Читать книгу Logan McRae Crime Series Books 4-6: Flesh House, Blind Eye, Dark Blood - Stuart MacBride - Страница 67

‘All right, all right, settle down.’ Detective Chief Superintendent Bain stuck his mug on the desk at the front of the briefing room and waited for quiet. Logan sat with DI Steel, two rows back, marinating in the aftermath of a well-deserved hangover.

Nearly everyone in the team had wanted to buy him a drink when Steel told them about the newspaper connection, and Logan had let them.

‘You’ll have heard,’ said Bain, ‘that we finally know how the Flesher is selecting his victims.’ He held up a copy of that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner, with Colin Miller’s exclusive splashed all over the front page. A ragged cheer went up and Logan blushed.

DCS Bain held up a hand. ‘Before anyone breaks out the champagne, think about it: each of the Flesher’s victims was featured in a newspaper article before their death. Press and Journal, Evening Express, Dundee Courier, Glasgow Herald, Daily Mail, Scotsman, Sunday Post… Do you have any idea how many people read those papers?’

And suddenly Logan’s glow didn’t feel so rosy.

‘Exactly. Millions. This tells us how the Flesher picks his victims, but it’s a long way from getting us his name and address.’

Steel nudged Logan in the ribs. ‘Told you.’ Which was a lie.

‘But,’ said Bain cutting through the groans, ‘it might give us an insight into the mind of the bastard. Which brings me to item two on the agenda: Doctor Goulding.’ He pointed and a man in a sharp grey suit stood and joined him at the front.

‘Hi, call me Dave, OK?’ Liverpool accent, hooked nose, hair like animal pelt, and a lurid tie that looked as if someone had eaten a whole range of fluorescent paint and then thrown up on it.

‘Chief Constable Faulds asked me to come in and present a profile on the Flesher. I’ve worked with sexually motivated violent offenders for fifteen years, attended training courses with the FBI at their Quantico headquarters, worked as a profiler for the Metropolitan Police …’

Steel leant over and whispered in Logan’s ear, ‘Lived in an octopus’s garden, dressed up in women’s clothing, had sex with a vacuum cleaner, am in love with the sound of my own sodding voice …’

‘I was asked to concentrate on three scenarios. A: Ken Wiseman is the Flesher and is working with an accomplice. B: Ken Wiseman was the Flesher, but the current spate of killings are down to a copycat. And C: it’s been somebody else all along.’ He looked at Bain. ‘Can we get the first slide up? … Thanks.’ He turned and checked the screen – a shot of Thomas Stephen’s surreal post mortem. ‘When dealing with sexual predators, or “serial killers”, it’s important to start with the effect and work back towards the cause …’

Steel got comfortable in her chair. ‘Give us a nudge if I start to snore, OK?’

There then followed a long explanation of how the Flesher was killing people in order to introduce human meat into the food chain. According to Goulding, this was part of some deranged Messiah complex. The longer the psychologist went on, the more coughing, shuffling and yawning he got from the audience. By the time he was going through the first profile, Steel was nodding off, her head dipping lower and lower each time, till her chin came to rest against her chest and she was gone.

Logan didn’t blame her: he was having difficulty staying awake himself. Doctor Call-Me-Dave Goulding obviously thought he was ‘one of the lads’, but he just kept going on and on and on and on…

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘what concerns me about scenario “C” is the lack of escalation. Twenty years is far too long for a single individual to be operating. The sexual thrill should become more and more difficult to sustain as time goes on; the buzz he gets from killing and dismembering is over quicker, so he has to go out and kill again, till he’s either stopped, or goes on a spree.’

Logan stuck up his hand. ‘What if it’s not sexual?’

The psychologist pointed at the screen behind him: chunks of meat on a mortuary table. ‘It’s always sexual. Sometimes it doesn’t look like it, but it is. He kills, dismembers, eats: uses it to fuel the fantasy.’ He frowned. ‘Probably masturbatory. There was no sign Tom Stephen was penetrated pre or post mortem, and no semen recovered from the head.’

Which was a lovely image.

‘But what if sex isn’t the important bit?’

Goulding smiled. ‘Sex is always the important bit. The Flesher is a classic necrophiliac.’

‘But you said he doesn’t have sex with the bodies, how—’

‘Many necrophiliacs are sexually aroused by the image of death. The Flesher kills to produce a dead body he can have absolute power over. The act of murder is a means to an end, it’s incidental for him. He doesn’t sexually abuse the corpse, because that’s not what fuels his fantasy. The Flesher practises necrophagy – the mutilation and eating of dead bodies. It’s quite a fascinating subcategory of necrophilia.’

‘But—’

DCS Bain glowered at him. ‘If you have any more questions, Sergeant, I suggest you take them up with Doctor Goulding after the briefing. Now: moving on.’

‘Sorry about that,’ said Faulds, when they were back in the history room, ‘didn’t think he’d be so …’

‘Boring?’ Steel sat back in Logan’s chair, hands wrapped around a coffee.

‘I was going to say, “thorough”, but “boring” works too.’

Logan tore the wrapper off his Tunnock’s tea cake. ‘How about “condescending”? Or “toss-pot”?’

‘Anyway, I think it’s a reasonable profile. We should go through our list of possible suspects and see how they stack up.’

Which led to three hours of sodding about on the white-board.

Logan: ‘How about Catherine Davidson? Maybe they never found her remains, because she was the one doing the killing?’

Steel: ‘What a great suggestion! Let’s see how she fits the profile: oh, wait a minute, she’s no’ a man. Next!’

Faulds: ‘What about Jamie McLaughlin? His friend is screwed up so badly he ends up in prison, but Jamie ends up writing children’s books. He’s a creative guy. Lives alone. Did a lot of research into the first round of killings. What’s to say he’s not re-enacting the death of his parents over and over again?’

Logan: ‘How does he get into the abattoir to dump the remains?’

That was how they spent the rest of the morning – coming up with alternatives then picking them apart.

Finally, Faulds pushed his chair back, stretched, groaned and said, ‘Lunch?’

‘Wednesday’s haddock and chips in the canteen.’

‘Oh God, not more chips. You people never heard of salad?’

Steel bristled. ‘And what the hell’s wrong with chips?’

‘How about sushi then?’ Logan grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and slung it over his shoulder. ‘There’s a little place down the market that’s pretty good.’

‘It’s not deep-fried is it?’ Faulds stood. ‘Because … DI Insch – David – I was sorry to hear about your loss.’

The inspector was standing in the doorway, a huge, tent-like overcoat draped over his dark blue suit. ‘I need to borrow Sergeant McRae for a couple of hours if that’s OK, sir.’

‘Actually’ said Faulds, ‘we’re just on our way out for some sushi. Care to join us?’

‘I’d love to sir, but I’m on a tight schedule. I’ve got an arsonist being transferred to Barlinnie this afternoon – Sergeant McRae was part of the initial investigation, so I’d like him there when I talk to the little sod.’

‘I see …’ Faulds turned to Logan. ‘Well, I think we’ve done a good morning’s work here anyway, so if you want to accompany the Inspector, I’m sure we can cover for you.’

Logan looked from the Chief Constable to Insch and back again. Watching any hope of lunch disappearing into the sunset. ‘Of course, sir.’

Craiginches: the inspector hunched over the battered table in one of the prison’s interview rooms, methodically chewing his way through a family-sized bag of Liquorice Allsorts. Logan stood against the wall, listening to the noises of a prison at lunchtime echoing down the corridor outside, as they waited for someone to bring Ray Williams from the canteen.

‘You know,’ said Insch, ‘I used to really love being a policeman. Thought I was doing some good. And now look at us …’ He pulled a coconut wheel from the bag and turned it over in his thick fingers, then stuck it in his mouth. ‘Miriam wants a divorce. Going to emigrate to Canada and take the kids with her …’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘And all because I didn’t catch Wiseman soon enough.’ Ray Williams – when he finally turned up – was five foot ten of shifty looks and acne scars, who wouldn’t know the truth if it got up and gave him an enema. He sat on the other side of the interview table, fidgeting as Insch asked him about the night a disused factory unit in Dyce spontaneously combusted. The inspector was making a decent show of it, but Logan could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

Halfway through the interview, Insch checked his watch and excused himself, returning five minutes later with three polystyrene cups of something that might have been coffee in a former life. It wasn’t like the inspector to get the drinks in, but Logan wasn’t complaining.

Then Williams did some more lying. No, he had no idea how that can of petrol ended up with his prints all over it. Rags soaked in accelerant, Officer? Me? Must be thinking of someone else.

There was a knock on the interview room door and a prison officer stuck her head in to tell them their one o’clock appointment was waiting next door. Logan didn’t have a clue what she was on about, but Insch nodded, thanked her, and said someone would be through in about five minutes, then pointed at Williams. ‘You can take this thing back to the cells if you like, I’m sick of looking at his ugly face.’

‘Will do. OK, Sunshine, let’s go.

‘I am not ugly!’

She pulled Williams to his feet and shuffled him out of the door. ‘You ever look in a mirror?’

‘He’s not allowed to call me ugly, is he?’

‘Right,’ said Insch as the voices faded down the corridor, ‘let’s get this over with.’ He stood, and patted down the pockets of his huge overcoat. ‘We should … oh bugger. I’ve left the case file in the car.’ The inspector glanced at Logan. ‘Well: run along then. It’s on the back seat and there should be a packet of Jelly Tots in there as well.’

Logan picked himself off the wall and tried not to look too pissed-off at being used as an errand boy. ‘Yes, sir.’

The file was on the back seat, but there was no sign of any confectionary. Logan stuck the manila folder under his arm and wandered back into the prison. By the time he’d signed back in and made his way through to the small suite of interview rooms, his stomach was growling. Why couldn’t Insch have waited till after lunch?