Logan watched him do his Zen breathing thing, wondering how much mess it was going to make when the inspector's head finally exploded. 'Er ... do you want me to get you a glass of water, sir?' Insch didn't open his eyes, didn't stop his slow, shuddering breaths. The office door slammed open. 'How dare you!' Isobel stormed into the room, still dressed in her white paper SOC suit, green plastic apron, hairnet, and white morgue clogs. She snapped off her surgical gloves and hurled them onto the inspector's desk. 'If you ever speak to me like that again--' Insch slammed a fat fist down on the newspaper. 'How did he know? Your 'boyfriend'? How did he get sensitive information about an ongoing investigation? One you're involved in? One--' Isobel slapped him, hard, leaving a perfect white handprint on his florid face. She snatched the phone off the desk and dialled. Probably making a complaint to Professional Standards. 'Hello? ... Yes.' She pressed the button and asked,'Can you hear me?' Colin Miller's broad Glaswegian accent blared out into the room,'Aye, is this goin' ... Am I on a speakerphone? Izzy, you know I'm no' --' 'Colin, did I tell you anything about the Wiseman case?' 'Eh? What's going--' 'Did I tell you?' A small pause, then. 'What? No, you know you didn't.' Isobel stared at Insch, triumph written all over her face, but the inspector wasn't finished yet:'Do you really expect me to believe he just happened to come up with this all by himself?' 'Who's that? Is that DI Fatbastard?' Insch looked as if he was about to burst. 'Just answer the bloody question: who told you?' 'I don't believe this ... You lot are down the docks crawlin' all over a container that's meant to be goin' offshore; next thing you're screamin' off tae a cash and carry; couple hours later you raid a butcher's shop. It's a fuckin' supply chain isn't it? What you think people were doin' with all that meat they bought? Givin' it a decent burial? Course they've been eatin' the fuckin' stuff!' 'Are you--' 'It's no' exactly rocket science, is it?' Isobel folded her arms. 'Well, inspector? I think you've got something to say, don't you?' Insch did, but not to her:'Do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused? Printing that? The bloody switchboard's jammed with people complaining their sausages taste funny! How are we supposed to conduct a murder enquiry when--' 'Aye, right. It's my fault you can't catch Wiseman. I told people they were eatin' deid bodies, because - it's - the - truth.' Stead of blamin' me, you should be out there doin' somethin' about it. And if you ever talk to Izzy like that again, I'm gonnae come down there and punch your fat fuckin' lights out!' And he was gone.
Richard Davidson wasn't the sort of person you'd leave your children with. Not unless you really, really didn't like them. Five foot eleven of tattooed resentment, he wore the standard institution-grey 'HMP ABERDEEN' T-shirt, stripy shirt and blue jeans with all the panache of a grumpy rottweiler. He scowled at Logan and Faulds from the other side of the tiny table in the prison interview room. The Chief Constable tried his disarming smile. 'Do you remember me, Richard? I was--'
