LITMIR.BIZ

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and Wiseman were in the same cell block.’

      Faulds took a sip of his coffee. ‘Circumstantial at best. We need prints, fibre, witnesses …’

      ‘None of which we have. Wiseman’s had years to plan all this, he’s taking precautions, wearing gloves, cleaning up after himself.’

      ‘I don’t like the thought of someone bumping off retired senior police officers with impunity.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk for a bit. ‘So what’s the plan?’

      ‘Up in the air at the moment. Insch hasn’t been in yet.’

      The Chief Constable checked his watch. ‘Not still suspended is he?’

      ‘No, but Brooks’s death hit him kind of hard. The DCS says we should give him a couple of days to—’

      Faulds was already dialling. ‘I’d better give him a call, let him know we’re here if he needs to talk.’ He held in silence for a moment, then left a message asking Insch to call him back. ‘Not answering his mobile.’

      Logan tried the inspector’s home number. It rang and rang and rang and, ‘You’ve reached the Insch residence. I’m afraid we’re not able to come to the phone right now…’

      ‘Aren’t you popular.’ Wiseman listened as some policeman’s voice echoed out of the answering machine. ‘… can call the station as soon as you get this. Thanks.’ Bleeeeeeep. He hit the delete button.

      ‘How you doing, Fat Boy? Hungry? You have to be hungry, look at the size of you!’

      Insch could only scowl. Poor bastard. Ha, ha, ha.

      He wasn’t looking too pretty this morning: his piggy face all swollen and covered with bruises. It had taken a shit heap of duct-tape to strap the fat git to an armchair, but it was worth it just to see him wriggle. Wiseman grinned, and placed the hot frying pan down on the dining room table. The smell of scorching varnish filled the air, covering the stink of two people tied to their chairs for over eighteen hours with no access to a toilet.

      ‘Mmm …’ Wiseman prodded the meat in the sizzling pan. ‘Want some?’

      Insch’s eyes were like burning coals. If looks could kill, the fat bastard would be a walking doomsday device.

      ‘Where are my manners, eh? Ladies first.’ Wiseman grabbed the stinky bitch by the hair, pulled her head back, and gripped one end of her tape gag. ‘If you shout, try to raise the alarm, warn someone, any of that shite, I’ll kill you.’ The tape came away with a patina of smeared lipstick. She burst into tears.

      ‘Please. Please let us go! We won’t tell anyone! You can just leave and no one will know!’

      Wiseman stared for a moment, then slapped her. ‘LOOK AT MY FUCKING FACE!’ He hit her again. ‘What am I going to do? Shave off my beard and buy a ginger wig? Think that’ll work? Think people won’t notice the big,’ he hit her again, ‘fucking scar?’ Once more for luck: snapping her head round, blood and spittle dribbling down her chin.

      Behind him, he could hear Insch thrashing against his bonds. ‘Sit still, Fatty, or I’ll give her something to cry about.’ And gradually the noise stopped.

      Wiseman jabbed a fork into the pan and lifted out a slice of meat. It was perfectly cooked: the skin pale and tender, the inside moist, the edges caramelised. It dripped grease on the carpet, then on the bitch’s dress, then her chin. Gravy and blood mingling.

      ‘Eat.’

      ‘Please …’

      ‘Not going to tell you again.’

      She took a tentative bite. Chewed and swallowed. Wiseman glanced over his shoulder at the fat man, sitting there with a furious scowl on his bright purple face as the bitch ate the rest. ‘Don’t worry, plenty left for you.’

      He dug another slice out of the pan and turned to Inspector Fat Wad. ‘Here’s the deal. You eat this, or I slit her throat.’

      He ripped the duct-tape gag off.

      Insch gasped and snarled and opened his mouth to shout something, but Wiseman rammed the slice of meat in. The inspector spat it out, shaking his head from side to side, swearing. Wiseman grabbed the fat bastard’s ear and twisted. Then the fucker sat still.

      Insch growled at him. ‘I’ll kill you …’

      ‘Really think I won’t do it? Slit her throat?’ He gave the ear another twist. ‘Now eat your fucking breakfast!’

      ‘I’ll kill—’

      ‘OK, be like that. I gave you the chance to save her, and you blew it.’ He walked over to the table and picked up the boning knife – it glittered against the bitch’s throat.

      She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and sobbed.

      ‘Any last words?’

      ‘Don’t! I’ll… I’ll eat it!’ The fat git’s face was pouring with sweat. ‘Just leave her alone! She didn’t do anything to you, it was me. I did it. Not her …’

      ‘That’s better.’ Wiseman laid the knife next to the frying pan and picked up the fork. He speared the slice the fat git had spat out – picking off a few stray dog hairs from where it had hit the carpet – then held it out for Insch to bite.

      Insch stared at it, then at his wife, then back to the slice again. Took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. And bit. For a moment it looked as if he was going to vomit, but he chewed and swallowed instead. Shuddering as it went down.

      ‘There’s a good boy.’ Wiseman smiled. ‘Did you like that? Tasty and tender was it?’

      ‘I’m …’ He gagged.

      The bitch’s voice was small and trembling. ‘David? What’s wrong?’

      ‘Keep it down, Fat Boy, there’s more where that came from.’

      Insch didn’t look at her. ‘Nothing’s wrong. It’s all going to be OK.’

      ‘Go on, Lardy, tell your lovely wife what the Flesher does. Don’t be shy.’

      ‘Tell me what? David …?’

      ‘Tell her.’

      ‘He killed at least a dozen people. Butchered their remains and ate them.’

      The bitch’s eyes went wide, then locked onto the frying pan and its tasty, meaty contents. ‘Oh God …’

      Wiseman leant down and whispered in Insch’s ear. ‘You haven’t asked where your daughters are.’

      The fat man screamed.

       22

      Rennie barged into the history room, skidding to a halt on the tatty green carpet tiles. ‘You’ll never guess what!’

      Logan didn’t look up. ‘What happened to the tea?’

      ‘Wiseman’s called the BBC again: Torry Battery, two pm! The DCS wants everyone in the briefing room, now.’

      The Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of CID drew a red ‘X’ on the whiteboard— ‘… and the third set of marksmen will be here. Plainclothes officers will be in two cars parked here, and here. Another three will pose as dog walkers.’ More squiggles on the board. ‘Everyone else will be in unmarked police vans here … and here.’ He gave the nod, and someone clicked onto the next slide in the presentation: a grey and white outside broadcast van. ‘The BBC are lending us this on the condition that one of their cameramen is present for the arrest.’

      Rennie leant over and whispered at Logan, ‘There’s a surprise. These TV buggers—’

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