Flesh House, page 33
Click – a cutting from the Aberdeen Examiner appeared. ‘MARCUS MAKES MERRY’: a story about how Marcus Young had written a comedy play that was going to be performed on Radio Scotland. ‘This article was published three and a half weeks ago. Just like all the others.’ Bain pointed at the screen. ‘The MO fits, the butchery fits, the description fits, the victim selection fits.’
The DCS smiled into Alec’s television camera lens. ‘We have a living witness, backed up by an experienced police officer. We have a crime scene that was abandoned before the Flesher could finish. This represents a very real breakthrough in the investigation – we’re one step closer to catching this bastard.’
‘Aye,’ Steel said in a smoky whisper,‘and I’m sure that’s a great fucking comfort to Marcus and Vicky Young’s families.’
Bain stared at her. ‘Did you have something to add, Inspector?’
‘Aye, I’d like to widen the door-to-door radius round the Youngs’ house – the bastard knows there’s police everywhere, he’s going to keep running till he’s nowhere near the scene. Might even have abandoned his vehicle.’
The DCS nodded. ‘Good point: get right on it.’
‘Come on, Laz,’ she stood,‘you heard the man—’
‘Actually,’ said Faulds,‘I was hoping to take DS McRae with me to interview our surviving victim.’ He smiled at the inspector. ‘Hope you don’t mind?’
‘Mind? Me? Why would I mind?’ She grabbed Rennie by the collar. ‘Come on Boozy Boy, the fresh air will do you good.’
‘I meant to ask’ said Faulds as they drove out of Aberdeen on the A947, heading north,‘How’s David doing?’
It took Logan a second to realize he was talking about Insch. ‘Not so good. They need to operate, but …’ He shrugged and put his foot down, overtaking a Renault Espace full of ugly children and assorted dogs. ‘I don’t know … it sort of feels like he’s given up.’
Faulds was quiet for a while, looking out of the car window as the countryside went by. ‘It’s actually quite pretty, in a never-ending-green-and-brown-slog-of-muddy-fields kind of way … Ooh, look: sheep. Just to break up the monotony.’ He smiled. ‘Do you like it here?’
‘Never really thought about it. Lived here most of my life, so … well, you know.’
‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do next?’
‘Go through the abattoir security tapes again?’
‘I meant in the slightly longer term. I’ve got a couple of openings coming up in Birmingham. Detective Inspectors – of course you’d be on secondment to start with, and you’d have to forget all this haggis-munching Criminal Justice Scotland Act nonsense: learn PACE, like a proper police officer. But I think you’d make a good addition to my team.’
Logan turned and stared at his passenger. ‘A DI in Birmingham?’
‘Come on: you’re intuitive; determined; good attention to detail; you jump to conclusions, but you’re not afraid to listen to alternatives; open minded; loyal; and do you think you could keep your eyes on the road?’
‘I … yes … sorry.’ Logan gripped the steering wheel and pulled them back into their own lane.
‘I run a fast-track programme for real coppers, not just jumped-up overachievers with law degrees. Up here you could be a DS till you’re drawing your pension. With me, if you keep on the way you’re going, you could be looking at a Chief Inspector’s job in four or five years.’
Faulds left an expectant pause … and when Logan didn’t fill it, he said,‘You’re not exactly biting my hand off here.’
‘Actually, sir, I was wondering what it’d be like: leaving everything behind. Starting again from scratch. Not knowing anybody.’
‘Your family’s here, aren’t they? You’re worried about missing them.’
‘Dear God no.’ Smile. ‘Trust me, that’s a bonus. My mum’s a nightmare.’
‘Yeah, my foster parents were the same. So, if it’s not your family…?’
A new life in Birmingham: he could leave all the guilt and bad memories behind. A clean slate.
‘Look,’ said Faulds,‘sleep on it. I’m only going to be up here for another couple of days, but if you let me know tomorrow I can get the paperwork started. Four weeks’ time you could be Detective Inspector McRae of West Midlands Police.’
Logan had to admit he liked the sound of that.
Newmacher had started out as a tiny village, but as with most places within commuting distance of Aberdeen it had contracted a nasty dose of developer’s spread: housing estates breaking out like acne as more and more people squeezed into cheek-by-jowl brick-clad boxes.
Elizabeth Nichol had a 1970s bungalow in a little grey culde-sac. An unmarked car sat outside the house – the back seat cluttered with yellowing newspapers and empty wax-paper cups from Starbucks. Logan parked behind it.
‘Rule one,’ said Faulds, climbing out into the sunshine,‘ if you’re going to be on my team I need you to be goal-orientated … Don’t look at me like that: I know it sounds wanky, but there’s a reason. We don’t just bumble about hoping some wonderful clue will fall into our lap; we go in with pre-defined goals.’ He pointed at Logan. ‘What are we trying to achieve here?’
‘See if Nichol can remember anything more about that night. Go over the physical description again.’ Logan stopped to think for a moment. ‘Find out if there’s a connection between the Youngs and the Flesher. Maybe there’s more to it than just the newspaper cuttings: he might have made contact.’
‘Good. Now lets go see if some wonderful clue will fall into our lap.’
Elizabeth Nichol’s house was a cathedral of kitsch. Pride of place went to her massive collection of snow globes from all over Europe: Poland, Moldova, Croatia, Lithuania, Slovakia, Croatia, and a lot of other places ending in ‘ia’ that Logan couldn’t pronounce. They filled a bank of floor-to-ceiling shelves that dominated the lounge.
Elizabeth herself was a small, nervous-looking woman who fidgeted constantly with her blouse: tugging at the collar, brushing off imaginary lint, picking at the buttons.
PC Munro sat in a floral armchair by the window, leaning forward every now and then to pat her on the arm and tell her it was all right, she was safe now.
Elizabeth made them a pot of tea, sat back down on the couch, fidgeted a bit more, stood, picked up a snow globe, looked out the window,‘Would … would anyone like something to eat? It’s no trouble, really, I was going to have something myself. Just leftovers really …’ She put the snow globe back with the others. ‘Sorry … it’s stupid …’ The tears were starting.
PC Munro got up and put an arm around her shoulder. ‘It’s OK.’
‘I just wanted to feel useful.’ She sniffed and rubbed at her eyes. ‘I’m such an idiot.’
‘Nonsense, it’s a lovely offer,’ said Faulds. ‘I’ve got to go have lunch with some boring old fart from the council, but I’m sure DS McRae and PC Munro will join you.’
‘Er …’ Logan looked at Munro, then Faulds, and finally at Elizabeth Nichol. ‘Well … only if it’s not any bother.’
Elizabeth assured him it wasn’t and bustled off into the kitchen.
‘So,’ said Faulds when the muted roar of an extractor fan kicked in,‘down to business: why isn’t she still in hospital?’
The FLO pulled out her notebook. ‘Discharged herself. She has a thing about doctors and nurses. Won’t take witness protection either. Those Muppets were here earlier, trying to bully her into it.’
‘Not acceptable. I’m not having the only surviving victim of the Flesher running around unguarded.’
‘She doesn’t want a guard; won’t even let us put a patrol car outside the house. She wants to pretend it never happened. As far as Elizabeth Nichol’s concerned, if you stick your head in the sand nothing can hurt you.’
‘Then you’ll have to stay.’
Munro was lost for words. ‘You … what? I …’
‘You’re her FLO aren’t you?’
‘But I’m supposed to be investigating her background, establishing victimology.’
‘And do you really think that’s more important than making sure she stays alive?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing’s going to happen, but if anything does you’ll be here to call for backup. We’ll get a couple of cars doing lowprofile surveillance – Nichol won’t even know about it – they’ll be thirty seconds away. You see anything suspicious, you call them in. No heroics.’
Munro tried again:‘Look, sir, I’m supposed to be off at two, I’ve got—’
‘Have you finished the background report yet?’
‘I … not as such, but—’
‘Well, what have you done then?’
‘I did the preliminary report.’
Faulds didn’t look impressed. ‘You’ve been here all morning; where’s the family history, work record, timeline?’
‘I … it’s not easy, OK? She won’t settle down for more than two minutes at a stretch. She’s nervous. Probably still in shock.’
‘Look,’ said Faulds,‘you’ve got an opportunity here to prove to everyone you’re not a screw-up—’
‘What? I’m not a screw-up! Who’s saying I’m a screw-up?’
‘After that business with William Leith—’
‘That wasn’t my fault! How was I supposed to know he killed his wife? He said it was the Flesher: everyone—’
‘Some people would think an experienced FLO wouldn’t have made that kind of mistake.’
‘That is so …’ She looked at Logan, but he had no intention of getting involved. ‘I’m doing my best.’
‘That’s what worries me.’ A friendly smile blossomed on Faulds’ face as Nichol returned from the kitchen with two heaped plates of mince and tatties.
She put one down in front of PC Munro, and the constable blanched. ‘Ah … actually, I’m a vegetarian, sorry … Mind you, half the city seems to have gone veggie these days, don’t they?’ She pulled on a smile. ‘But it looks lovely.’
‘Oh …’ Elizabeth picked up the plate again. ‘I’ve got some tins of tomato soup? I could—’
‘You sit yourself down,’ said Faulds,‘PC Munro can help herself,’ he shot her a look,‘can’t you?’
Brittle smile. ‘Of course, sir.’
Logan balanced the plate on his knee, dug a fork into his mashed potato and swirled it through the mince, coating it with thick brown gravy. Then stared at it.
‘It’s …’ Elizabeth blushed. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but it’s OK. I got the mince from Dundee. It’s not …’ she flapped a hand at a copy of the Aberdeen Examiner sitting on her coffee table,‘local.’
Thank God for that.
Logan took a bite. ‘Mmm, this is excellent. Much better than the stuff we get in the canteen.’
She beamed with pride as Logan got stuck in.
‘This might sound daft …’ she said to Faulds,‘but you seem familiar. Have we met before?’
The Chief Constable gave a little self-deprecating shrug. ‘I was in a TV show when I was younger.’
‘Oh … I see.’
‘Now, Elizabeth,’ said Faulds as she started eating,‘I don’t want to put you off your lunch, but I need to ask you some questions about last night, OK? The man who came to the Youngs’ house, was he taller than me?’
‘I …’ She pointed through to the kitchen, and the buzzing drone of a microwave oven. ‘I told her everything I can remember.’
Faulds scooted forwards. ‘The human mind is a remarkable thing, Elizabeth, sometimes memories don’t bubble up to the surface till days, even weeks later. I’m willing to bet that together, you and I can get something on the boil.’ Flirty wink.
He teased details out of her over the next ten to fifteen minutes, changing the subject from the Flesher to something innocuous – like the snow globe from Krakow – and back again. Constantly shifting. Getting a little more information every time.
Logan gave a satisfied groan and pushed his empty plate away, glad he’d been the one lumbered with making Elizabeth Nichol feel useful.
‘Will you look at the time?’ said Faulds, peering theatrically at his watch. ‘Going to have to fly or I’ll be late.’ He stood, motioning for Logan to do the same. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Elizabeth. If you think of anything else, you give me a call, OK?’ He dug out a business card and scribbled something on the back, then handed it over. ‘Doesn’t matter how late or early it is.’
Outside, in the car, Faulds allowed himself a smug smile as Logan drove them back towards town. ‘You see, that’s what being goal-oriented gets you … What?’
‘Don’t you think you were a little hard on Munro?’
The older man nodded. ‘That’s the thing about leading a team: some people are motivated by the carrot, others by the stick. The trick is telling which is which. You’re a carrot, Munro’s a stick. Yes, she’ll think I’m an utter bastard, but what do you want to bet she’s in there right now giving it a hundred and twenty per cent, just to spite me?’
Which sort of made sense.
‘Right,’ said Faulds,‘when we get back I need you to organize two unmarked cars watching the main road. Anyone turns into Nichol’s street, I want a PNC check on the number plate. At least one member of each team to be firearms trained.’
‘You think he’s going to come after her? Not exactly the Flesher’s type, is she? Too thin.’
‘True, but I’m not prepared to take that risk. Are you?’
PC Munro waited until the pool car disappeared before she started swearing. Faulds was such a patronising wanker. ‘“That’s what worries me.” Git.’
She marched through to the kitchen, determined to show that stuck-up Brummy arsehole she was perfectly capable of getting information out of a victim.
Elizabeth Nichol was up to her elbows in the sink, wearing a flowery pinny with ducks on it, washing up after lunch.
Munro grabbed a dishcloth. ‘Can I help dry?’
The woman nearly jumped out of her skin.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.’ Munro picked a plate from the draining board. ‘You never told me about your family. Any brothers or sisters?’
‘I … one of each: Jimmy and Kelley.’ She was going bright red. ‘We’re not close.’ She sank her hands back into the bubbles. ‘Kelley was always the sensitive one. Jimmy … well, he was always … difficult. I haven’t spoken to him since we were little. Doubt I’d even recognize him now.’
Finally they were getting somewhere. Munro moved onto Elizabeth’s parents and job – trying to do the same bouncing-back-and-forth-between-subjects trick that Faulds had pulled earlier – pushing a little harder than she normally would. No one could say she’d not been thorough this time.
Only it didn’t work: instead of providing a steady trickle of information, Elizabeth burst into tears and ran off, leaving a trail of soapsuds behind.
Munro stood alone in the kitchen, listening as Elizabeth scurried up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door. Then the sound of sobbing filtered down from above.
‘Good one, Yvonne. Very professional …’ She wandered into the lounge and slumped into an armchair. It was all that bastard Faulds’ fault: if he thought being a Family Liaison officer was such a piece of piss, he should try it sometime. Up to your ears in other people’s grief.
She spent a few minutes feeling sorry for herself, then switched on her Airwave handset and made some follow-up calls. Then she brewed a pot of tea and went upstairs to apologize.
After all, it wasn’t Elizabeth’s fault she’d been attacked by the Flesher, was it? Sometimes people were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Sometimes that was the difference between life and death.
54
‘Hello? Can anyone hear me? Hello? Please! I’m a police officer! Hello?’ The new voice was female, muffled and scared, coming from the other side of the cell wall. Heather hoped she wasn’t another screamer.
She rolled over onto her side, turning her back on the noise. ‘Kelley?’ Silence. ‘Kelley are you—’
‘They’ll be looking for me!’
A hand reached through the bars, cool against her cheek. ‘How are you feeling, Heather?’
‘Bit woozy, not quite plugged in …’
‘I’m a fucking police officer! Understand?’
‘Maybe it’s the medicine? You took a lot of those pills yesterday.’
‘HELLO?’
‘So tired …’
‘YOU HEAR ME? THEY’LL COME AFTER YOU! I’M A POLICE OFFICER!’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t take them any more?’
‘WHY WON’T ANYONE ANSWER ME?’
Heather shuffled forwards, till she was lying beside the bars, resting her head on Kelley’s hand. ‘I don’t want him to hurt you.’
‘PLEASE!’ The shouting had turned to sobbing. ‘Please …’
Heather closed her eyes. ‘Do you think she’s going to keep shouting?’
‘Shhh … go to sleep.’
‘I don’t feel well …’
‘Sleep. It’ll all be OK soon, you’ll see. I promise. You just need to get some rest.’
And Heather drifted off to a lullaby of frightened sobs.
Doc Fraser was in the process of peeling off his green surgical scrubs as Logan walked into the mortuary’s sterile area. Ten to five and the post mortem was over – all the bits of body cleared away. Which made a nice change.
‘How did it go?’
The old pathologist shrugged, and tossed his waxy trousers into a plastic laundry hamper. Stripped down to his vest and Y-fronts – grey socks slipping down his ankles, a smattering of little red blisters visible on his pasty legs – he pointed at the row of refrigerated drawers. ‘You want to look?’
‘Not really.’ But Logan opened the drawer anyway. It was an old man: long grey beard, drink-swollen nose, skin pale and covered in scabs. All in once piece, except for the ugly raw scar left by the Y-inscision.
