Flesh House

'Do you, or don't you know where Ken Wiseman is?' 'Quid pro quo, Sergeant McRae: I want my own meals. Prepared by someone who understands the needs of a gourmet like me, not the boiled crap they serve--' 'You're kidding, right? Gourmet? The closest you ever got to being a gourmet was saying 'aye tae a pie'. You're not Hannibal Bloody Lecter: you're a nasty wee shite from Milltimber.' 'I want my own chef!' 'Get fucked.' Logan stood. 'We're done here.' He was beginning to tremble - adrenaline priming the fight-or- flight mechanism. And right now 'fight' was winning - grab the little bastard by the throat and batter his head off the floor till it burst. 'But ... but I made you! I ... if it wasn't for me--' 'You're pathetic. A slimy piece of shite who had to kill women before you fucked them, because nothing living would have anything to do with you!' Robertson clamped his hands over his ears. 'I didn't--' 'WHERE'S WISEMAN?' 'Stop shouting at me! Stop shouting!' The fake English accent was beginning to slip, exposing the Aberdonian underneath. 'I'm no' a bad boy! I'm no'!' 'WHERE'S FUCKING WISEMAN?' 'He told me stuff ... about the woman he killed ... and the man in the showers ... at night, when everyone else was asleep ...' Logan took a deep, shivering breath. 'I'm not going to ask you again.'

Insch put his foot down, the windswept countryside flying past in shades of grey and miserable. Gusts of wind raked the trees and hedges outside the Range Rover's windows, making the car shudder as they flew down the A90 to Aberdeen. 'God that was bloody brilliant!' Alec, fiddled with his camera and grinned. 'It's going to look great when it goes out.' 'Oh Jesus ...' Logan turned round in his seat. 'You can't put that on the TV!' Alec grinned. 'They're going to send me a copy of the treatment room's CCTV tape.' 'But--' 'And Angus Robertson signed a release.' No surprise there: the little bastard would be desperate for another fifteen minutes of fame. 'I'll look like an arse!' Insch nodded. 'Yup.' 'Nah,' Alec flipped the camera's tiny viewing screen round so Logan could see it. It was a shot of the CCTV monitor in the security room - where everyone else had gone to watch the interview. 'We'll slap in a bit of narration about how you're playing 'bad cop' to get round his defences ... maybe get a psychologist in ...' On the screen a little Logan exploded out of his seat and started shouting, his voice tinny through the camera's built-in speaker.