'And fuck you too.' Technically the interview was suspended while Faulds was off talking to the criminal psychologist they'd drafted in, but the cameras were still rolling. Just in case Wiseman did something rash - like kill the pair of them. 'Come on Ken, why don't you make it--' 'I said, FUCK - YOU!' Which was about as cooperative as he'd been all morning. 'Fine. Sit there and sulk.' It wasn't as if they needed a confession to put him back in prison. They'd caught him in the act: illegal imprisonment, grievous bodily harm, animal cruelty, criminal damage, abduction, causing death by reckless driving ... That and a very good defence lawyer would get him at least another sixteen years. But it was nothing compared with what would happen if they could prove he was the Flesher. The only way he'd get out of Peterhead Prison was in a coffin. Hopefully sooner rather than later. A murmur of conversation came from outside the interview room door - too low to make out any words - and Logan breathed a sigh of relief. About bloody time Faulds got back; with any luck he'd have brought a round of coffees with him. The door slammed open. It wasn't Faulds: it was Insch. Oh no. Logan was on his feet. 'Sir, I don't think you should be--' 'You bloody animal!' The inspector's voice was a slurred growl, the smell of alcohol coming off him in waves. Wiseman smiled and waved. 'Hey, Fat Boy.' 'Sir, come on, you have to--' 'She was four!' 'Shame, eh? I'd've got a shit-load of money selling her.' 'You're dead.' The inspector pointed a shaky finger at Rennie and Logan. 'You and you, go take a walk.' 'Sir, we can't do that.' 'Fifteen minutes. You leave me and this bastard alone for fifteen minutes.' 'Sir--' 'GET OUT!' Rennie flinched and started sidling towards the door. Logan turned on him. 'Don't you bloody dare!' And the constable froze. 'Sir, we have a duty of care--' 'She was four years old!' 'Hurts, does it?' Wiseman struggled to his feet. 'Come on then, Fatty. You show me how much it fucking hurts.'
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