the end he turned on his heel and stormed out. The butcher poured himself another shaky drink, the bottle clinking round the mouth of the glass. 'I didn't ...' 'I'm sorry, sir. He's had a lot on his mind.' 'It was never me ...' The vodka disappeared. Logan picked up the wedding photograph from the mantelpiece: it was McFarlane and Wiseman's sister - Logan couldn't remember her name - on the steps of King's College Chapel. Him in a kilt, her in a huge white dress. 'Do you ever hear from her? Your wife?' McFarlane stared down at the carpet for a beat. 'No.' He picked up the bottle, then put it down again. 'Eighteen years. Eighteen bloody years ...' His saggy pink eyes were beginning to fill with tears. Logan put the wedding photo back with the others. Eighteen years - he was willing to bet that was when the butcher climbed into a bottle and forgot the way out. 'Well, sir, if you can think of anything--' 'It's not easy losing someone you love.' This time the bottle made it all the way to the glass. 'I've lost everything. Every last bloody thing.' His voice was starting to slur round the edges. 'My whole life is buggered. All because of ... because of Ken Wiseman.' The vodka went down in one. 'But he's family, isn't he? He's family so I had to give him a job. And now look at me: no wife, no business, no friends, prison. What am I going to do? Eh?' He scrubbed a trembling hand across his face, trying to wipe away the tears. 'What am I going to do?' McFarlane lurched to his feet, grabbed the bottle, and headed for the door. 'Come see ...' He stomped down the stairs, but instead of going out onto the street, the butcher led Logan round to a small internal door. 'Come see ...' He hit-or-missed a key into the lock and then they were through into the shop. Darkness. The butcher fumbled with a switch and the lights flickered on. The place didn't look anything like it had the last time Logan was here: with the plywood over the windows, it had all the charm of an open grave. Both chiller cabinets had been torn from the wall, then hurled to the floor. The display case was a study in fractured glass. A red fire extinguisher poked out of the deli counter's ruptured sneeze-guard. Gouts of dark red paint covered the walls like arterial blood. 'Twenty years.' McFarlane swigged straight from the bottle. 'Twenty years I've been building this business ... and now look at it.' He threw his arms wide, shouting at the top of his voice,'COME BUY YOUR MEAT FROM THE CANNIBAL BUTCHER!' The next mouthful finished the vodka. He peered through the empty bottle, twisting it round and round - as if trying to get his old life to come back into focus - then hurled it at the wall above the ruptured till. An explosion of glass. McFarlane stood in the centre of his ruined life and cried.
42
DI Insch was back in the passenger seat of Logan's pool car, the tips of two fingers pressed against the side of his throat. Teeth gritted. Face still purple. Eyes screwed shut. There was no way Logan was getting in there with him till the inspector calmed down, so he wandered down the road to a little newsagents' and spent a couple of minutes browsing the magazines, then the selection of sweeties - buying a big bag of jelly babies and another of fizzy cola bottles. And a lottery ticket, just in case. Was it ethical to still use Jackie's birthday as two of the numbers? By the time he got back to the car, Insch seemed to have settled down a bit. Logan climbed in behind the steering wheel and passed over the jelly babies, holding the cola bottles in reserve. Just in case. The inspector dug his way into the packet, then ripped the head off some jelly mummy's pride and joy. 'Sir,' Logan started the car,'I think you need to go home, OK?' More jelly babies were sacrificed, but it didn't seem to be appeasing the volcano. 'McFarlane was in it with Wiseman. The two of them together. Killing and butchering.' Logan pulled out into traffic. 'We've got nothing on him. And before you go off on one: I know, OK? But look at
