The butcher opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again, a puzzled look oozing out between the bruises. 'I ... yeah, the appeal--' 'But you're still a killer. Kenneth Wiseman, I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Kirsty McFarlane, also known as Kirsty Wiseman, in February 1990. You do not have to say anything--' 'But ... but you can't ... I was ...' He grabbed his lawyer's sleeve as Logan read him his rights. 'They can't prosecute me for the same thing twice. Double jeopardy. Tell him!' And it was Logan's turn to smile. 'You were tried for the murders of Ian and Sharon McLaughlin, not Kirsty McFarlane. So--' The lawyer stepped in again. 'I insist you let me speak to my client in private, we--' 'You can have him back when I've finished with him.' Logan turned to the two prison officers. 'How do you fancy escorting Mr Wiseman round to the station?' The butcher was too shocked to struggle.
Interview Room Number Three was like a sauna - as usual - a thin film of condensation furring the double glazed window, while Ken Wiseman sat and sweated. 'I ... I didn't do anything ...' It was as if someone had pulled the plug, letting all the cocky bastard drain away, leaving a scarred, scared, middle-aged, balding bloke. Steel stretched out in her plastic seat. 'That, Ken, is what we in the business call a 'fucking lie'.' The butcher ran a hand across his battered face, wrists still handcuffed together. 'It wasn't me ...' Logan slapped a small stack of paper down on the table - Andrew McFarlane's statement. 'Your brother-in-law says you were drunk. Got into an argument with your sister.' 'That's not--' Logan read it out loud: ''Kirsty slapped him and he went mental. He wouldn't stop hitting her. I--'' 'That's not how it happened!' '--tried to stop him, but he was too strong.' 'No!' 'I wanted to call the police, but he wouldn't let me.' 'He's lying!' Wiseman battered his fist off the tabletop, hard enough to crack the fibreglass cast. 'He's lying ...' 'He dragged her body into the butchery and--' 'That's not what happened!' He stared at the dent he'd made in the Formica, chewing on his split bottom lip. 'We'd ... we'd been out on the piss. All three of us, up the Malt Mill on a Friday night. Kirsty was hammered - they were supposed to be celebrating their anniversary. She started saying stuff ... When we got back to the flat, she tore into Andrew: he was a useless tosser; crap lay; had a tiny dick; she was having an affair ...' 'Then what?'
