woman in a graduation cap and gown, the two of them getting married. She'd walked out on him eighteen years ago, and he still had her photos up. That was devotion for you. The butcher sank into a leather armchair within easy reach of a litre bottle of vodka. He poured himself a juddering tumbler-full. 'I'd offer, but you're both on duty.' 'Not to worry, sir,' Insch stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets as he surveyed the photos, the pot plants and the paintings. 'You have a lovely home.' The butcher shrugged and drained half his glass in one go. 'So ...' Insch smiled at him. 'Still expect us to believe you had nothing to do with the bits of dead people in your shop?' McFarlane ground his eyes with the heels of his hands. 'Thought you were here about my vandalism.' 'Just between you and me, sir, I think the two things might just be connected.' 'They're here every night. Throwing things. You should see the state of the shop ... it was like a bombsite when I got out of ... when I got home.' 'And did you speak to Wiseman when you were inside?' 'I never did anything, and my life's ruined.' Another slug of vodka. 'Who's going to buy meat from my shop now? After all this? Years I spent building the business--' 'I'm sure everyone's sorry for your loss. I know I am. With my daughter lying dead in the fucking morgue!' McFarlane worked another large measure of vodka into his glass, then into himself. 'That's not my fault - I didn't do anything.' 'She was FOUR!' 'Sir, I think we should--' Insch towered over the hollowed-out butcher. 'She was four and that bastard killed her!' 'I ...' McFarlane shuddered, then looked up into the inspector's furious purple face. 'Do you know what it's like to have a killer in your family? Do you? To live with the hate and the lies and the shame? When it's none of your bloody fault?' 'I ought to tear your--' Logan put a hand on the inspector's arm. 'He wasn't there. He was in prison when Wiseman killed Sophie.' 'He--' 'Why don't you wait for me in the car, sir? I'll finish up in here.' Insch didn't move. 'Please.' For a moment it looked as if Insch was about to turn the butcher into fourteen stone of alcoholic mince, but in
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