did not mean to hurt her, but I did. There was a lot of blood--'' 'I know what it says.' ''Afterwards I did not know what to do, so I disposed of the body by cutting it up--'' Wiseman lurched forwards, banging his grubby fibreglass cast on the scarred tabletop. 'I said I know what it fucking says!' Logan smiled. He'd just been using the confession and Richard Davidson's assault as an excuse to pass on Insch's message, but somehow he'd managed to hit a raw nerve. The butcher was so blase about everything else ...'Who was she?' 'She wasn't anyone. I made it up. It's what they wanted to hear. They said they'd--' 'Remember Angus Robertson? The Mastrick Monster?' 'I don't have to sit here and listen to this.' Logan pointed at the interview room, the camera, the officer standing by the door. 'Prison, remember: not a social club. Robertson said your cells were next to each other. That late at night you'd tell him about the woman you dismembered and the guy you beat to death in the showers.' 'You going to take Roberson's word for it? Lying little bastard killed fifteen women--' 'Who was she?' 'Fuck you.' 'Your car boot was full of blood.' 'And you're full of shite.' Another sip of horrible coffee. 'Why did you run, Ken?' 'You deaf? I said ...' It seemed to take him a moment to catch up with the change of subject. 'What was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for that fat wanker to stitch me up again? Like last time?' 'Someone's still out there killing people.' 'My heart bleeds.' 'Who was she? The woman?' 'Fuck. You.' Logan tossed his plastic cup of plastic coffee in the bin, a little geyser of milky brown erupting as it hit the bottom. 'Fine. Lie all you want, but I'm going to find out.' Wiseman burst out laughing. 'Oh, big scary policeman!' 'Get him out of here.'
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