Читать книгу Logan McRae Crime Series Books 4-6: Flesh House, Blind Eye, Dark Blood - Stuart MacBride - Страница 52

‘All hail the conquering hero!’ DI Steel was sitting in Logan’s chair, feet up on his desk, a copy of that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner open on her lap. ‘Where the hell you been? I came in hours ago.’

‘Really?’ Logan stuck the brown plastic tray from the canteen down in front of her. ‘Because Big Gary says you didn’t get in till eleven. It’s only quarter past.’

Steel grinned, ‘Aye, aye: make with the bacon buttie, hero boy.’

He handed over a tinfoil package and sat back against the room’s only radiator. ‘I didn’t write the bloody thing, OK?’

Steel unwrapped her buttie and tore a huge bite out of it. ‘Chief Constable Baldy Brian wants to congratulate us personally for catching Leith. Of course, I put it all down to my inspirational leadership and—’

‘You’ve got tomato sauce on your blouse.’

The inspector peered down at her chest. ‘Aw no’ again!’

‘Anyway,’ Logan picked up his coffee and went to peel the Leith crime scene photos from the death board, ‘not as if makes any difference, is it? Doesn’t get us any closer to catching the Flesher.’

‘Are you mental?’

‘Well, it doesn’t, does it? He’s still out there—’

‘God, no’ again… Fine, be miserable. Your glass might be half empty, but mine runneth over. No’ had a pat on the back from Baldy Brian for ages.’ She took another massive bite, chewing happily. ‘Mmmmph, mmm, mph-mmmm?’

‘Yeah, I suppose. But not till Insch comes back.’ He slipped the crime scene photos back in the Leith file, then stuck the whole thing in his out-tray. ‘If there’s nothing urgent on, I thought I’d go home and—’

‘Oh no you don’t! You heard the DCS last night: if Wiseman’s slipping out the frame we need to find someone else to pin all this shite on. You and me are going through that 1987 case file with a nit comb.’

‘You’re kidding – we pulled a twenty-hour shift yesterday!’

‘Aye, well feel free to whinge to your Federation Rep about it. And have one for me while you’re there.’ She polished off the last of her bacon buttie, scrunched up the tinfoil and lobbed it at the bin. Not even close.

‘We’ve already been over the historical stuff, and—’

‘And now we’re doing it again. OK?’ She sooked something out from between her teeth and chewed. ‘Don’t be such a work-shy bastard. Our pat on the back’s not till after lunch: plenty of time to get cracking.’ She pulled out her cigarettes and stood. ‘Let me know how you get on. I’ll be in a … meeting. Yeah – anyone asks I’m in a meeting.’

Logan stifled a yawn, took another mouthful of coffee, and crawled back inside the McLaughlin case file. He hadn’t been entirely honest with DI Steel – he’d not really read the whole thing before. Not all of it. He’d just skimmed the day-to-day stuff on his way to the post mortem and crime scene reports. Going through it from start to finish was something of a revelation.

Once Detective Chief Inspector Brooks – this was 1987, before he’d got the promotion to DSI – had Ken Wiseman in his sights, he never looked at anyone else. As far as Brooks was concerned, Wiseman was guilty.

It was the car boot full of blood that had done it. Brooks kept coming back to it in the transcripts, time and time again.

DCI Brooks: Stop messing us about Ken, we know you did it.

Wiseman: I told you! It was a roe Deer, OK? Found it at the side of the road.

DCI Brooks: Do you seriously expect me to believe—

Wiseman: It was still twitching. I took it home and butchered it.

DCI Brooks: They found human blood in there too, you idiot.

Wiseman: Mine. It was mine. Bloody deer kicked out when I hefted it into the boot, didn’t it? Got me right in the face. Bled all over the place.

Logan flicked through to the forensic reports. According to the lab, the samples were too degraded for a positive identification, the DNA test inconclusive.

They’d tried again in ’95, fighting Wiseman’s appeal. DNA testing had come on a bit since 1990, but the only human blood they could extract from the evidence shared so many markers with Wiseman’s own that even an idiot defence lawyer could have poked holes in the prosecution case. So good old Detective Chief Inspector Brooks had tried to suppress the evidence.

The defence managed to get hold of it anyway and that was it – case dismissed.

Wiseman’s original confession was given pride of place at the very back of the file, in its own clear plastic evidence pouch, obviously typed by someone with more fingers than brain cells:

I did it. I did it and I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt her, but I did. Their was a lot of blood. Afterwards I did not know what to do, so I proceeded to dispose of the body by cutting it up and getting rid of the parts. I do not remember ware I burried them. I had been drinking.

There was another page and a half – a tortured mass of bad typing, poor spelling and twisted lies, and then, at the end, a shaky signature. As if the writer’s hand had just been slammed in a drawer. There was a second version of the confession, all neatly typed by someone who could spell. Wiseman’s signature wasn’t any better on that one.

Logan pushed the file away, wondering how the hell someone like Brooks had ever made it to the rank of detective superintendent; the bastard was little more than a criminal himself. And Insch had helped him. Mr Everything-Has-To-Be-Done-By-The-Book had beaten a suspect in custody and forced him to sign a confession. No wonder Wiseman went after him…

Lunch was a baked potato in the canteen, eaten one-handed as he re-read the SOC report on the derelict butcher’s shop where Ian and Sharon McLaughlin’s remains had been found. He stuck the report back in the folder and pulled out Faulds’s tatty copy of Smoak With Blood, flicking through till he got to the chapter on the same scene.

When God makes man, he does so from the simplest of materials. Our bodies, our minds, the blood that courses through our veins, are no different from those of the animals we slaughter for food. A pig, a cow, a human being: after the butcher’s tender ministrations it’s all just meat. We are all just meat.

It was an anonymous tip-off that led police to the disused butcher’s shop on Palmerston Road, within spitting distance of the railway station; the rumble of passing freight trains making the ground shudder beneath their feet as they picked through the debris-strewn interior. Rats scuttled through the piles of broken plaster and crumbling furniture. The floor and walls spattered where pigeons had passed judgement on a shop closed for eighteen years and turned into a storage shed.

Today, the sign outside says ‘Property Management’, but in January 1988 it was the final resting place for my parents. Or would have been, if not for that anonymous phone call in the dead of night.

Logan flicked through the file – finding reference to a call made from a public phone box in Torry. The note said it was a woman’s voice: drunk and scared. They thought it was probably a working girl, looking for somewhere to take a punter. Or maybe one of the city’s growing homeless population, looking for a place to drink themselves to sleep. Brooks put out the usual appeals, but no one came forward.

The fridges at the back of the shop had been cleared of their contents, the detritus piled up in the serving area. In here the walls were smeared with filth, mildew reaching out of the corners: a permanent shadow that not even the pathologist’s spotlights could banish. My parents hung from hooks in the ceiling.

That sounds more dramatic than it actually was. Although the smell was appalling (the power being long gone, and the fridges at ambient temperature) there was little to show that the cuts of meat hanging there had once been someone’s mother and father. My mother and father. Now just meat.

And on those filthy walls were written the words that would forever be emblazoned upon my soul. A message from the man who would become known as ‘the Flesher’.

“From ancient times, our origins we draw,

When priests were cons’crate to keep God’s law,

When sacerdotal sacrifice and feasts,

Made alters smoak with blood of slaughter’d beasts…’

A message written in blood. The blood of my parents.

After a period of sober reflection involving jam sponge and custard, Logan grabbed a cup of tea and went back to the history room. The file said Brooks traced the quotation scrawled on the butcher’s shop wall to Trinity Hall – home of the Seven Incorporated Trades – a 1960s concrete box of a building with delusions of grandeur, on Holburn Street, not far from McFarlane’s…

‘Smoak with blood’ – a line from a painting belonging to the butchers’ trade incorporation, AKA: ‘the Fleshers’. And that was how he got his name.

Logan’s tea was stone cold by the time he’d finished reading all the interview transcripts: Brooks had hauled in every butcher in the city, whether they were members or not. That was when the fixation with Wiseman started.

‘Wakey, wakey.’ DI Steel meandered into the room, bringing a waft of stale cigarette with her. ‘Half two: ready to be told what a clever little boy you are?’

Logan looked up from Wiseman’s first ever brush with the police. ‘Give me a minute, I – hey!’

Steel snatched the transcript from his hand. ‘Let’s see what’s so important …’ her lips moving as she read. ‘Jesus,’ she turned it over in her hands, peering at the biro notes scribbled on the back, ‘Basher Brooks strikes again. You see these? “He’s obviously hiding something.” “Shifty.” “Evasive.” “Reeks of guilt…” Talk about keeping an open mind.’ She stuck it back on Logan’s desk. ‘Anyway, come on: arse in gear. Pat on the back time.’

30 minutes later

‘Bastarding cock-weasel son-of-a-bitch!’ Steel hurled herself into Logan’s seat. ‘Can you believe this shite? Fucking bastard!’ She stood, swore some more, kicked the filing cabinet, called Chief Constable Brian Anderson a ‘Sheep-shagging prick.’ And collapsed back into the chair again.

‘Well,’ said Logan, picking his words carefully, ‘it could be worse …’

‘How? How could it possibly be worse?’

‘Could’ve been DCI Finnie.’

‘That … cock?’ She scrubbed her hands across her face. ‘How could they say I’m no’ pro-active enough? How? How much more pro-fucking-active could I be? Did we no’ just catch Leith?’

Logan settled himself in behind the other desk, bracing himself for the oncoming rant. Ten minutes later she was still at it.

‘Course you know what this is really about, don’t you? Can’t have a lowly woman heading up a high-profile case like this. Nooooo. That needs a baldy-headed bastard, doesn’t it?’ She put on a broad Banff and Buchan accent for, ‘“I think it’d be mare appropriate fer DCS Bain tae tak a mair active role…” Wankers didn’t take the damn thing off Insch, did they?’ Steel sat and seethed in silence for a while, then pulled out her cigarettes, turning the pack over and over in her hands. ‘Do us a favour, eh? Go see how the fat git’s doing.’

‘What, now?’

‘No, no’ now: tonight. I know he’s been a toss-pot lately, and he smacked you in the face … but … well … take him a bag of jelly babies or something.’

‘I can’t, I’ve got something on tonight.’ Which was a lie. Logan just couldn’t face dealing with Insch’s grief on top of all the guilt. Not yet.

‘Insch is one of us, Laz, we’ve got no right abandoning him. No’ with his wee girl dead like that.’

‘But if I hadn’t chased Wiseman—’

‘You’ve always been Inschy’s favourite. He needs someone to talk to, and you’re it. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? He shouts at you a bit? Least it’ll make him feel better. You no’ think we owe him that?’

Logan swore. But the inspector was right: he owed Insch that much. ‘OK, OK, I’ll go see him.’

‘Good lad.’ Steel hauled herself out of the chair and headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, ‘But for God’s sake don’t tell him I sent you! Got my reputation as a hardnosed bitch to think about.’

Half four and Steel still wasn’t back. Logan sat with a fresh cup of tea and the old Media Office file on Ian and Sharon McLaughlin – all the press releases, the follow-up articles culled from the newspapers, speeches written for whoever was Chief Constable at the time. One of the newspaper clippings included a photo of Ex-DSI Brooks outside the Sheriff Court, a thin and hirsute DC David Insch standing off to one side.‘SUSPECT REMANDED IN CUSTODY’.

He laid the article out on the desk and sat back, staring at the death board. How many of them died because Brooks couldn’t get over his Wiseman-focussed monomania?

Logan called Colin Miller and asked for a favour.

‘What, again? You still owe me lunch from last time.’

‘Do this one and we’ll call it dinner – takeaway Thai?’

‘I’m listening…’

‘Need you to go through the paper’s archives. Missing persons, housebreakings, outbreaks of food poisoning, CJD … that kind of thing. 1987 to 1990.’

There was silence on the other end.

‘You gonnae tell me what this is all about?’

‘Nope.’

‘You expect me to go huntin’ through three years’ worth of pish, and you’re no’ gonnae tell me anythin’?’

‘Look we—’

‘Exclusive. I get the scoop on whatever it is, or I’m no’ liftin’ a finger.’

‘I’m just trying to put the original investigation into context.’

‘No exclusive, no deal.’

Logan said he’d see what he could do. ‘It’s up to the inspector.’

‘Which one: Fatty or Wrinkly?’

‘Steel. Insch is on compassionate leave. His daughter—’

‘Fuck – sorry, man, I forgot. Look, I’ll do what I can, but I’ve got to go interview some scientist at the Rowett this afternoon. “HEPATITIS C IN THE FOOD CHAIN: HOW SAFE IS YOUR DINNER?” kind of thing.’

Just what they needed, the papers stirring up more panic.

‘Tell you what: the Howff, eight o’clock, buy us a pint and we’ll talk about that exclusive.’

‘OK, we …’ Logan closed his eyes and swore quietly. ‘I can’t tonight, I’ve got a thing. Tomorrow?’

‘Fine, but you’re buying.’

‘Deal.’ Logan hung up and went back to the McLaughlin case file – putting off the inevitable, until guilt and hunger got the better of him. Like it or not, he had to go see the parents of the little girl he’d got killed.

Logan pulled the CID pool car up to the kerb and killed the engine. Then sat there, looking out at the night-shrouded countryside. Psyching himself up. Two deep breaths. Count to ten.

Count to ten again.

‘Come on …’ Logan grabbed the plastic bag from the passenger seat.

There were no lights on at the front of the house, but a dented Renault Clio with ‘I’M DRIVING COURTESY OF TAM’S TURRIFF MOTORS!’ emblazoned down the side, was parked in the drive where the inspector’s Range Rover usually sat. Logan tried the bell.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrringggggggggggg…

It was cold out here. The faint yellow glow of streetlights filtered through the trees, making the autumn leaves shine like reptile skin. A gust of wind sent a couple swirling to their death, adding to the greasy slick that littered the front garden.

He pressed the bell again.

One more time, then he was going to give up and go home.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrringggggggggggg…

A light blossomed above the door.

‘Inspector?’

Clunk, jingle, and the door drifted open a crack. Then came the sound of someone shuffling off back into the house.

‘Inspector? Hello?’ Logan put one hand on the wood and pushed. The hallway was in darkness, but down at the far end he could just make out Insch’s rounded bulk as he placed a foot on the stairs and began to climb.

Logan stepped inside and closed the door behind him. ‘Are you OK?’

Insch just kept on climbing, the stairs creaking as he disappeared from view.

‘Oh God …’ Logan peered into the lounge: it was a disaster area. The settee and armchairs upturned, stuffing ripped out, wooden frames buckled, coffee table a heap of twisted metal and broken glass. The dining room was just as bad: chairs broken, table on its side – a perfect circle of scorched varnish just visible in the gloom.

Insch must have run out of steam by the time he’d reached the kitchen. Logan backed out into the hall and crept up the stairs.

He found the inspector sitting on the floor in the corner of a small bedroom, surrounded by stuffed animals. The faint orange glow of a plug-in nightlight glittered back from dozens of black plastic eyes. A hand-painted sign on the door said, ‘SOPHIE’S SECRET PALACE – BEWARE OF THE DRAGON!!!’

Logan stopped at the threshold. ‘How’s Miriam?’

Insch sniffed, wiped his nose on the back of his hand, then picked up a fluffy unicorn. His voice was small and ragged: ‘She was going to be a doctor. Or a ballerina. Or an astronaut. Depended on what day it was …’ He hadn’t showered or shaved in a couple of days; his jowls covered in dark-blue stubble, heavy black bags under his eyes, clothes rumpled and stained. The smell of stale alcohol oozed out of him.

Logan picked his way through the furry minefield of bears and dinosaurs and pigs and dragons, then sank down with his back to the unmade bed. ‘Everyone at the station’s asking for you. They’re getting up a collection. Going to get a park bench dedicated to Sophie.’ It had sounded so appropriate when Steel had told him about it yesterday, now it just sounded hollow and crass.‘… I’m sorry.’

‘She left me. Miriam. She got out the hospital, took the girls and went to her mother’s.’ Another sniff. ‘Said she couldn’t bear to look at me anymore. That it was my fault.’

‘Sir, I—’

‘Wiseman was after me, and they paid for it.’ He wrapped his huge arms around the little unicorn, buried his face in its fur.

Logan closed his eyes and stepped off the cliff: ‘I wasn’t your fault, it was mine. If I hadn’t chased Wiseman—’

‘He was going to sell her to a paedophile. Right now, she’d be …’ The huge man shuddered. When he looked up his eyes sparkled with tears. ‘How do you explain to a child’s mother that her little girl’s better off dead?’

‘I’m so sorry…’ Logan pulled open the carrier bag, and dragged out four tins of Guinness. ‘Got them at that wee supermarket in Newmachar. Still cold.’ He held one out.

Insch took the tin, clicked the ring pull and drank deep.

‘Here,’ Logan went back into the bag for a family-sized packet of jelly babies and a box of Terry’s All Gold, ‘The chocolates were for Miriam.’

The inspector stared at the bag of little pink, red, green, purple, and yellow figures. ‘I can’t eat those. Borderline diabetic as it is …’ Then he snatched the bag from Logan’s hand and tore it open, stuffing baby after baby into his mouth. Chewing on automatic. Washing them down with more Guinness.

Logan pulled the tab on his own tin and raised it. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

‘No.’ Insch shook his head, clutching the little furry unicorn to his chest. ‘No it’s not. It’s never going to be OK again.’

The kitchen light seemed harsh and artificial after the soft glow of Sophie’s bedroom. They sat at the kitchen table, Insch hunched over a glass of whisky and a mug of sweet, milky coffee, the steam curling up around his bald head. Logan slid the opened box of All Gold back across the tabletop.

Insch didn’t look up. ‘Has he confessed?’

‘Denying everything: says I beat him up. You imagine that? He’d have me for sodding breakfast. Besides Alec got the whole thing on camera.’

Insch took a Caramel Nectar and stuck it in his mouth, followed by a sip of whisky. ‘Did he … is Sophie on it?’

Logan didn’t want to answer that one, but he didn’t see that he had any choice. ‘Yes.’

The inspector nodded. And helped himself to another chocolate. ‘I want you to do something for me.’ His voice was a dark rumble, colder than the November night howling against the kitchen window. ‘I want you to go to Craiginches and you tell Wiseman that I’m sorry.’

Logan nearly choked. ‘Did you say—’

‘I should never have assaulted him. I was a policeman, he was a prisoner, I had no right.’ Insch downed half his whisky in one go. ‘I looked up to Brooks. He was everything I wanted to be: he got the job done. Put people behind bars. He bent the rules, but it … it took me a long time to realize he was wrong. The ends didn’t justify pounding the crap out of suspects. Made us no better than they were.’ The last of the whisky disappeared. ‘You’ll tell him?’

‘Are you sure?’

The inspector held the cut crystal glass in his huge hand, twisting it so that little diamonds of light sparkled on the tabletop. ‘And then you tell that piece of shit I’m going to be waiting for him.’

‘Sir, you can’t do that. He’s—’

‘I don’t care how long it takes: I’m going to rip his balls off with my bare hands and feed them to him.’

‘But—’

‘No bastard is ever going to find his body.’

‘It’s over. Even if we can’t pin the Flesher killings on him, after what he did to you and Miriam and Sophie, they’ll never let him out. He’s going to die in Peterhead Prison.’

Insch looked up, his eyes dangerous and black. ‘I know. And I’m going to be there when he does, with my hands round his throat.’