Is it just me, said Alec, or does Insch have a thing for bollocks? Every time he threatens anyone it involves their testicles. The cameraman dropped his empty Pot Noodle carton in the bin. Just between you and me, I think he might be a little repressed.
Yeah, you tell him that. Im sure hell love to hear it.
Spoke to my Executive Producer this morning: theyre upping my budget. Couple of extra camera crew, more editing time. Think we might even get David Jason to do the voiceover.
You must be so proud.
Alec sighed. Youre a right ray of bloody sunshine today.
So would you be Ive got to go tell Insch weve no idea where Ken Wiseman is.
There were times when living in Fittie was a pain in the backside. Yes it was all quaint and historical a tiny seventeenth-century fishing village at the mouth of Aberdeen harbour, the little granite homes arranged around three small squares, facing inwards. Huddling together for warmth. A little slice of history, surrounded by warehouses and mud tanks on two sides, the harbour on the third, and the North Sea on the fourth. Beautiful... But not being able to park anywhere near the front door was an absolute sod. Grumbling, Heather lowered her bulging plastic bags to the cobbled street and tried to rub some feeling back into her hands. She should get herself a bike, one of those little-old-lady ones with the basket on the front. Then she could just cycle up to the supermarket and kill two birds with one stone: get the shopping done, and get rid of some of this bloody baby fat. If you were still allowed to call it baby fat three years after giving birth.
She rummaged around inside one of the bags and came out with a bar of Dairy Milk, taking a big bite out of the chocolate and chewing unhappily.
Get a bike and go to Weight Watchers. Maybe that would stop her bloody mother banging on about how fat she looked every time the old bag came to visit. Heather picked up the shopping again.
Tonight she was going to treat herself to a bottle of wine and sod the antidepressants. Maybe thered even be something good on the telly?
A loud shout sounded somewhere back along the beach, and she sighed. Stupid kids getting into stupid fights over who had the stupidest car. Out Bouley bashing: racing up and down the Beach Boulevard at all hours, in the souped-up hatchbacks their mummies and daddies bought for them. Like chimpanzees marking their territory to the constant background bmm-tshhhh, bmm-tshhhh, bmm-tshhhh of their stupid car stereos. And there was no point complaining to the bloody police: dispersal zone her arse...
God, twenty-five and she was already middle-aged. Wasnt so long ago that shed been the one out Bouley bashing with her girlfriends, and now look at her: whinging on about loud music and dangerous driving. That was what having a three-year-old did for you. Knackered all the time with no sex-life. Looking forward to Celebrity X-Factor on the TV.
One more pause to put the bags down and then she was outside the front door, rummaging through her cavernous rubbish-tip of a handbag for the house keys.
Justins pumpkin was sitting on the windowsill, a tealight flickering between the pointy teeth. Of course, shed done the actual carving, but hed drawn the face on in blue biro, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in concentration. Strange how one little person could bring so much joy, and so much misery, into the world...
One more bite of chocolate then she hid the bar away not wanting Duncan to know shed been naughty and let herself into the house.
Duncan?
No answer, but she could hear the telly on in the kitchen. Maybe he was making tea for a change?
Duncan, can you give me a hand with these bags? Sodding things weigh a ton. She dumped them in the hall and closed the front door behind her. Youll never guess who I ran into in Asda: Gillian. You remember? The one who married that guy from the radio and went off to live in Edinburgh?
Heather shucked off her coat and hung it up, pausing to examine the mess that stared back at her from the mirror. Well, he only upped and left her for that bloke who used to do the weather on STV. And shes got three kids!
She grabbed one of the carrier bags and wandered through into the kitchen. Talk about overcompensating...
Heather dropped the bag. It hit the deck with a clattering thud, tins of Cock-a-Leekie rolling out across the tiles.
Duncan was on the floor, slumped back against the kitchen cabinets, face bruised and bloody, mouth hanging open, dark crusts of red around his lips and nostrils.
Oh God, Duncan! She ran to him, grabbed his shoulders and shook. Duncan, what did you do?
His hands were curled in his lap, the wrists held together with cableties.
Duncan? Duncan: wheres Justin? DUNCAN!
Something slammed into the side of her head and she sprawled across the tiled floor. Someone was in the house! Another blow to the ribs. Heather dragged her hands up, covering her head as a boot connected with the small of her back.
She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Pain stabbed through her head as someone grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her backwards and
THUMP her head battered into the kitchen cupboards. Blood on the handle: she could see it glinting in the spotlights as her head smashed against the cupboard again. The room spun.
Warm.
She spiralled backwards, teeth rattling as her head connected with the tiled floor. Justin... Her little boy was upstairs... Shed bought Ready Brek for his breakfast. Justin liked Ready Brek.
CRACK. And her head was bounced off the floor again.
Justin... A spark went off in the middle of her head. JUSTIN! She had to save Justin! She had to get up right now and
Black.
right now. GET UP! She struggled and something heavy landed on her chest. Focus! Get up! Justin needs
Hands wrapped round her throat and squeezed. She tried to fight back, to pull the hands away, but they were too strong. They
Black.
Eyes, go for the eyes! She clawed at her killers face, but it was smooth, hard. The eyes just holes into nothingness. The thing had no eyes! The thing
Black.
NO! Justin needed her! Heather flung a hand out, fumbling across the terracotta tiles. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Tin! A tin of soup! She grabbed it and swung with all her might.
But her fingers wouldnt work. The can barely moved.
It rolled off quietly to lie beside Duncans foot.
The world got darker, and darker, and darker, and
Black...
5
DI Insch looked like an over-inflated marshmallow in his white SOC oversuit. He pretty much filled the tiny lounge on his own, leaving Faulds to perch on the edge of a creaky sofa, while the Identification Bureau finished up in the kitchen. It was only a tiny house in Fittie, but it was stuffed with police photographers, IB technicians, and fingerprint specialists turning a crime scene into a disaster area.
Logan dug out his notebook. Door-to-door turned up nothing no one saw anyone coming or going from the house last night. Closest weve got are the next-door neighbours: they heard the kid, Justin, crying from about three oclock this morning. When he hadnt stopped by noon they tried the doorbell. No reply. Theyve got a key in case of emergencies so they let themselves in... Logans gaze drifted past the inspectors bulk to the blood-spattered kitchen. No sign of Mr or Mrs Inglis, but Justin was upstairs in his room. Hed barricaded himself in with a rocking chair and his toy box.
Faulds picked a silver photo frame off the mantelpiece: mother and child grinning at the camera, the not-so-golden sands of Aberdeen beach stretching away behind them. They didnt hear anything last night?
Neighbours say the Inglises werent exactly the most stable of couples. Theyd be OK for a couple of months, then theyd go ballistic at one another. Throw things, screaming rows usually about money she put him in hospital once with concussion.
Hmm... so we could be looking at a domestic here. Fight gets out of hand, someone gets seriously hurt.
Ive been on to the hospital, no one called Inglis admitted.
Faulds put the photo back where hed found it. Perhaps shes killed him this time? She needs to get rid of the body, so
Sorry sir, their cars parked about a two-minute walk away. The boots still full of shopping and theres no sign of blood.
Well... The Chief Constable thought about it. The harbours at the bottom of the road, isnt it? She could have dragged her husbands body down there and thrown him in.
Insch didnt quite laugh, but it sounded close. And then vanished into thin air, leaving her three-year-old son trapped in his bedroom with no food, water or access to a toilet? The poor wee sod had to crap in his wardrobe. No, this was Wiseman. He knows were on to him and hes escalating again. Just like last time. The Inglises are already dead.
Darkness. Darkness and slow, numbing pain. God, everything hurt! Her skull throbbed, her throat was full of burning sand... cramp rampaged down her left leg and she choked back a scream as the muscle convulsed. Screaming only made her throat feel worse.
She rode it out, face screwed up in agony, then tried to work some life back into her limbs. It wasnt easy, not with her ankles strapped together and her wrists bound behind her back. Curled up on a filthy mattress that stank of fear and piss. And meat.
Duncan? it came out as a painful croak. Duncan, youve got to stay awake...
Duncan didnt say anything. He hadnt said anything for at least what, an hour? Two? It was difficult to tell in the foetid darkness. Duncan, youve got a concussion: you have to stay awake!
They were going to die. They were going to die in the stink and the black and no one would ever find them... Heather blinked hard. Tears werent going to help anyone. She had to get out of here. Had to save Justin. Had to find and save her son. And tears werent going to help.
But she cried anyway.
INTERIOR:small house in Aberdeen, festooned with ornaments. Two men in the background wearing white SOC coveralls dust for prints.
TITLE:Chief Constable Mark Faulds West Midlands Police
VOICEOVER:So what do you think the chances are of finding them alive?
FAULDS: Well, obviously we have to hope, but the reality of the situation is that killers like Wiseman... Im allowed to call him a killer on television, arent I?