Читать книгу Flesh House - Stuart MacBride - Страница 20

‘Right, settle down.’ There was a sudden stillness in the briefing room. The place was packed with uniformed officers, support staff, and CID. Alec and his mate with the very big camera had set up so one of them could film the crowd while the other one focused on DI Insch, standing at the front of the room, telling everyone about the latest disappearance.

‘Valerie Leith.’ Click and a woman’s face filled the projection screen: mid-thirties, slightly overweight, brown hair cut in an unflattering bob, pretty green eyes. ‘Approximately half past seven yesterday evening Valerie and William Leith return home. They’re attacked and William Leith suffers a severe trauma to the head. By the time he regains consciousness, his wife is missing and the kitchen’s covered in blood.’

Click – the cover of James McLaughlin’s book appeared, Smoak With Blood written in white on a lurid red cover featuring the photo of someone dressed as the Flesher. ‘This is who Leith says attacked him.’ Insch went for a big dramatic pause. ‘This makes William Leith the first person ever to survive a confrontation with Wiseman.’

DC Rennie leant over and whispered in Logan’s ear: ‘What the hell does “smoak” mean when it’s at home?’

‘No idea. Shut up.’

‘Only asking …’

Click – and a battered man’s face filled the screen, half his head hidden behind a swathe of bandages. ‘Thirty-four stitches,’ said Insch, ‘three units of blood. Leith’s now under protective custody at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary – I have no intention of Wiseman coming back and finishing the job.’

Click – Ken Wiseman scowled out from the projection screen. Time and HM Prison Peterhead hadn’t been kind: what little hair he had left was close cropped and greying, his goatee more salt than pepper. Big ears, big hands, big all over; overweight, but still powerful with it. A long scar ran from the top left of his forehead, through his right eyebrow and down to the middle of his cheek, pulling the eyelid out of shape. Not a pretty face.

‘He’s been on the run since Tuesday morning. but this afternoon he called the BBC.’ Insch gave the nod and a uniformed PC set the tape running.

A woman’s voice, friendly: ‘Hello, BBC Scotland, can I help you?’

Some crackling. A pause. Then a man’s voice, deep, with just enough Aberdonian in it to be noticeable: ‘I want to speak to someone about the Flesher.’

‘Just a moment and I’ll see if anyone’s free…’ the line went silent for a moment, then hold music, then another woman’s voice:

‘News desk – can I help you?’

‘Do you know who I am?’

Another pause, probably filled with rolling eyes and theatrical sighs. ‘Are you calling about anything in—’

‘Ken Wiseman. They’re looking for me. They’re lying about me.’

Some frantic scrabbling and the woman’s voice suddenly got a lot more interested. ‘I see. And you want to set the record straight? Let people hear your side of the story?’

‘They did it before – they’re not doing it again. They’re not sending me back to that fucking prison!’

It went on, Wiseman ranting about what a bunch of bastards Grampian Police were, while the briefing room listened in silence. Then Insch told the PC to pause the tape. ‘Right,’ he said, rummaging absentmindedly through his pockets on the never-ending quest for sweeties that weren’t there, ‘we’ve played this to his social worker and two people from his work: it’s definitely Wiseman’s voice. Call came from a public phone box in Tillydrone, so we know he’s still in the city. But this is the interesting bit …’

The tape started up again. There was more ranting, and then the woman asked, ‘Would you like to put your case in person? A televised interview? Tell the whole country?’

This time the pause was so long, Logan began to think Wiseman had hung up. But finally that dark voice came back on the line. ‘The whole country?’

‘We could do it today! Is today good? You could come into the studio: we’re on Beechgrove Terrace and—’

‘You think I’m stupid? I say when and where. Understand?’

‘OK! OK, whatever you say. You tell me where, and we’ll come to you. Not a problem. You’re the boss. I didn’t mean to—’

‘I’ll be in touch.’ Then the soft burr of a dead line.

‘Hello? Hello? Holy shit … Steve! Steve, you’ll never guess who I just—’ Clunk. And the recording ended.

‘Right,’ said Insch, ‘any questions?’

‘Good God.’ Faulds stopped dead in the middle of the Leiths’ kitchen and did a slow three hundred and sixty degree turn. ‘It’s like Reservoir Dogs in here …’ The little metal walkway the IB had put down to stop people trampling through the evidence creaked under his feet as he picked his way across to the sink.

There was blood everywhere: all over the floor, up the units, smears on the work surfaces, splashes on the walls, spatters on the ceiling. Someone had decorated the place in eight pints of Valerie Leith.

The chief constable looked down at the sticky tiles. ‘First impressions?’

Logan stared at a stalactite of congealed haemoglobin hanging from the cooker hood. ‘There’s a lot more blood than last time.’

Faulds nodded. ‘We found the same pattern twenty years ago. Sometimes Wiseman butchers them on site, sometimes he takes them away and kills them elsewhere. Anything else?’

‘Well … They’re obviously not short of a bob or two.’ William and Valerie Leith had a Porsche 911 in the garage and a huge Lexus four-by-four parked outside the house. It was one of those converted steadings on the outskirts of Aberdeen that always cost a bloody fortune: ramshackle farm buildings, snatched up by some developer and turned into ‘luxury country homes for the discerning executive’ – as exclusive as they were expensive.

Faulds leant an absent-minded hand on the black granite work surface, grimaced, and pulled it away again, his latex glove making a sticky screeching sound as it parted with the tacky blood. ‘Damn …’ He wiped it down the front of his white SOC suit, leaving a dark red smear.

Logan opened the patio doors and stepped out onto the decking. It was pitch-dark outside, the surrounding countryside little more than grey-brown silhouettes against the backdrop of Aberdeen at night. Little blobs of torchlight worked their way across the field behind the house, silent except for the occasional bark of a police dog.

The view was spectacular – on the other side of the South Deeside Road the lights of Cults, Garthdee, and Ruthrieston glittered. A lone rocket zwipped up into the November sky, exploding in a shower of red. Four seconds later the BANG arrived, but by then the sparks were long gone.

‘Can you imagine being up here on Monday? You’d see every firework in the city.’

The Chief Constable joined him at the rail. ‘God it’s freezing.’ He shivered. ‘If you were Wiseman, would you hang around waiting to speak to the BBC?’

‘Would I buggery. I’d be on the first boat out of the UK.’

‘Which begs the question: why is he still here?’

Logan pushed away from the rail as another rocket screeched up into the sky. ‘Unfinished business.’

Faulds nodded. ‘That’s what worries me.’

Heather mashed the heel of her hand into her eye, wiping away the tears. It was a nightmare, that’s all. A bad dream. She’d wake up and everything would be OK and they’d have boeuf bourguignon for tea and drink some wine and Duncan would still be alive.

Duncan … she’d cried till her whole body ached, screamed till she couldn’t breathe. And now there was nothing left, but a dull numb pain that wrapped around her heart like poisoned barbed wire.

She laid her head back against the dark metal wall and moaned.

There was a noise outside and light flooded her prison, sparking off the puddles of blood that littered the rusty red floor. All that was left of Duncan.

Heather closed her eyes. This was it – the Butcher had come back for her. It was her turn to be hung upside down over the tin bath and gutted. In a way it was a relief; at least she’d be with her husband and son again.

The Butcher stepped into the room and Heather scrabbled back, terrified.

She tried to plead for her life, but her mouth was too dry, her lips cracked and bleeding. She’d changed her mind: she didn’t want to be with Justin and Duncan. She didn’t want to die!

But the Butcher wasn’t carrying a knife, he was carrying a hose. Cold water battered against the floor, bouncing off the hard metal surface to shower everything with droplets of pink liquid as the last remnants of Duncan were washed down the drain.

When there was nothing left, the Butcher disappeared, only to return thirty seconds later with a tinfoil parcel and a bottle of water. He placed both on the floor – just within arms’ reach of the bars – then stood there, staring at her.

God, she was thirsty.

Trembling, Heather inched forwards and snatched the bottle, scurrying back till she was in her corner again. The bastard hadn’t even moved. She wrenched the top off the bottle and drank, coughing and spluttering as it went down too fast. Nearly bringing it all back up again.

The Butcher nodded, then pointed silently at the tinfoil bundle. Then at the mask’s mouth. Then rubbed his stomach.

Heather stared at the parcel, too scared to pick it up.

He gently peeled back a corner of the foil and the smell of hot food filled the room. Her stomach growled.

She peered between the bars. It was just black pudding. Normal, everyday black pudding. And she was so hungry …

The Butcher backed off to the door again and Heather darted forwards, snatching the parcel back to her side of the bars. Breathing in the heady aroma of hot food. With trembling fingers she crammed the first disc of pudding into her mouth, closed her eyes and chewed. Her family was dead and she was eating black pudding as if nothing had ever happened.

Heather almost spat it out, but it was food and she was hungry and she felt miserable and she didn’t have any pills with her. So she did what she’d done all her life: self-medication through comfort eating.

She ate every last scrap, till there was nothing left, but greasy tinfoil.

And all the time the man watched her in silence. Then, when she was all finished, he nodded, stepped back outside and closed the door. Leaving her to the darkness.

Logan cupped a hand around his ear and asked DI Steel to say that again. The nightclub was far too busy, far too noisy, and far too hot. That’s what they got for letting that idiot Rennie organize a staff night out. The carpet was sticky; the place stank of stale beer, sweat, aftershave and perfume; and the music was loud enough to make his lungs vibrate.

‘I said,’ Steel shouted, ‘I wouldn’t kick that lot out of bed for farting.’ The inspector pointed at the group of girlies up on the dance floor: long blonde hair, short skirts, skimpy tops, the pulsing disco lights glittering off the jewellery in their pierced bellybuttons.

As Logan watched, Detective Constable Simon Rennie boogied his way past them, doing a pretty good impersonation of a octopus being electrocuted. One of the girlies laughed and joined in, bumping and grinding.

‘Jammy bastard.’ Steel took another swig of her vastly overpriced beer. ‘I’m no’ surprised he wanted to come here.’

Rennie wasn’t the only off-duty police officer up there, strutting his funky stuff – even Faulds had gone up when they’d put on an old Phil Collins number – but Logan wasn’t in the mood. ‘I hate nightclubs.’

‘So you keep saying.’

Three songs later and a sweaty Rennie was back, handing out another round of drinks. ‘Is this not brilliant?’

Logan scowled at him, but it didn’t seem to dent the constable’s enthusiasm.

‘Oh, ’fore I forget,’ Rennie pulled out his wallet and produced a folded-up postcard of a naked bodybuilder with a strategically placed police helmet. ‘This came yesterday.’

It was from Jackie, telling the muster room what a great time she was having on secondment to Strathclyde Police’s Organized Crime and Gang Violence Unit.

Rennie nodded in time to the music as one song ground to a halt and another deafened its way out of the speakers. ‘Sounds like a right laugh down there – Ooh, I love this one!’ And he was back on the dance floor.

Twenty minutes later he was still up there, slow dancing with one of the blonde girlies from earlier, mouths locked, eyes closed, groping away.

‘Makes you sick.’ Steel sniffed, watching the detective constable and his friend trying to crawl inside one another. ‘I’m much sexier than he is.’

Faulds leant on the rail that separated the drinkers from the dancers and fondlers. ‘So,’ he shouted, ‘what’s with all this “Laz” business then?’

Logan sighed. ‘Just a stupid nickname. It’s nothing—’

‘Laz – short for Lazarus.’ Steel grinned and clinked her latest bottle of beer off of the Chief Constable’s pint, ‘DS McRae here came back from the dead, didn’t you?’

‘It wasn’t—’

‘Oh aye, our wee boy’s a bona fide police hero!’ She wrapped her arm round Logan and gave him an affectionate shoogle. ‘Shame he’s so bloody ugly.’

EXTERIOR: A graveyard in Aberdeen – Union Street. Church in background. Noises of traffic and seagulls.

CAPTION: Detective Sergeant Logan McRae

MCRAE: I’d rather not, to be honest.

VOICEOVER: But you were instrumental in catching The Mastrick Monster?

MCRAE: Do we have to do this, Alec?

VOICEOVER: Come on, it’ll make for good telly. And if you don’t tell us we’ll just get it from someone else.

MCRAE: [shifts uncomfortably] Look, there’s nothing to tell. It was a joint operation, I just happened to be there at the end. Now can we just drop it? [end tape]

INTERIOR: An untidy office in Grampian Police Headquarters.

CAPTION: Detective Inspector Roberta Steel.

STEEL: [finishes a cigarette and flicks it out of open office window] Right, where were we?

VOICEOVER: We’ve done Insch, Rennie and McInnis. That leaves DS Beattie, Doctor MacAlister, Inspector Nairn and DS McRae.

STEEL: Right, we’ll do McRae next. My hair look OK to you?

VOICEOVER: Well … it’ll be fine.

STEEL: Good, got my public to think of … you’ll edit out that bit with me smoking, aye? I’ll no’ hear the end of it otherwise. OK, June 2004, and we’ve got fifteen women in the morgue. The press are calling him the Mastrick Monster – he stabs his victims, then rapes them while they die. Sick bastard. Anyway, the investigation’s going nowhere when up pops Detective Constable Logan McRae. He goes digging and unearths Angus Robertson – turns out Robertson works in a sandwich shop that delivers all over Aberdeen, that’s how he was picking his victims—

[loud rattling cough – goes on for nearly a minute]

Ah … fucking hell …

[presses hand to chest]

Bastard …

Anyway, something happens and Robertson finds out he’s a suspect: he goes bonkers, snatches McRae’s girlfriend, and there’s a big showdown on the roof of this tower block. All very dramatic. McRae takes Robertson down, but gets himself stabbed about twenty times in the stomach doing it. Robertson gets thirty to life; McRae gets a year in hospital and promoted to DS.

[clears throat and spits into wastepaper basket]

OK, who’s next? Beattie? Useless, fat, beardy arsehole. Next!