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?
VOICEOVER:I think he was acquitted wasnt he?
FAULDS: Yes, but that doesnt really mean anything, does it? Let out on appeal because of a technicality isnt the same as being found not guilty. And he was given another fifteen years for beating that rapist to death in the prison showers.
VOICEOVER:Yeah, but probably better safe than sorry. Or we can film two versions: one where you name Wiseman, one where we just say The Flesher. How about that?
FAULDS: OK. Ahem. [coughs] The reality of the situation is that serial killers in this kind of situation... hold on, I said situation twice. Can we start over?
Logan and Insch stood in the kitchen, listening to Faulds making a mess of his third take. The inspector shook his head, then closed the door, saying, Bloody amateurs...
The IB had left the place in a mess, as usual. All the surfaces were covered in a thin film of fingerprint powder black on the kitchen units, white on the granite worktop. Little yellow tags marked the drops of drying blood, a smeared handprint on a kitchen cabinet, a clump of human hair stuck to a door handle, a broken tooth by the fridge-freezer...
Look at him, cant even get a simple speech to camera right. How the hell was he ever a professional actor? Unbelievable. Insch shut the door as Faulds launched into yet another take. Whats he been saying about the case?
Logan shrugged. Not much. We spent the morning in the morgue watching them poke little chunks of meat. And then we dug out the Flesher files from the archives. Theres bloody heaps of
What about me?
You?... er... nothing.
Insch scowled at the ruined kitchen, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Logan could almost hear the Machiavellian wheels turning inside that huge pink head.
I dont get it: said Logan, if you cant stand Faulds, why did you ask him up here in the first place?
Because that was the deal. If you get a Flesher case, you call in the old investigating team doesnt matter if you want their help or not, the useless sods turn up anyway. And lucky old me: Chief Constable Faulds had nothing better to do. The inspector brooded for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. Call Control: get someone going through the CCTV footage. Whoever took the victims used a car, or a truck, or a van. Find it. And youd better get the press office to set up a conference. Circulate the Inglises photos. See if anyone saw anything. He stopped for a moment, staring at a childs drawing of a ghost surrounded by happy skeletons, pinned to the refrigerator. Poor wee sod... Well need to talk to the kid. Find out if he saw Bloody hell.
His phone was screeching out The Lord High Executioner from The Mikado. Insch pulled the thing out, groaned, then hit the button. Hello Gary... Yes... Yes I know you did, but Because its an ongoing investigation, thats why... No... he rolled his eyes and stomped out of the kitchen, barging past Faulds and the cameraman on his way to the front door.
He slammed it behind him.
Faulds sighed. I see his tempers not improved much.
Yes... well, hes under a lot of pressure, sir.
He a good governor?
Logan thought about it. He puts a lot of criminals behind bars.
Which is a diplomatic way of saying, utter bastard.
He couldnt argue with that.
The press conference was not a happy place. As soon as the prepared statement had been read the savaging began: Wiseman was on the loose, people were dying and apparently it was all Grampian Polices fault. The Chief Constable went straight into damage limitation mode, but it didnt take a genius to tell what tomorrows headlines were going to be like.
When the briefing was finally over, Logan told Insch the good news: Social says were OK to speak to the Inglis kid, but we need to keep it brief.
Good. You can Inschs phone was ringing again. Bloody hell, leave me alone! He pulled it out and took the call. Insch... Yes, Gary were sure its him... no, we No. I cant. You know I cant, we went over this!... But... I dont see what that could The fat man sighed. Yes, yes Ill try... I said Ill try, Gary. OK. He hung up and swore.
Logan waited for Insch to explain, but the inspector just stuffed the phone back in his pocket and lumbered off towards the lifts.
It was meant to be a non-threatening environment: the walls painted a cheerful shade of yellow; Monet prints; two comfy sofas; a coffee table; a standard lamp; a widescreen television; and a box of battered plastic toys. But it still managed to be bloody depressing.
Back in the early days people would sneak down here in their breaks to sit on the sofa, drink their coffee, and watch reruns of Columbo on the telly. Then one by one they stopped coming, preferring the scarred formica of the canteen to the soft furnishings. There was something about listening to someone sobbing as they tried to tell you about the man who raped them, or the grown-up who made them do dirty things, that really took the happy off a room.
A small boy in pirate-print pyjamas was sitting in the middle of a bright green rug, holding onto a tatty stuffed dog as if his life depended on it, and sneaking glances at the video camera in the corner. A child psychologist slumped on one of the couches, half-heartedly trying to build a house out of Lego. She didnt stop when Logan and Insch entered.
The kid froze.
Hello, said Insch, easing his massive bulk down till he was sitting cross-legged on the rug, my names David. Whats yours?
Nothing.
So Insch tried again, Im a policeman. He pulled a handful of bricks and a little blue Lego man from the box, clicking them together surprisingly quickly for someone with such huge fingers. Do you like boats? Ill bet you do, living down in Fittie. Bet you see lots of boats.
Justin looked up at the dead-fish eye of the camera, then back at Insch and nodded.
Good, the inspector smiled, I like boats too. He grabbed another lot of little plastic bricks, a passable fishing trawler taking shape in his hands. So, do you want to tell me your name, or shall we call you... Insch thought for a moment. Logan? Would you like that?
The wee boy shook his head.
Quite right too, its a poopy name. said Insch, ignoring the mutters of protest behind him. I bet your names much cooler.
Justin. Barely a whisper. But at least the kid was talking. And slowly the inspector teased the story out of him: how his daddy had picked him up from day-care, because his mummy was out shopping. Theyd had fish fingers and beans and mashed potatoes for tea and done the washing up, then daddy was going to cook something for mummy called beef burnt onions. Then the doorbell went and daddy answered it and someone came in and daddy fell over and hit his head on the coffee table. Then the someone gave Justin a whole packet of Maltesers and sent him to bed. Then the bad thing happened and Justin had to hide in his wardrobe till it got stinky, because his doggie did number twos in there. He held the stuffed dog up so Insch could see how naughty it had been.
And what did the someone look like? Insch asked, after telling the dog it shouldnt poop in peoples wardrobes.
He looked like a stripy man with a scary face.
The inspector produced a sheet of paper, unfolding it to reveal a picture of ex-Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. Is this
Justin screamed and hid behind his naughty dog.
Yeah, Insch put the picture back in his pocket, she has that effect on a lot of people.
6
The major incident room was too noisy for a meeting, so Insch, Faulds, and the Procurator Fiscal commandeered a small office on the second floor of FHQ, then sent Logan off to get the coffees.
He was halfway up the stairs, making for the canteen, when the voice of doom sounded: Where the hell have you been?
Logan froze, swore quietly, then turned to see DI Steel standing behind him, hands on her hips, face pulled into a scowl. God knows what had happened to her hair, but it sat on top of her wrinkly head like an electrocuted badger. I, said the inspector, shaking a nicotine-stained finger at him, have been waiting for that bloody vandalism report for a week now.
Ah, said Logan, Ive been seconded to this new Flesher investigation. Didnt Insch tell you?
Steels scowl got even worse. Well thats just sodding perfect. I mean, its no like my caseloads important is it? No as long as Fat Boy Insch is happy. She let loose a string of foul language, then stared at the ceiling for a moment. So when, exactly, am I going to see my report?
Theyve got me babysitting this Chief Constable from Birmingham, I
I didnt ask for excuses, Sergeant, I asked when youd have that bloody report finished.
This isnt my fault! Im only
You remembering youre supposed to be in court tomorrow?
Of course. Which was a lie: hed forgotten all about it. Im probably not even going to get called, though, you know what these indecent exposure cases are
Ten thirty on the dot, Sergeant. Steel turned and marched off, calling back over her shoulder, And dont forget that bloody report!
Logan waited for her to disappear round the corner before sticking two fingers up in her direction.
Steels voice echoed through the stairwell: I saw that! Then the doors to the corridor slammed shut and Logan was on his own again.
By the time he got back to the little office, Insch, Faulds and the PF were gathered round a desk, discussing Justin Ingliss statement the inspector casually doodling glasses and blacking out teeth on his photo of Margaret Thatcher. Of course, its not conclusive, he said, how could it be? The kids only three, but Im pretty sure hes telling the truth. Insch helped himself to one of the mugs on Logans tray, sniffed it, and wrinkled his nose. I asked for a double mochaccino with extra cinnamon and chocolate what the hell is this?
Machines broken, so everyones got instant.
Typical...
The PF reached for the vandalized ex-Prime Minister. This could still be a copycat. She held up a hand before Insch could complain. Playing Devils advocate: ever since that damn book came out everyone knows the Flesher wears a butchers apron and a Margaret Thatcher Halloween mask. On its own it means nothing.