’t be shy.’

‘Tell me what? David …?’

‘Tell her.’

‘He killed at least a dozen people. Butchered their remains and ate them.’

The bitch’s eyes went wide, then locked onto the frying pan and its tasty, meaty contents. ‘Oh God …’

Wiseman leant down and whispered in Insch’s ear. ‘You haven’t asked where your daughters are.’

The fat man screamed.