'Went up before the Sheriff this morning: remanded in custody, no bail. He's sticking to his story: no idea how all those bits of dead body ended up in his shop, and we're all a bunch of bastards for picking on Wiseman again.' 'My heart bleeds. How many search teams?' 'Three, and roadblocks on all major routes out of Aberdeen. We've got posters up at the train station, harbour, airport, and nearly every bus stop in the city.' Logan chimed in with a report on the Automatic Number Plate Recognition System:'No sign of any vehicle he's got access to leaving Aberdeen. And we've warned all the rental places.' The PF nodded. 'CCTV?' 'Nothing. All the cameras down the beach were pointing the wrong way - big fight outside that new nightclub.' 'Right.' She stood, hoisted her handbag over her shoulder, and made for the door. 'Make sure you catch Wiseman, and soon. I don't want anyone else turning up in bite-size chunks.'
Half past eight and Logan was slumped at his desk in the pigsty masquerading as a CID office, trying to work up some enthusiasm for DI Steel's vandalism report. And failing. Somehow it was difficult to care about a bunch of keyed cars and some graffiti in Rosemount when Ken Wiseman was out there turning people into joints of meat. Stifling a yawn, he printed out all the crime reports and started sticking figures into a spreadsheet. God knew when he'd actually get home tonight. Bloody DI Bloody Steel and her Bloody Report. 'All on your lonesome?' Logan turned, and there was Doc Fraser looking more like someone's granddad than a pathologist - beige cardigan, glasses, bald head, and hairy ears. 'You want some coffee?' The pathologist held up a manila folder. 'I won't come in, I've got shingles. Give this to Insch when he gets in tomorrow, will you?' 'Uh-huh.' Logan took the folder and flipped through the contents - sheet after sheet of forms and ID numbers. 'Tell him it's the preliminaries on all those chunks of meat you dug out of the butcher's, cash and carry, and that container.' 'Logan was impressed. 'Already? That's--' 'I wouldn't go getting your hopes up - this is just the indexing. It'll be weeks before we get the proper results in.' The pathologist sighed. 'And don't look at me like that, we've got five hundred and thirty-two individual lumps of meat and they all need to be DNA-tested. Like the bloody EU corpse mountain down there.' The pathologist reached in under his cardigan and started scratching. 'We're farming out samples to Tayside, Strathclyde, Lothian and Borders, Highlands, you name it. If they've got DNA-testing facilities they're getting bits ...' He trailed off, looking out of the CID window at the bleak, spotlit square of car park. 'We never used to get stuff like this. Back in the good old days it was one or two murders a year, all nice and neat.' Another sigh. 'Anyway ... better get back to it. The Ice Queen may rule the day, but I command the children of the night!' He pulled up one corner of his cardigan, pretending it was a cape, then stalked from the room like a hunched, beige Dracula. Who'd really let himself go.
7
Hot white blobs of light picked their way through the trees in the background, then the camera panned round to an overweight reporter as he told the nation that this was the second night Ken Wiseman remained at large.' ...
