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

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СКАЧАТЬ cigarette. ‘He thinks we caught the Flesher, not some silly bugger raiding the stationery cupboard.’

      ‘Nowak didn’t say anything when you spoke to him?’

      ‘Course he bloody didn’t. Just kept bleating for a lawyer.’ Puff, puff, puff. ‘Look, you’re absolutely positive? No wee chunks of meat in there at all?’

      ‘Not a sausage. Looks like Nowak was trying the same scam he ran back home, probably got Kowalczyk, Wiśniewski, and Laszenyk to do the actual stealing. I’ve told Rennie to go round the local pubs, see if anyone remembers being offered a dodgy fax machine and a load of yellow highlighers.’

      ‘Sodding hell.’ Steel was quiet for a moment. ‘Can you no’ concentrate on solving the main crime for once? We almost had the bastard!’ She hurled her cigarette butt to the path and ground it out with her boot.

      ‘It wasn’t him though, was it?’

      ‘If you don’t stop rubbing it in, I’m going to introduce the point of my boot to the hole in your arse.’

      ‘You’re welcome.’

      DI Steel was right: DCS Bain wasn’t happy to hear the news. ‘GRAMPIAN POLICE CATCH ABATTOIR KILLER’ had turned into ‘MAN FLATTENED BY VOLKSWAGEN GOLF FOR NICKED POST-IT NOTES’. Or it would do as soon as the papers found out Marek Kowalczyk wasn’t the Flesher after all.

      Logan sloped off before anyone found a way to make this all his fault, and went to the canteen for lunch. After all, it was Monday and that could only mean one thing: lasagne and chips, lasagne and chips, lasagne and … fuck.

      He turned from the serving counter, tray in hand, to see DI Insch sitting at a table by the window with Jackie. If that wasn’t bad enough, the inspector was staring straight at him. And now Jackie was staring at him too.

      The fat man pushed the chair on the other side of the table out with his foot.

      Damn… Logan took his lunch over and sat, trying to act casual as he helped himself to the vinegar. ‘Sir, Jackie.’

      She didn’t even pretend to be on first-name terms any more: ‘Sergeant.’

      There was an awkward silence.

      Logan started in on his lasagne. All he had to do was eat fast and get out of here. Why the hell did Insch have to—

      ‘Soon as you’ve finished,’ said the inspector, scooping the last remnants of custard out of a bowl, ‘you can get us a pool car. You and I are going to see Andrew McFarlane.’

      And there went Logan’s appetite. ‘Sorry sir, the DCS gave strict—’

      ‘I’m not supposed to interfere in the Flesher case? You’ll be happy to know, Sergeant, that we’re going to talk to Mr McFarlane about a spate of recent vandalism. Which does fall under my remit.’

      Logan looked at Jackie, hoping for some support, but all he got back was a stony silence.

      He tried again. ‘Sir, don’t you think—’

      ‘No, I don’t. Now eat your bloody lasagne.’

      ‘So,’ said Logan, looking up at the butcher’s shop, ‘you were having lunch with Jackie…?’ The shop windows were boarded up: huge sheets of plywood, peppered with nightclub flyers and a patina of graffiti: ‘CANNIBAL BASTARD!’; ‘MURDERER’; ‘SCUM’ and for some reason: ‘ENGLISH OUT’

      Insch unwrapped a chocolate éclair, stuffing the sweetie in his mouth, and the wrapper in his pocket. He pointed at the blue door next to the butcher’s shop. ‘You know the drill.’

      There was an intercom with McFarlane’s name printed on a plastic slip. Logan pressed the button. No reply. So he did it again, and twice more for luck. A scared voice crackled out of the speaker.‘Go away! I’m calling the police!’

      ‘This is the police, Mr McFarlane. It’s DS McRae: we met at the prison? We’re here to talk to you about the vandalism.’

      ‘Oh…’

      A low grinding buzz sounded and Logan pushed the door open. They went through a short hallway and up a brightly painted flight of stairs.

      McFarlane was waiting for them at the top. He didn’t look much better than the last time Logan had seen him. Yes, the bruises were fading, but the butcher had a caved-in look, as if all the stuffing had been knocked out of him, leaving behind an empty shell with a broken nose and missing teeth.

      They followed him through into the lounge.

      McFarlane’s flat wasn’t quite what Logan had been expecting. Lone alcoholic living above a shop: it should have been all discarded takeaway containers, empty bottles, peeling wallpaper, and dismal country music on the stereo. Instead it was painted in shades of off-white, spotlessly tidy, watercolour landscapes on the walls, and what sounded suspiciously like Carmen coming out of the speakers.

      A line of framed photographs sat on the mantelpiece: McFarlane, McFarlane and a younger woman, the same woman in a graduation cap and gown, the two of them getting married. She’d walked out on him eighteen years ago, and he still had her photos up. That was devotion for you.

      The butcher sank into a leather armchair within easy reach of a litre bottle of vodka. He poured himself a juddering tumblerfull. ‘I’d offer, but you’re both on duty.’

      ‘Not to worry, sir,’ Insch stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets as he surveyed the photos, the pot plants and the paintings. ‘You have a lovely home.’

      The butcher shrugged and drained half his glass in one go.

      ‘So …’ Insch smiled at him. ‘Still expect us to believe you had nothing to do with the bits of dead people in your shop?’

      McFarlane ground his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘Thought you were here about my vandalism.’

      ‘Just between you and me, sir, I think the two things might just be connected.’

      ‘They’re here every night. Throwing things. You should see the state of the shop … it was like a bombsite when I got out of … when I got home.’

      ‘And did you speak to Wiseman when you were inside?’

      ‘I never did anything, and my life’s ruined.’ Another slug of vodka. ‘Who’s going to buy meat from my shop now? After all this? Years I spent building the business—’

      ‘I’m sure everyone’s sorry for your loss. I know I am. With my daughter lying dead in the fucking morgue!’

      McFarlane worked another large measure of vodka into his glass, then into himself. ‘That’s not my fault – I didn’t do anything.’

      ‘She was FOUR!’

      ‘Sir, I think we should—’

      Insch towered over the hollowed-out butcher. ‘She was four and that bastard killed her!’

      ‘I СКАЧАТЬ