Flesh House

Some halfwit had broken the car's stereo, so all he had to listen to was the clack and yammer of the police radio - mostly people hustling to and fro, trying to keep out of DI Insch's way as 'Operation Cleaver' was thrown together. The fat git had been a pain in the backside ever since he'd started on that stupid diet. Eighteen months of tiptoeing about, trying not to set the man off on one of his legendary rants. 'This is Alpha Nine One, we are in position, over.' It sounded as if they were ready to go. 'Alpha Three Two, in position.' 'Aye,' is is Alpha Mike Seven, we're a' set tae go too. Just gie the word.' Logan should have been with them, kicking down doors and taking names, not babysitting some tosser from Birmingham. By the time he was leaving the city limits a light drizzle had started to fall, speckling the windscreen with a thin, wet fog, making the tail-lights of the taxi in front glow like volcanic embers as DI Insch gave his motivational speech. 'Listen up: I want this done by the numbers, understand? Anyone steps out of line, I'll tear their balls off and shove them up their arse - do I make myself clear?' No one was daft enough to answer that one. 'Right. All units, in five, four, three, two ... GO! GO! GO!' And then there was shouting. The sound of a door being battered off its hinges. Bangs. Thumps ... Logan turned the radio off, sat in the long line of traffic waiting to turn towards Aberdeen airport, and sulked.

The airport was busy this morning: the queue for security backed up the length of the building - nearly out the front door - business commuters and holidaymakers nervously checking their watches; clutching their boarding passes; worrying about missing their planes while the tannoy droned on about not leaving baggage unattended. The BD672 was supposed to have landed eight minutes ago, but there was still no sign of anyone getting off the thing. Logan stood on the concourse, next to the twee tartan gift shop, holding up a sheet of paper with 'CC FAULDS' scribbled on it in big biro capitals. Finally the doors at the far end opened and the passengers on the 07:05 flight from London Heathrow staggered out. Logan didn't think Faulds would be too hard to spot, he was a Chief Constable after all. He'd be in full dress uniform - hoping it would let him cut through security and get extra packets of peanuts on the plane - with some obsequious Chief Superintendent in tow to carry his bags and tell him how clever and witty he was. So it came as something of a surprise when a gangly man in jeans, finger-tip, length black leather jacket, Hawaiian shirt, shark's tooth necklace, and a little salt-and-pepper goatee beard stopped, tapped the sign in Logan's hands and said,'I'm Faulds. You must be...?' 'Er ... DS MCRAE, sir.' Was that an earring? It was: Chief Constable Faulds had a diamond earring twinkling away in his left ear. Faulds stuck out his hand. 'I take it DI Insch sent you?' The accent wasn't marked, just a hint of Brummie under the received pronunciation. 'Yes, sir.'