a flat Liverpudlian accent.
Logan squeaked down on the couch and looked out of the small, high window, getting a view of yet another ugly concrete building.
Eventually the psychologist stopped what he was doing and stood. 'Sorry about that.' He stuck out his hand, 'Doctor Dave Goulding.' He had a nose like a can opener, and short, dark, animal-pelt hair.
Logan took the hand and shook it, trying not to stare at the lurid green tie with two huge red dice embroidered on it. 'I know, we met last year? On the Flesher case?'
'We did?' Frown. 'Ah of course, I remember you: Sergeant McRae. The poor chap who had to eat human flesh. Well, we all might have eaten it I suppose, difficult to tell, isn't it? But at least we can pretend we didn't — you know you did.' He let go of Logan's hand. 'How did it taste?'
'It… I…' Cough. 'DCI Finnie wants me to talk to you about the men we saw when Simon McLeod was blinded.'
'Are you seeing anyone?'
Logan moved a little further away. 'Sorry? I mean, I'm flattered, but-'
'I don't mean romantically, I mean therapy.' Goulding settled into the couch's matching black leather chair, crossed his legs and folded his hands over his middle-aged paunch. 'It can't be easy coming to terms with what you went through last year. All that death and blood.'
'Erm… Look, I appreciate the-'
'Do you suffer from insomnia? Interrupted sleep? Night mares? Maybe a bit depressed?'
'Well-'
'It's 'Logan', isn't it?'
'Yes, but-'
'I can help you, Logan. I want to help you. It's not healthy to keep this kind of thing bottled up inside.'
'Look, Dr Goulding-'
The psychologist smiled. 'Please, call me Dave.'
'I just want to go over the Oedipus attack, OK? I don't need my head shrunk. I'm fine.'
The psychologist sat and stared at him, expression completely blank. 'How's your relationship with your mother?'
'DI Steel and I were attacked by two men, one of them had an Eastern European accent.'
'Yes…' Goulding played with the lumpy little mole on his cheek. 'I'm a little uncomfortable about that.' He stood and crossed the room to a large whiteboard covered in black scribbled notes, all linked by a dense web of coloured lines. It was flanked by a pair of corkboards, full of Post-its, printouts, and articles clipped from the newspapers. He unpinned one of the sheets of A4, frowned at it for a moment, then handed it to Logan.
It was a photocopy of an early Oedipus note, the writer banging on about how the Polish incomers were stealing God.
'You see,' said Goulding, 'these messages definitely aren't a joint project, they're one man's very personal obsession. Full of rage. The blindings are too. It's possible the eyes are gouged out by two people working together, but when he burns the sockets it's…' Goulding waved a hand about, 'excessive. It's not necessary — they're already blind. It means something to him.'
'Maybe it's a warning?'
'Perhaps. Would you say you feel tired: all the time, often, sometimes, rarely, or almost never?'
'What? Erm, often, it's the shift work. Anyway, we know couples do horrible stuff all the time: Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, Rose and Fred West… Richard and Judy.'
'Not really the same thing, is it? Do you ever keep yourself awake at night, going over things that happen in your life?'
'Can we just stick to the Oedipus case?'
'Looking at the notes and the previous victims, the pattern's clear: we're looking for a single male, probably works in construction, or hotel services, that kind of thing. Mid twenties. Recently unemployed.'
'Yes, but-'
'He blames the turn his life's taken on the Polish workforce coming over and stealing his job. He's likely to have a very harsh super-ego: he's externalizing his own guilt and projecting it onto the people he blinds. His actions are an attempt to redeem himself in the eyes of an absent father figure. Possibly deceased.'
'That's lovely, but it doesn't help us, does it? There were definitely two of them: I saw them. We have a witness.'
'Ah yes… your paedophile.' Goulding crossed his arms and leant back against the cork board. 'Your colleagues would never need to know, if that's what you're worried about? I really think therapy could help you.'
Logan shifted forward in his seat. 'What if Simon McLeod wasn't anything to do with Oedipus? He's not Polish — he's a mid-level gangster. What if it was someone using the attacks as a cover? Someone getting their own back and blaming it on the nut-job in the papers?'
'Ah yes, that well known psychological term: 'nut-job'.'
'You know what I mean.'
'It would explain why Simon McLeod doesn't fit my victim profile.' Goulding turned and faced the scribble- covered white-board. 'And if we take him out of the picture, it means we're still looking for that white male, early to mid twenties, who lost his father. Probably still lives at home with his mother. But she's emotionally distant…'
The psychologist ran his fingers across the board, just above the surface, as if feeling his web for vibrations. A Liverpudlian spider in a nasty tie, waiting for its prey to reveal itself. 'He's a local lad, we know that from the disposal of the victims — each of them left in an unoccupied building. All in Torry… Did you know there are so many Polish people living in Torry now they're calling it Little Warsaw?'
Goulding traced a line of red boxes, each one detailing a different address. 'Our man knows the territory. He knows where to take them so he won't be disturbed while he carves out their eyes. All that 'They're stealing God' stuff means he's very religious, or at least he believes he is…' There was a long pause. 'Fascinating.'
The psychologist stepped back from the board and smiled at Logan. 'Tea, coffee? Might even have some biscuits. Then we can have a chat about you coming to see me on a regular basis.' 'Liver failure.' Doc Fraser was standing in his office, wearing nothing but his vest and pants, skin so white it was almost fluorescent. He looked like a threadbare sock puppet. There wasn't any hair on top of his head, but he more than made up for that with the tufts growing out of his ears. 'Our friend Mr Frankowski drank and drank and drank and drank and died. Stomach contents reeked of whisky. Have to wait for the tox screen to come back, but I'll bet you a fiver his blood's about eighty percent proof. And he'd ingested a serious amount of painkillers and antidepressants.'
Logan stuck the kettle on. 'Suicide?'
'Maybe. Or an accident. Difficult to tell.' The pathologist paused for a good scratch. 'Can't say I'd blame him either way, after what happened to his eyes…'
The kettle rumbled to a boil, and Logan made the tea while Doc Fraser climbed back into his usual corduroy and cardigan ensemble.
'Anything else?'
The pathologist checked his notes. 'Some bruising to the chest, knees, back and shins — not surprising if he's stumbling about blind for the first time in his life. Found a small tumour in his left lung… And you'll be disappointed to hear I couldn't get anything on how his eyes were removed. Like I said, I really need to see a fresh victim.'
Logan handed over the pathologist's tea. 'Soon as he kills one, you'll be the first to know. Otherwise they're all going to the hospital, not the mortuary.' Doc Fraser sniffed. 'Shame… Still, hope springs eternal, eh?' It was a cheery thought. Rush hour was in full swing — the Esplanade nose-to-tail with cars trying to avoid King Street on their way to the Bridge of Don. Logan pulled the pool car up to the kerb, behind DI Steel's little open-topped sports car. Then sat there, looking out on a glorious June evening.
Aberdeen beach glowed beneath the summer sun, the North Sea sparkling with reflected highlights. Down on the sand, a couple meandered along behind a lumbering black Labrador; an old man and a young boy fought with a bright-red kite; a family played in the sand — two little girls shrieking to the water's edge and back again.
The beach was a good twenty foot lower than the road, down a steep grass embankment, across a wide tarmac path, and down another embankment made of big sloping concrete blocks. DI Steel was easy enough to spot. She'd commandeered a bench two hundred yards along the path, and sat there wobbling a bit, swigging from a bottle of eighteen-year-old Macallan.
