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

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       36

      Saturday evening was a tin of beer, a soak in the tub, and then a prolonged period of standing in front of the open fridge, wondering if any of the contents were safe to eat. Just in case, Logan made broccoli cheese and chips. He ate it slumped in front of the telly, flicking idly through the channels: crap, crap, reality TV, crap, Simpsons repeat, crap, crap, more reality TV, crap…

      ‘—scenes outside the Sheriff Court yesterday as Andrew McFarlane was released on bail.’ The picture jumped to a shot of Wiseman’s brother-in-law clambering into the back of a big black Mercedes with tinted windows, caught in the strobe light of two dozen press cameras.

      Logan yawned and sagged even further down the sofa.

      ‘—the following statement.’

      A podgy-faced lawyer appeared.‘My client, Mr McFarlane, has always protested his innocence, and the discovery of human remains at Alaba Farm Fresh Meats yesterday was proof of that. Mr McFarlane’s butcher shop was supplied by that abattoir, and they are the ones responsible for human meat entering the food chain, not my client. Thankfully the Sheriff recognised that fact this morning.’

      Logan got himself another beer, returning just in time to watch the tail end of the press conference, and the Chief Constable trying to assure everyone that Grampian Police could actually find its arse with both hands, no matter what some of the tabloid papers were saying.

      Then it was the weather, and after that some God-awful ‘I’m a celebrity’-style garbage. Logan switched the TV off, went to bed, and slept like a corpse.

      ‘Well?’ DI Steel stood with her back to the death board and its disturbing new photo of Tom Stephen’s semi-skeletal remains. ‘Any joy?’

      Logan picked up the next interview transcript in line. ‘How come this is now my job?’

      ‘Because you’re Auntie Roberta’s special little soldier. Besides, you got any idea how much this enquiry is costing? Need to economise, so you’re multitasking.’ The inspector made an exploratory foray into the world of the underwire, peering down at her own cleavage. ‘Why can no bugger make a decent bra that fits?’

      ‘I’m supposed to be going through the 1987 case files. How can I do that and everything else at the same time?’

      She hauled at her underwear. ‘I mean they’re either all lace and bugger-all support, or they look like my granny’s surgical truss.’

      ‘Can we not discuss your bra for a change?’

      ‘Still not getting any, eh? Thought that Procurator Fiscal Depute was after your truncheon d’amour?’

      ‘Why am I the only person with any work to do?’ He tried to ignore her, focus on the transcripts, but she wouldn’t go away.

      ‘So come on then: teeth?’

      Logan tried not to sigh, he really did. Then he dug out the relevant paperwork from the ever-expanding mound on his desk. ‘Two incisors, three premolars, nine molars. They checked against the known victims’ dental records – they’re probably Hazel Stephen’s.’

      ‘Probably? What bloody use is—’

      ‘They’ve been bashed about and boiled to death. “Probably” is as good as we’re going to get.’

      Steel blew a wet raspberry. ‘Lazy bastards hedging their bets, more like. Next: Polish workers, dead body? Connections?’

      ‘Nothing back from the Polish police yet so we don’t know about priors, but most of them only came over to Scotland six months ago. They can’t have taken part in the 1987 killings.’

      ‘But …?’ Looking hopeful.

      ‘There is no “but”. Wiseman’s never been to Poland, he doesn’t speak Polish, and according to Alaba’s security logs he’s never been to the abattoir either.’

      ‘Bugger.’

      Logan turned his head to the death board, looking at the aftermath of pain and suffering. ‘It’s beginning to look like Wiseman isn’t the Flesher. Not now, not twenty years ago: it was all a figment of Brooks’ imagination.’

      Steel slapped him on the shoulder. ‘For God’s sake don’t let Insch hear you say that.’ She was peering into her cleavage again. ‘Silly sod’s come in today and he’s in enough of a grump as it is… Do these look droopy to you?’

      She wasn’t kidding about Insch’s mood – by the time Logan bumped into the inspector, he looked as if someone had stuffed a hand grenade up his bum and pulled the pin. The explosion was imminent. Fire in the hole.

      Logan paused in the doorway of the muster room; maybe he could just sneak out again without the fat man noticing—

      ‘And where do you think you’re going?’

      Bugger.