Free Flesh House by Stuart MacBride Page A

for sweeties that weren't there,'we've played this to his social worker and two people from his work: it's definitely Wiseman's voice. Call came from a public phone box in Tillydrone, so we know he's still in the city. But this is the interesting bit ...'
The tape started up again. There was more ranting, and then the woman asked, 'Would you like to put your case in person? A televised interview? Tell the whole country?'
This time the pause was so long, Logan began to think Wiseman had hung up. But finally that dark voice came back on the line. 'The whole country?'
'We could do it today! Is today good? You could come into the studio: we're on Beachgrove Terrace and--'
'You think I'm stupid? I say when and where. Understand?'
'OK! OK, whatever you say. You tell me where, and we'll come to you. Not a problem. You're the boss. I didn't mean to--'
'I'll be in touch.' Then the soft burr of a dead line.
'Hello? Hello? Holy shit ... Steve! Steve, you'll never guess who I just--' Clunk. And the recording ended.
'Right,' said Insch,'any questions?'
'Good God.' Faulds stopped dead in the middle of the Leiths' kitchen and did a slow three hundred and sixty degree turn. 'It's like Reservoir Dogs in here ...' The little metal walkway the IB had put down to stop people trampling through the evidence creaked under his feet as he picked his way across to the sink.
There was blood everywhere: all over the floor, up the units, smears on the work surfaces, splashes on the walls, spatters on the ceiling. Someone had decorated the place in eight pints of Valerie Leith.
The Chief Constable looked down at the sticky tiles. 'First impressions?'
Logan stared at a stalagmite of congealed haemoglobin hanging from the cooker hood. 'There's a lot more blood than last time.'
Faulds nodded. 'We found the same pattern twenty years ago. Sometimes Wiseman butchers them on site, sometimes he takes them away and kills them elsewhere. Anything else?'
'Well ... They're obviously not short of a bob or two.' William and Valerie Leith had a Porche 911 in the garage and a huge Lexus four-by-four parked outside the house. It was one of those converted steadings on the outskirts of Aberdeen that always cost a bloody fortune: ramshackle farm buildings, snatched up by some developer and turned into 'luxury country homes for the discerning executive' - as exclusive as they were expensive.
Faulds leant an absentminded hand on the black granite work surface, grimaced, and pulled it away again, his latex glove making a sticky screltching sound as it parted with the tacky blood. 'Damn ...' He wiped it down the front of his white SOC suit, leaving a dark red smear.
Logan opened the patio doors and stepped out onto the decking. It was pitch dark outside, the surrounding countryside little more than grey-brown silhouettes against the backdrop of Aberdeen at night. Little blobs of torchlight worked their way across the field behind the house, silent except for the occasional bark of a police dog.
The view was spectacular - on the other side of the South Deeside Road the lights of Cults, Garthdee, and Ruthrieston glittered. A lone rocket zwipped up into the November sky, exploding in a shower of red. Four seconds later the BANG arrived, but by then the sparks were long gone.
'Can you imagine being up here on Monday? You'd see every firework in the city.'
The Chief Constable joined him at the rail. 'God it's freezing.' He shivered. 'If you were Wiseman, would you hang around waiting to speak to the BBC?'
'Would I buggery. I'd be on the first boat out of the UK.'
'Which begs the question: why is he still here?'
Logan pushed away from the rail as another rocket screeched up into the sky. 'Unfinished business.'
Faulds nodded. 'That's what worries me.'
Heather mashed the heel of her hand into her eye, wiping away the tears. It was a nightmare, that's all. A bad dream. She'd wake up and everything would be OK and they'd have Boeuf Bourguignon for tea and drink some wine and Duncan would