'Jesus ... ''Martin and Wiseman were in the same cell block.' Faulds took a sip of his coffee. 'Circumstantial at best. We need prints, fibre, witnesses ...' 'None of which we have. Wiseman's had years to plan all this, he's taking precautions, wearing gloves, cleaning up after himself.' 'I don't like the thought of someone bumping off retired senior police officers with impunity.' He drummed his fingers on the desk for a bit. 'So what's the plan?' 'Up in the air at the moment. Insch hasn't been in yet.' The Chief Constable checked his watch. 'Not still suspended is he?' 'No, but Brooks' death hit him kind of hard. The DCS says we should give him a couple of days to--' Faulds was already dialling. 'I'd better give him a call, let him know we're here if he needs to talk.' He held in silence for a moment, then left a message asking Insch to call him back. 'Not answering his mobile.' Logan tried the inspector's home number. It rang and rang and rang and, 'You've reached the Insch residence. I'm afraid we're not able to come to the phone right now ...' 'Aren't you popular.' Wiseman listened as some policeman's voice echoed out of the answering machine.' ... can call the station as soon as you get this. Thanks.' Bleeeeeeep. He hit the delete button. 'How you doing, Fat Boy? Hungry? You have to be hungry, look at the size of you!' Insch could only scowl. Poor bastard. Ha, ha, ha. He wasn't looking too pretty this morning: his piggy face all swollen and covered with bruises. It had taken a shit heap of duct-tape to strap the fat git to an armchair, but it was worth it just to see him wriggle. Wiseman grinned, and placed the hot frying pan down on the dining room table. The smell of scorching varnish filled the air, covering the stink of two people tied to their chairs for over eighteen hours with no access to a toilet. 'Mmm ...' Wiseman prodded the meat in the sizzling pan. 'Want some?' Insch's eyes were like burning coals. If looks could kill, the fat bastard would be a walking doomsday device. 'Where are my manners, eh? Ladies first.' Wiseman grabbed the stinky bitch by the hair, pulled her head back, and gripped one end of her tape gag. 'If you shout, try to raise the alarm, warn someone, any of that shite, I'll kill you.' The tape came away with a patina of smeared lipstick. She burst into tears. 'Please. Please let us go! We won't tell anyone! You can just leave and no one will know!' Wiseman stared for a moment, then slapped her. 'LOOK AT MY FUCKING FACE!' He hit her again. 'What am I going to do? Shave off my beard and buy a ginger wig? Think that'll work? Think people won't notice the big,' he hit her again,'fucking scar?' Once more for luck: snapping her head round, blood and spittle dribbling down her chin. Behind him, he could hear Insch thrashing against his bonds. 'Sit still, Fatty, or I'll give her something to cry about.' And gradually the noise stopped. Wiseman jabbed a fork into the pan and lifted out a slice of meat. It was perfectly cooked: the skin pale and tender, the inside moist, the edges caramelised. It dripped grease on the carpet, then on the bitch's dress, then her
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