Flesh House

He turned from the serving counter, tray in hand, to see DI Insch sitting at a table by the window with Jackie. If that wasn't bad enough, the inspector was staring straight at him. And now Jackie was staring at him too. The fat man pushed the chair on the other side of the table out with his foot. Damn ... Logan took his lunch over and sat, trying to act casual as he helped himself to the vinegar. 'Sir, Jackie.' She didn't even pretend to be on first-name terms anymore:'Sergeant.' There was an awkward silence. Logan started in on his lasagne. All he had to do was eat fast and get out of here. Why the hell did Insch have to-- 'Soon as you've finished,' said the inspector, scooping the last remnants of custard out of a bowl,'you can get us a pool car. You and I are going to see Andrew McFarlane.' And there went Logan's appetite. 'Sorry sir, the DCS gave strict--' 'I'm not supposed to interfere in the Flesher case? You'll be happy to know, Sergeant, that we're going to talk to Mr McFarlane about a spate of recent vandalism. Which does fall under my remit.' Logan looked at Jackie, hoping for some support, but all he got back was a stony silence. He tried again. 'Sir, don't you think--' 'No I don't. Now eat your bloody lasagne.'

'So,' said Logan, looking up at the butcher's shop,'you were having lunch with Jackie...?' The shop windows were boarded up: huge sheets of plywood, peppered with nightclub flyers and a patina of graffiti:'CANNIBAL BASTARD!''MURDERER' 'SCUM' and for some reason:'ENGLISH OUT' Insch unwrapped a chocolate eclair, stuffing the sweetie in his mouth, and the wrapper in his pocket. He pointed at the blue door next to the butcher's shop. 'You know the drill.' There was an intercom with McFarlane's name printed on a plastic slip. Logan pressed the button. No reply. So he did it again, and twice more for luck. A scared voice crackled out of the speaker.'Go away! I'm calling the police!' 'This is the police, Mr McFarlane. It's DS McRae: we met at the prison? We're here to talk to you about the vandalism.' 'Oh ...' A low grinding buzz sounded and Logan pushed the door open. They went through a short hallway and up a brightly painted flight of stairs. McFarlane was waiting for them at the top. He didn't look much better than the last time Logan had seen him. Yes the bruises were fading, but the butcher had a caved-in look, as if all the stuffing had been knocked out of him, leaving behind an empty shell with a broken nose and missing teeth. They followed him through into the lounge. McFarlane's flat wasn't quite what Logan had been expecting. Lone alcoholic living above a shop: it should have been all discarded takeaway containers, empty bottles, peeling wallpaper, and dismal country music on the stereo. Instead it was painted in shades of off-white, spotlessly tidy, watercolour landscapes on the walls, and what sounded suspiciously like Carmen coming out of the speakers. A line of framed photographs sat on the mantelpiece: McFarlane, McFarlane and a younger woman, the same