Logan turned the key in the ignition and set the windscreen wipers going. They'd emptied Brooks' freezer, just in case it contained any human remains, but he doubted they'd find any. The man who'd led the Flesher investigation back in 1987 hadn't been turned into meat, he'd been turned into pavement pate. Logan took the scenic route to Insch's house, driving through the old town centre. A clot of schoolchildren lurked in the bus shelter: some smoking cigarettes, some'Oh-myGod'ing into mobile phones, one or two making abstract patterns in the air with hot white sparklers. A scream. Logan snapped upright in his seat - a young girl, no more than six years old, was being chased by a little boy in a Margaret Thatcher fright mask. 'Jesus ...' In his day they'd played cowboys and Indians, not serial killer and victims. He pulled out into the town square, past the weird sandstone statue of a sailor, and onto South Road. Insch's home,'DUNPROMPTIN', was a large granite box set back off the road, shielded by a high wall and mature trees, the leaves amber and russet, like frozen fireworks. Logan creaked the gate open and headed up the path. Another rocket exploded in the distance, this one slightly more impressive than the last anaemic attempt. He leaned on the bell, watching the green sparkles fade away. He counted to sixty, then tried again. A deep ding-donggggggg sounded somewhere inside the house. Still no answer. Maybe they'd gone out? So much for Insch being desperate to see round his dead friend's house. Bloody man was like mercury these days: I want this, I want that, I want something completely different. A vast, bad-tempered child. Logan tried one last time, then headed back to the car.
'Shhhhhh ...' Wiseman held a finger to his lips as the last peal of the doorbell faded into silence. Then waited five minutes, just to be sure whoever it was had fucked off. Then took his hand off the bitch's mouth. She was a good girl, didn't scream this time. Learned her lesson. She wasn't much to look at - let herself go a bit after the kids - but then, given the fat git she'd married ... No accounting for taste. He pulled out a couple of cable-ties and fastened the bitch's wrists behind her back, then wrapped another set around her ankles. Just like her darling husband and the three little girls upstairs. One big happy family. Wiseman smiled at her. 'Now then, where were we?' The fat bastard lay flat on his face in the middle of the carpet - spread out like a beached whale, bright red oozing from the back of his bald head. 'He ever tell you about me?' She whimpered and shook her head. 'No? That's not polite, is it, Insch?' Wiseman heaved the fat man over onto his back and slapped a strip of duct-tape over his mouth. 'How could you not tell your lovely wife that you fucked my life over?' Wiseman sat on Insch's barrel chest, spat in his face. Then slammed a fist into it. The whale's blubber shuddered, and two dark, piggy eyes cracked open. 'The kraken awakes! Hey, Fat Boy: miss me?' Insch struggled, breath hissing through his nose as he tried to break his bonds.
