did it! Every time Elizabeth Nichol was driving her truck on the continent there's at least one hit from the INTERPOL files. She's the Flesher!' 'Get a firearms team out to the abattoir now. And an ambulance.' Logan stopped for a second, eyes squeezed shut, leaning against the wall to stay upright. Mouth suddenly full of saliva. Not going to be sick, not going to be sick. 'That's why we've not had any bodies for eighteen years: she's been killing her way round Eastern Europe. Bain says--' 'Shut up. Fuck's sake ... Roadblocks - every route out of Turriff ...' Maybe it would be better to throw up now and get it over with? 'You OK?' 'No.' Logan hung up, pushed off the wall, took a deep breath, and hurried after Faulds and Jackie, the mingled sounds of Northsound Radio 2 and heavy machinery getting louder with every step. He limped around the corner into a steamy room that reeked of lamb. A pair of mechanized belts ran along the ceiling. Sheep carcasses creaked and swayed their way down one side - fully wooled at one end, skinned and gutted at the other. The opposite belt carried stainless-steel poles, each with a little basket on the end; severed sheep heads staring out of them, looking mildly surprised by death, their innards draped over a spike underneath. All going round to the tune of Blur's 'Parklife', like some macabre merry-go-round. Faulds and Jackie were in here, the Chief Constable trying to get a man in a bloodstained overall to understand English by shouting at him. Finally the man seemed to get it and pointed at a doorway next to a plastic bin full of lungs. Logan pushed his way through the crowd of abattoir workers just as Faulds stepped into the corridor. 'Armed backup is on its way.' Faulds stopped and turned. 'I want this place evacuated. We're not putting any more civilians--' He didn't get to finish the sentence. The Flesher appeared in the doorway behind the Chief Constable, knife in hand. There wasn't even time to shout. The Flesher wrapped her arms around Faulds in a lover's embrace - a knife blade flashed in the overhead lighting. It disappeared into Faulds' side, just below the bottom rib. He looked down at the arm wrapped around his stomach and the bloody hand holding the knife. 'P ... please ...' His face went white. The Flesher yanked it straight across Faulds' belly and out the other side. Less than a second start to finish. Bright-scarlet oxygenated blood pulsed out into the room. Someone screamed, but all Faulds could do was open and shut his mouth. He fell to his knees - innards bulging out, still held together with connective tissue - the stink of punctured bowels and severed intestines barely noticeable, just another slaughterhouse smell. The workforce ran: shouting, swearing, getting as far away from the blood and guts as they could. The Flesher disappeared into the crowd. 'NO!' Logan scrambled over to Faulds. The man was in shock. His face pale and glassy, hands shivering over the hole in his belly, not touching anything ... 'Come on, you're going to be OK, You're going to be OK!' No he wasn't - there was blood everywhere, she'd nearly cut him in half. Jackie shouted over the sounds of panicking abattoir workers:'YOU! STOP RIGHT THERE!'
