'You can't do that! You're a police officer--' 'Was. Was a police officer.' He looked up at Logan, his eyes dark and empty. 'The rules don't apply any more. Ken Wiseman and I are going to spend some quality time together when he gets out.' Logan backed towards the door. 'No. No way, you're not making me an accessory.' 'You're supposed to be my friend.' 'You're talking about abduction and murder!' 'He killed Sophie. And he killed Brooks, and he killed all those people: hacked them up and--' 'You can't just appoint yourself judge, jury and executioner! There's no evidence he--' 'My wee girl's lying in a fridge in the mortuary with her insides in plastic bags! How's that for bloody evidence?' Insch was on his feet now, his face a thunderous purple in the cell's overhead lighting. 'He'll get out and start killing again. Bastards like Wiseman don't just stop, you know that: it'll never end. You want that on your conscience, Sergeant? Do you?' 'No. But I won't be an accessory to murder.' Not again.
48
'Do you have any idea what time it is?' said the woman on the other end of the phone. 'Everyone's locked down for the night - we're not supposed to disrupt their routines. You'll have to call back in the morning.' Logan checked his watch. Nearly eleven o'clock. The history room was littered with the 1987 case file - search reports, post mortem reports, IB reports, court transcripts, statements, psychological profiles, plastic bags full of forensic evidence: blood samples, a knife from the McLaughlin's kitchen, a hook from the derelict butcher's shop where their remains were found ... 'I know it's late, but I need to speak to him urgently.' Logan stared at the evidence bag sitting in the middle of his desktop: a square of blood-soaked carpet cut from the boot of Ken Wiseman's car. He'd read the analysis over and over again, trying to find something, anything that would keep the butcher in prison where Insch couldn't get at him. The sound went all muffled - probably a hand over the mouthpiece - and then she was back on the line again.'Give me your number and we'll call you back.' Fifteen minutes later, Logan's mobile rang: HM Prison Peterhead doing as promised. There was some back and forth, then a familiar fake English accent said,'Detective Sergeant McRae, to what do I owe--' 'I want to know what Wiseman told you about the woman he killed.' A pause.'I don't think it would be very ethical of me to--' 'You said you talked about her. What did he say?' 'Do I get my own chef?' 'What do you think?' 'Then I don't know anything.'
