Logan McRae Crime Series Books 4-6: Flesh House, Blind Eye, Dark Blood. Stuart MacBride

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ