Flesh House by Stuart MacBride

wouldn't have picked you ...'
'Do you think he roasts or fries them?''You're supposed to be going through the door-to-doors.''Yeah, but it's all twenty years out of date.''Don't whinge.''But I'm bored.' Rennie struck a pose. 'Shouldn't be in here, pawing through ancient history, I should be out there: fighting crime! I'm a lean, mean, detecting machine!'
'You're an idiot.' Logan went back to the box and pulled out the coroner's report. A small stack of glossy eight-by-tens slithered out, scattering across the grubby carpet tiles. Logan swore and started picking them up - each one showed a joint of meat, photographed from various angles as it defrosted.
The victim's picture was paper-clipped onto the scene of crime report. Logan put it up on the board with the others. Rennie was right - twice in one day, something of a record - every one of Wiseman's victims was overweight. Not obese, but not skinny either.
He worked his way through all the case files until the wall of death was complete. A collage of blood and pain that stretched all the way from a Glasgow shopkeeper in 1983 to Valerie Leith yesterday. All overweight. Other than that, Wiseman's victims had nothing in common. They weren't all blonde or brunette, nearly fifty per cent were men, some were Asian, one couple in Newcastle were from Trinidad, and yet something had brought them all into contact with Ken Wiseman. Something that meant the difference between a long and happy life, and a chunk of flesh in a morgue photograph.
The crime scenes were a lot more regular - soaked bright red, or just signs of a struggle. A joint of meat left in the freezer as a parting gift.
Logan stopped at the photo of the Leiths' kitchen, remembering the hot copper smell. How could one person contain so much blood?
'Bloody hell ...' Faulds flipped his mobile phone shut and stuck it back in his pocket. 'Never become a Chief Constable, Logan. Yes, it sounds like a bundle of laughs: fancy uniform, people saluting, dancing girls, but it's a royal pain in the backside.' He covered his face with his hands and slumped back in his chair. 'I have to go back to Birmingham. Tonight.'
'But Wiseman's--'
'I know, I know: he's going to call the BBC back and set up that interview, and we'll come down on him like a ton of bricks. And I won't be there, because no one wants to be responsible for policing bonfire night.' He pulled his hands away, swore, and put them back again. 'I am a lily, floating on a cool pond ...' Faulds sat up. 'It's no good; I'm going to have to go. The buck stops here, after all. Can you get someone to run me over to the airport?'
Rennie nearly exploded out of his seat. 'I'll take you!' Anything to get out of going through mounds of dusty paperwork.
Logan went back to his post mortem report.
The incident room door nearly banged off its hinges as DI Insch barged into the room. Glaring. 'Where the hell's that useless bastard Rennie?'
Logan closed his eyes and counted to three, but Insch was still there when he opened them again. So much for wishful thinking. 'He's taking Faulds to the airport.'
'He's supposed to be reviewing case files!'
'The Chief Constable pulled rank.' Not strictly true, but it might save Rennie an ear-bashing when he got back. 'You want me to pass on a message?'
'Tell him I'm running this investigation, not Faulds. Remind him that I'll rip his balls off and stuff them down his throat if he ever disappears without my say so again! Understand?'
Logan held up his hands. 'Nothing to do with--'
'In the meantime I want a rundown of all sex offenders over forty with a history of serious assault.'
Logan checked the clock on the wall. Twenty past four, forty minutes to go till he was off duty. 'Actually, sir, I'm in the middle of something for--'
'Did that sound like a request to you, Sergeant?'
Getting together a list of sex offenders over forty years old was only the start of it: Insch wanted them all cross-referenced to see who'd done time in prison since 1990 - when the