Flesh House by Stuart MacBride Read Free Book Online Page B

office, Insch, Faulds and the PF were gathered round a desk, discussing Justin Inglis's statement - the inspector casually doodling glasses and blacking out teeth on his photo of Margaret Thatcher. 'Of course, it's not conclusive,' he said,'how could it be? The kid's only three, but I'm pretty sure he's telling the truth.' Insch helped himself to one of the mugs on Logan's tray, sniffed it, and wrinkled his nose. 'I asked for a double mochaccino with extra cinnamon and chocolate - what the hell is this?'
'Machine's broken, so everyone's got instant.
''Typical ...'
The PF reached for the vandalized ex-Prime Minister. 'This could still be a copycat.' She held up a hand before Insch could complain. 'Playing Devil's advocate: ever since that damn book came out everyone knows the Flesher wears a butcher's apron and a Margaret Thatcher Halloween mask. On its own it means nothing.'
'It means,' rumbled Insch,'that Wiseman is up to his old tricks again. We found a package of human meat in the Inglises' freezer for God's sake!'
'That's exactly the kind of thinking that scuppered the original investigation - people leapt to conclusions, didn't keep an open mind, didn't follow procedure. Wiseman would still be in jail if the case had been airtight. I agree that it's highly unlikely this is a copycat, but I want every possibility investigated.' She took one of Logan's coffees. 'What do we know about the Inglises?'
'Duncan Inglis works for the Council's Finance Department. He's twenty eight. Got admitted to hospital last year when his wife cracked the toaster off his head. She's twenty five; diagnosed with postnatal depression after the birth of their son, been on medication ever since.'
'Interesting.' The PF took a sip of coffee, shuddered, then put her mug back on the tray. 'So we have a history of violence.'
'We're looking into it.'
'And the butcher, McFarlane?'
'Went up before the Sheriff this morning: remanded in custody, no bail. He's sticking to his story: no idea how all those bits of dead body ended up in his shop, and we're all a bunch of bastards for picking on Wiseman again.'
'My heart bleeds. How many search teams?'
'Three, and roadblocks on all major routes out of Aberdeen. We've got posters up at the train station, harbour, airport, and nearly every bus stop in the city.'
Logan chimed in with a report on the Automatic Number Plate Recognition System:'No sign of any vehicle he's got access to leaving Aberdeen. And we've warned all the rental places.'
The PF nodded. 'CCTV?'
'Nothing. All the cameras down the beach were pointing the wrong way - big fight outside that new nightclub.'
'Right.' She stood, hoisted her handbag over her shoulder, and made for the door. 'Make sure you catch Wiseman, and soon. I don't want anyone else turning up in bite-size chunks.'
Half past eight and Logan was slumped at his desk in the pigsty masquerading as a CID office, trying to work up some enthusiasm for DI Steel's vandalism report. And failing. Somehow it was difficult to care about a bunch of keyed cars and some graffiti in Rosemount when Ken Wiseman was out there turning people into joints of meat.
Stifling a yawn, he printed out all the crime reports and started sticking figures into a spreadsheet. God knew when he'd actually get home tonight. Bloody DI Bloody Steel and her Bloody Report.
'All on your lonesome?'
Logan turned, and there was Doc Fraser looking more like someone's granddad than a pathologist - beige cardigan, glasses, bald head, and hairy ears.
'You want some coffee?'
The pathologist held up a manila folder. 'I won't come in, I've got shingles. Give this to Insch when he gets in tomorrow, will you?'
'Uh-huh.' Logan took the folder and flipped through the contents - sheet after sheet of forms and ID numbers.
'Tell him it's the preliminaries on all those chunks of meat you dug out of the butcher's, cash and carry, and that container.'
'Logan was impressed. 'Already? That's--'
'I wouldn't go getting your hopes up - this is just