‘Even if we pull every uniform off the boat and the docks, they’re going to have to sit twiddling their thumbs till the search warrant comes through.’
Insch got as far as ‘We don’t have time to bugger about with—’ before he was tapped on the shoulder by someone dressed in a white SOC oversuit. Someone who didn’t look particularly happy.
‘I’ve been waiting for you for fifteen minutes!’ Dr Isobel MacAlister, Aberdeen’s chief pathologist, wearing an expression that would freeze the balls off a brass gorilla at twenty paces. ‘You might not have anything better to do, but I can assure you that I have. Now are you going to listen to my preliminary findings, or shall I just go home and leave you to whatever it is you feel is more important?’
Logan groaned. That was all they needed, Isobel winding Insch up even further. As if the grumpy fat sod wasn’t bad enough already. The inspector turned on her, his face flushing angry-scarlet in the IB spotlights. ‘Thank you so much for waiting for me, Doctor, I’m sorry if my organizing a murder inquiry has inconvenienced you. I’ll try not to let something as trivial get in the way again.’
They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Then Isobel pulled on a cold, unfriendly smile. ‘Remains are human: male. Dismemberment looks as if it occurred some time after death with a long, sharp blade and a hacksaw, but I won’t be able to confirm that until I’ve performed the post mortem.’ She checked her watch. ‘Which will take place at eleven am precisely.’
Insch bristled. ‘Oh no it won’t! I need those remains analysed now—’
‘They’re frozen, Inspector. They – need – to – defrost.’ Emphasizing each word as if she were talking to a naughty child, rather than a huge, bad-tempered detective inspector. ‘If you want, I suppose I could stick them in the canteen microwave for half an hour. But that might not be very professional. What do you think?’
Insch just ground his teeth at her. Face rapidly shifting from angry-red to furious-purple. ‘Fine,’ he said at last, ‘then you can help by accompanying DS McRae to a cash and carry in Altens.’
‘And what makes you think I—’
‘Of course, if you’re too busy, I can always ask one of the other pathologists to take over this case.’ It was Insch’s turn with the nasty smile. ‘I understand the pressure you must be under: working mother, small child, can’t really expect the same level of commitment to the job as—’
Isobel looked as if she was about to slap him. ‘Don’t you dare finish that sentence!’ She flung an imperious gesture in Logan’s direction. ‘Get the car, Sergeant, we’ve got work to do.’
Insch nodded, pulled out his mobile and started dialling. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a call to make … Hello?… That West Midlands Police? … Yes, DI Insch, Grampian CID: I need to speak to Chief Constable Mark Faulds… Yes, of course I know what time it is!’ He turned his back on them and wandered away out of the spotlights.
Isobel scowled after him, then turned and snapped at Logan, ‘Well? We haven’t got all night.’
They were halfway to the car when a loud, ‘WILL YOU FUCK OFF WITH THAT BLOODY CAMERA!’ exploded behind them. Logan looked over his shoulder to see Alec scurrying in their direction while the inspector went back to his telephone call.
‘Er …’ said the cameraman, catching up to them by Logan’s grubby, unmarked CID pool car, ‘I wondered if I could tag along with you for a while. Insch is a bit …’ He shrugged. ‘You know.’
Logan did. ‘Get in. I’ll be back in a minute.’
It didn’t take long to pass the word along: he just grabbed the nearest sergeant and asked her to give it forty-five minutes, then tell everyone to finish up and get their backsides over to Altens.
Alec was in full whinge when Logan got back to the car. ‘I mean,’ the cameraman said, leaning forward from the back seat – knee-deep in discarded chip papers and fast-food cartons, ‘If he didn’t want to be in the bloody series, why’d he volunteer? Always seemed really keen till now. He shouted at me – I had my headphones on, nearly blew my eardrums out.’
Logan shrugged, threading the car through the barricade of press cameras, microphones and spotlights. ‘You’re lucky. He shouts at me every bloody day.’
Isobel just sat there in frosty silence, seething.
Thompson’s Cash and Carry was a long breezeblock warehouse in Altens: a soulless business park on the southernmost tip of Aberdeen. The building was huge, filled with rows and rows of high, deep shelves that stretched off into the distance, miserable beneath the flicker of fluorescent lighting and the drone of piped muzak. The manager’s office was halfway up the end wall, a flight of concrete steps leading to a shiny blue door with ‘YOUR SMILE IS OUR GREATEST ASSET’ written on it. If that was the case, they were all screwed, because everyone looked bloody miserable.
The man in charge of Thompson’s Cash and Carry was no exception. They’d dragged him out of his bed at half four in the morning and it showed: bags under the eyes, blue stubble on his jowly face, wearing a suit that probably cost a fortune, but looked as if someone had died in it. Mr Thompson peered out of the picture window that made up one wall of his office, watching as uniformed officers picked their way through the shelves of jelly babies, washing powder and baked beans. ‘Oh God …’
‘And you’re quite sure,’ said Logan, sitting in a creaky leather sofa with a cup of coffee and a chocolate biscuit, ‘there haven’t been any break-ins?’
‘No. I mean, yes. I’m sure.’ Thompson crossed his arms, paced back and forth, uncrossed his arms. Sat down. Stood up again. ‘It can’t have come from here: we’ve got someone on-site twenty-four-seven, a state-of-the-art security system.’
Logan had met their state-of-the-art security system – it was a sixty-eight-year-old man called Harold. Logan had sneezed more alert things than him.
Thompson went back to the window. ‘Have you tried speaking to the ship’s crew? Maybe they—’
‘Who supplies your meat, Mr Thompson?’
‘It … depends what it is. Some of the prepackaged stuff comes from local butchers – it’s cheaper than hiring someone in-house to hack it up – the rest comes from abattoirs. We use three—’ He flinched as a loud, rattling crash came from the cash and carry floor below, followed by a derisory cheer and some slow handclapping. ‘You promised me they’d be careful! We’re open in an hour and a half; I can’t have customers seeing the place in a mess.’
Logan shook his head. ‘I think you’ve got more important things to worry about, sir.’
Thompson stared at him. ‘You can’t think we had anything to do with this! We’re a family firm. We’ve been here for nearly thirty years.’
‘That container came from your cash and carry with bits of human meat in it.’
‘But—’
‘How many other shipments do you think went out to the rigs like that? What if you’ve been selling chunks of dead bodies to catering companies for months? Do you think the guys who’ve been eating chopped-up corpses offshore are going to be happy about it?’
Mr
