Oedipus attacks, without even telling me he existed.'
'We caught him trying to lure children-'
'I have six people with their eyes gouged out, Sergeant McRae: six. And not only did you spectacularly fail to arrest the man who did it — don't interrupt — you also concealed a witness!' He started a slow round of applause. 'Good job. Well done. You must be so proud. I can't imagine why you haven't made DI yet.'
He held out his hand, and Logan had a sudden urge to spit in it.
'Well,' said Finnie, 'let's see these e-fits then.'
Logan gave him the printouts, and the DCI examined the two identikit faces. One was in his mid-thirties: heavy eyebrows, thickset features, broken nose, and little piggy eyes. The other looked like an ageing movie star — the kind who was still playing the hero in action films: grey hair, steely eyes.
'And do we believe these are accurate?'
'Simpson's done time in Peterhead before, he knows what'll happen to him if he gets sent down again.'
'You're cutting him a deal?'
'He thinks I am.'
'I see…' Finnie settled back in his chair, fingers steepled together as he considered the ceiling for a moment. 'Pirie?'
His sidekick barely glanced at the printouts. 'I don't like it. The profile says we're looking for a single white male in his mid-twenties.'
Logan said, 'Well, the profile's wrong then, isn't it?'
Pirie held up the e-fit of the older man. 'Are you positive this is what he looked like?'
Logan opened his mouth. Then closed it again. Coughed. 'Technically I didn't actually see either of them — well, I did, but it was dark and I had a face full of pepper-spray — but Rory Simpson-'
'Is a paedophile looking at some serious jail-time for breaking his parole conditions. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could spit him: he's just telling you what you want to hear.' Pirie smiled — patronizing sod. 'The profile clearly says our boy's local and he works on his own. So this-'
'Don't be an idiot, Pirie.' Finnie pursed his rubbery lips, and swivelled back and forth on his seat a couple of times. 'We're not ignoring evidence just because it disagrees with the profile. Email those faces to Dr Goulding, tell him I need an update ASAP. And get some posters made up: I want them all over Aberdeen by close of play. 'Have you seen these men?' etcetera.' He looked at Logan. 'Anything else?'
'The older one had an Eastern European accent. He definitely wasn't local.'
Pirie curled his top lip. 'Every time there's a new victim we get an anonymous phone call. Usually on the victim's own mobile. Voice is muffled, Slavic accent. We're pretty sure it's a put on: he sounds like Mr Chekov from Star Trek. Dr Goulding thinks our boy's either mocking his victims, or using them as a cipher.'
Finnie waved a hand at him. 'Oh, thank you, that's very helpful. A 'cipher': that's really going to help us catch the bastard.' He snatched the printouts from Pirie and stuck them in the middle of the desk. 'DS McRae, I want you to set up a meeting with Dr Goulding. Go through everything that happened today.'
Logan groaned. 'But, sir-'
'As soon as possible, Sergeant.' He stared off into the distance for a moment. Then smiled. 'Has anyone spoken to Simon McLeod's next of kin yet?'
'Ah…' Logan could feel the blush rising in his cheeks — he'd been putting that particular task off since getting back from the hospital. 'Actually I thought that would be better… coming from someone more senior.'
'Excellent.' Finnie levered himself to his feet. 'I think it's time for us to indulge in some real police work, don't you gentlemen? Pirie, get a pool car sorted. We're going to pay our respects.' The traffic was dreadful, a stop-start procession of people trying to beat the rush hour and failing miserably. 'Lazy bastards,' said DS Pirie from the driver's seat. 'Look at them all. Why does no one work till five o'clock any more?'
Logan sat in the back, watching the sunshine glinting off a pale white blob in skinny jeans and an 'UP THE DONS!' T-shirt. Her arms were already starting to go lobster-red. Aberdonians just weren't designed for the sun.
Finnie turned round in the passenger seat and handed Logan a clear plastic evidence pouch with a sheet of paper in it. 'We received this in the morning post.' You still will not do anything!! You are CORRUPT. You sit there in your tower of SIN and you let THEM run around free from consequence. You complain when the SHEEP do not behave themselves, but you do nothing about the foreign wolves!
The last one screamed like a woman when I cut out his eyes. The next one will too!!! You will wade in the blood of dogs!!! 'Fingerprints?'
'Same as all the others.' Pirie's voice was clipped, his face an ugly shade of pink that clashed with his hair. Still sulking — it probably didn't help that Finnie had made him drive, instead of Logan. 'No prints on the letter or the envelope, and no fibres either.'
Finnie handed over a second evidence bag. This one had the envelope in it. 'Posted day before yesterday in Aberdeen.'
Logan read through the letter again. 'So are the Polish people supposed to be dogs or wolves now?'
DS Pirie glanced over his shoulder. 'I think the fact this guy has a tendency to mix his metaphors is the least of our problems, don't you?'
Finnie smirked. 'So, tell me: does the great Detective Sergeant Logan 'Lazarus' McRae have any startling insights to share with the class? Come on, this is why I brought you on board, remember? Chance to redeem yourself?'
'Well… He's definitely unhinged. No sane person uses that many exclamation marks.'
'That's your startling insight? The man who gouges people's eyes out and burns the sockets is 'unhinged'? Pirie, call the Press and Journal: tell them to hold the front page.'
Bastard.
'OK… Postage dates. This was posted day before yesterday, right? What about the others? Is there a pattern?'
'Pirie?'
Finnie's ginger-haired sidekick shrugged. He was tailgating a Renault Megane with a 'HONK IF YOU'RE HORNY' sticker in the back window. 'The letters arrive pretty much at random. Dr Goulding thinks they're a coping mechanism, by writing to us he makes us complicit in his acts. That's why he keeps telling us it's our fault: if we didn't want him to keep on blinding people we'd have caught him by now.'
'I suppose…' Logan handed the evidence bags back to Finnie. 'Then why attack Simon McLeod? He's not Polish.'
The DS leant on the horn: BREEEEEEEEEEEP! 'Come on: move it!' The Megane lurched forward and Pirie accelerated up behind it again. 'Who knows with whack-jobs? The McLeods run a stable of hoors, maybe our boy was after a nice piece of local ass and ended up with a Polish bird instead? Doesn't like them mucking up our good Aberdonian gene pool with their filthy foreign ways. Or maybe Simon McLeod was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?'
Finnie smiled again. 'Serves him bloody right too — whole family's been a pain in my arse for years.' Twenty minutes later, DS Pirie parked outside a rose-encrusted bungalow in Garthdee. Not really the kind of place you'd expect a criminal mastermind to operate out of, but for forty years that's exactly what Tony McLeod did. Right up until his third heart attack. CID sent a wreath, then threw a party.
'Right,' said Finnie, climbing out into the warm afternoon, 'Sergeant McRae, do you think you could keep your eyes open and your mouth shut in there? Hmmm? Just for me?'
Logan sighed. 'Yes, sir.'
They opened the gate and marched up the path, bathed in the scent of roses. A little old woman answered the door on the second ring, smiling up at them. She had a pair of bright-yellow Marigold gloves on and smelt of furniture polish.
'Can I help you?'
'Morning, Doris.' Finnie showed her his warrant card, and the smile disappeared from her face. 'Agnes about?'
She turned and shouted back into the house, 'Mrs McLeod, the pigs are here! Again.'
Simon McLeod's mother appeared: a hard-faced woman with short blonde hair, dressed in black cashmere and white silk. She was clarted in gold jewellery, every finger encrusted with rings of bling: diamonds and sapphires
