Uh-huh. And that needed a detective sergeant? Faulds watched Logan wriggle for a moment then laughed. Dont worry: I used to do the same thing when top brass descended on me from other divisions. Last thing you want is some desk-jockey coming in and telling you how to run your investigation.
Ah... OK... The cars
Do you have a first name, Sergeant, or would that spoil your air of mystery?
Logan, sir. He moved to pick up the Chief Constables bag, but Faulds waved him away.
Im not a senior citizen yet, Logan.
They crawled back into Aberdeen through the rushhour, with Faulds on the phone, drawing Logan into a strange three-way conversation about the body parts theyd found the previous night.
What? Of course its raining: its Aberdeen.... No, no I dont think so, hold on... The Chief Constable stuck his hand over the mouthpiece. Do you have an ID for any of the victims?
Not yet, we
Not gone through the missing persons database, or the DNA records?
We only just found the remains, sir. Theyre still frozen solid. The pathologist
And Faulds was back on the phone again. No, theyve not done the DNA yet.... I know.... You heard?... Yes. Thats what I thought. Back to Logan again. You dont need to defrost the whole thing the sample you need for a DNA test should be small enough to come up to temperature in seconds. Id better have a word with this pathologist of yours when we get in.
Actually, sir, that might not be
But Faulds was back on the phone again. Uh-huh... I think youre right... Did he? Laughter. Silly sod...
Hed hung up by the time Logan was fighting through the long queue that trailed back from the Haudagain roundabout. Two lanes packed solid with cars and a bus lane full of orange cones. Faulds looked around at the collection of shiny new vehicles full of bored-looking people investigating the insides of their noses, while the drizzle drifted down. Is this going to take long, Logan?
Probably, sir. Apparently this is the worst roundabout in the country. Been questions raised about it in the Scottish Parliament.
Faulds smiled. About a roundabout? You whacky Jocks: and they said devolution wouldnt work.
They estimate it costs the local economy about thirty million a year. Sir.
Thirty million, eh? Thats a lot of deep-fried haggis pies.
Logan bit his tongue. Calling the Chief Constable a condescending wanker probably wasnt the best career move.
They sat in uncomfortable silence, just the squeak of the windscreen wipers interrupting the stop-go of the motor as Logan inched the car forward. At least the bloody roundabout was in sight now.
And then Faulds burst out laughing. You are so easy to wind up! He settled back in his seat. Come on then, I know youre dying to ask.
Sir?
Faulds just smiled at him.
Well... I was... Logan snuck a glance at his passenger: the clothes, the earring. Youre not exactly what I expected, sir.
You heard the words Chief Constable and you thought: doddery old fart with no sense of humour, who dresses up like a tailors dummy because hes got an embarrassingly small penis and truncheon envy.
Actually, I was wondering why someone as senior as you would come all the way up here to sit in on a local murder enquiry.
Were you now?
Yes, sir. Logan accelerated into the maelstrom of traffic, swung round the roundabout trying not to get squashed by the articulated lorry heading straight for them and finally they were on North Anderson Drive. Halleluiah! He put his foot down, overtaking a doddering old biddie in a clapped-out Mercedes. I mean, why not send a DI, or a Superintendent?
Were you now?
Yes, sir. Logan accelerated into the maelstrom of traffic, swung round the roundabout trying not to get squashed by the articulated lorry heading straight for them and finally they were on North Anderson Drive. Halleluiah! He put his foot down, overtaking a doddering old biddie in a clapped-out Mercedes. I mean, why not send a DI, or a Superintendent?
There was a pause. Well, Logan, there are some things you just cant delegate. He checked his watch. This raid DI Insch is on?
Thats where were going now.
Excellent. Faulds pulled out his phone again and started dialling. Dont mind me, just got a couple of calls to make, we Fiona?... Fiona, its Mark: Mark Faulds... course I do, darling...
They abandoned the pool car down a little side road and hurried out into the drizzle.
You know, said Faulds as they crossed at the traffic lights outside Country Ways, collars up and heads down, Ive been to Aberdeen about a dozen times, and its always sodding raining.
We do our best.
You buggers must be born with webbed feet.
Only the ones from Ellon, sir.
Holburn Street had been brought to a virtual standstill two uniformed officers pretending to be traffic lights as they funnelled the backed-up traffic down one side of the road. The butchers shop had been hidden behind a cordon of eight-foot-high white plastic screens that reached out into the middle of the street.
A BBC outside broadcast van was parked on the double yellow lines just down from the scene, a woman with a pony tail, an umbrella, and a strange orange tan trying to convince a traffic warden not to give the van a ticket. There was a strobe-light flicker of flash photography and shouted questions as Logan and Faulds ducked under the blue-and-white POLICE tape, then they were through and behind the wall of plastic sheeting.
The IBs filthy Transit van was parked inside the cordon, its back doors open while someone rummaged about inside for SOC suits for Logan and the Chief Constable.
Inside, the shop walls were peppered with recipe cards hung at jaunty angles: goulash, rib roast, minty lamb kebabs... A deli section and a mini greengrocers sat opposite an empty glass-fronted counter festooned with colourful stickers. The place was full of people in white paper oversuits and the smell of meat.
They found DI Insch in the cold store through the back, with a pair of IB technicians and Isobel, examining yet more chunks of meat.
Faulds took one look at the inspector in his bulging SOC outfit and said, Good God, David, youre huge! He stuck out his hand to shake, but Insch just looked at it. Yes, well... Faulds reached up and adjusted his suits hood, as if that was what hed meant to do in the first place. Have you picked up Wiseman yet?
Insch scowled. Kicked his door down at seven forty-five this morning. He wasnt there.
You let him escape?
No I bloody didnt: I had an unmarked car sitting outside his house from the moment we found the remains down the docks. He never went home, OK?
Oh God... Faulds closed his eyes and swore quietly. OK, right, fair enough, too late to worry about that now. Sigh. So what are we looking at here?
That. Insch pointed at the far corner of the cold store, where Isobel was examining a cut of meat hanging from a hook. It was about two foot long, seven inches wide: the flesh a dark rose colour, the fat a golden yellow, the surface punctuated by pale bones. No skin.
Loin of pork? asked Faulds, inching forwards.
Close: long pig. Isobel stood, rubbing her latex-gloved hands down the front of her coveralls. The meats darker than pork, more like veal definitely human. The ribs have been severed halfway down their length, but the shapes unmistakable.
The Chief Constable thought about it for a moment, then asked, Care to hazard a time of death?
Isobel stared at him. And you are?
Faulds turned the full power of his smile on her. Mark Faulds, West Midlands Police. DI Insch asked me to come up and take a look at the case.
Which sounded incredibly unlikely to Logan: Insch wouldnt ask for help if his crotch was on fire. From the look on her face, Isobel didnt believe it either.
I dont know what kind of pathologists youre used to dealing with down there, Mr Faulds, but in Aberdeen we dont rush to conclusions before weve carried out the post mortem. She went back to her slab of meat, muttering, God save us from bloody policemen, think were all clairvoyant...
I see. Faulds winked at Logan, whispering, I love a challenge. He cleared his throat. Actually its Chief Constable, not mister. If he expected that to impress Isobel, he was in for a disappointment. She didnt even pause, just unhooked the chunk of meat and slipped it into a large evidence bag.
Right, she handed it to one of the IB technicians, I want every piece of meat in here taken down to the mortuary. Mince, sausages, everything. She snapped off her gloves then nodded at Insch. Inspector, a word please.
Faulds watched them march out of the cold room. Is she usually that welcoming?
Logan smiled. No, sir. She must like you: normally shes a lot worse.
The shops owner the eponymous Mr McFarlane lived in a large flat directly above the butchers, so it hadnt exactly taken Operation Cleaver long to track him down. He was a chunky blob with a worried expression, thinning hair, a red-veined nose, and bags under his eyes. Hed clarted himself in aftershave, but it still wasnt enough to cover the smell of stale sweat and last nights alcohol.
McFarlane sat behind the desk in a little office at the back of the shop, watching as an IB technician dismantled a yellow-grey computer and stuck it in an evidence crate.
I... I dont understand, McFarlane said, looking around with watery pink eyes, were supposed to be open at nine...
Insch leaned over the desk, looming over the butcher. Do you have any idea what they do to people like you in prison?
McFarlane flinched as if hed been slapped. I... But Ive not done anything!
Then why have you got a slab of human flesh HANGING IN YOUR FRIDGE?
I didnt know! I didnt! It wasnt me! I never did anything, Ive not even had a parking ticket, Im law-abiding citizen, I do barbeques for charity, I dont even overcharge people! Ive not
You sold human remains to Thompsons Cash And Carry. They sold it on to catering companies.
Oh God... McFarlane had gone a deathly shade of white. But
PEOPLE HAVE BEEN EATING IT!
David, Faulds laid a hand on Inschs arm. It might help if you let the poor man complete a sentence.
The Chief Constable perched himself on the edge of the desk, SOC oversuit rustling as he moved. You see, Mr McFarlane, you own a butchers shop that sells chunks of dead bodies. Can you see why we might have a bit of a problem with that?
I didnt know!
Uh-huh... Mr McFarlane, youre a professional butcher, yes?
The man nodded, setting his jowls wobbling, and Faulds gave him an encouraging smile. And you expect us to believe you cant tell the difference between pork and people?