There was silence.
And then Finnie cleared his throat, looked out of the window, and said, 'I'm open to suggestions.'
'Ah…'
'I don't care how daft it sounds.'
Logan took them up Mid Stocket Road and across Anderson Drive, heading towards Mastrick. 'I spoke to one of the priests at St Peter's this morning.' He filled the DCI in on his chat with Goulding about Oedipus being a religious nut. 'You know what Aberdeen's like. Used to be the most secular city in Scotland, but a lot of these Eastern Europeans are devout. Been a windfall for the Roman Catholic churches, they've actually got bums on pews for a change. Goulding thinks our boy feels squeezed out.'
Finnie stared at him. 'Believe it or not, I did actually think of that. Pirie checked every church, mosque, and synagogue in Aberdeen. No joy.'
Damn. Now Logan would have to think of something else to make the DCI put him forward for that promotion. 'Well… how about the victims then? We could put a bit of pressure on? See if they'll cooperate?'
Finnie waved a hand, as if wafting away a bad smell. 'I've already got Pirie doing that on a regular basis, they won't budge. They're terrified.' He pointed through the windshield. 'Take a right here.' They parked in the shadow of a tower block. Mastrick wasn't exactly Logan's happy place, but it looked a lot nicer in the sunshine than it did in his nightmares. A breeze caught a small drift of empty crisp packets and crumpled pages torn from a lad's mag, sending them into a whirlpool dance of salt and vinegar and half-naked women.
A couple of old men shuffled their way across the road, dragging an unhappy-looking terrier between them, the dog whining and scrabbling against the tarmac.
Logan locked the car, then looked around. 'Why are we here, exactly?'
'Just let me do the talking,' said Finnie, leading the way across a patch of grass. 'And for God's sake, try not to piss anyone off.'
It was little more than a collection of squat concrete buildings, encircled by a rusting chainlink fence. A workshop, a garage, a small two-storey office block with not enough parking space, and a couple of warehouses. A bottle-green Jaguar XJS was up on the ramp inside the garage, a shower of electric-blue sparks marking out some serious welding going on. Old-fashioned accordion music echoed out between the flashes.
And then there was silence.
A pale face watched them from the other side of the car, and then its owner stepped out into the sunshine. He was huge, at least twenty stone, squeezed into grubby blue overalls, wiping his hands on a rag as he waddled towards them. 'Yeah?' The man's face was a topographical map of scar tissue and fat, a patchy beard struggling to conceal the damage. He stank of motor oil and ozone.
Finnie nodded a greeting. 'Reuben. Is Wee Hamish in?'
The man mountain looked them up and down. 'Depends, doesn't it?'
'Like a word.'
'Aye, I'll bet you would…' He stared at them for a little longer, then lumbered towards the shabby office block. They went to follow him, but the big man stopped dead, turned and pointed at Logan. 'Where the fuck you think you're going?'
'I'm-'
'No you're not. You're staying right there.'
Finnie patted Logan on the back. 'Don't go anywhere. Fidget doesn't like people wandering around his yard.'
Logan raised an eyebrow and the DCI pointed towards the dark interior of the garage, where the rectangular head of a Rottweiler glared out of the shadows. 'He's called Fidget, because if you don't stand perfectly still he goes for you.' Logan stood on the forecourt, trying not to make any sudden movements. Bloody hell: Wee Hamish Mowat…
Fidget the Rottweiler lumbered out to the garage door and thumped himself down in the sunshine. He was huge. And unlike the McLeods' second-hand Alsatian, Fidget definitely looked as if he could outrun an out-of-shape Detective Sergeant. And then eat him.
It was probably only ten minutes, but it felt like hours before Reuben the man mountain returned, hooking an oil-stained thumb over his shoulder at the offices. 'You: inside.' And then he went back to his welding. Wee Hamish Mowat's office looked like something straight out of a National Trust catalogue — wood panelling, hunting prints, bookcases, two brown leather chesterfield sofas, and a mahogany desk the size of Switzerland.
Finnie was sitting on one of the sofas, directly across from the office's owner.
Wee Hamish Mowat: grey hair, hooked nose, hands like vulture's feet, and eyes like chips of flint. He looked up at Logan, and a stray beam of sunlight flashed across his rectangular glasses. 'Ah, Detective Sergeant Logan McRae, I've heard so much about you.' The voice was a gravelly Aberdonian with a slight hint of public school. 'Your Chief Inspector was just telling me about his little problem.'
Finnie shifted, making the leather creak. 'Yes, well…'
Wee Hamish stood, crossed to an antique sideboard, and pulled out a bottle of whisky and three glasses. 'Macallan, thirty year old. I take it you'll join me?' He pointed at one of the sofas.
Logan sat.
The old man poured a measure of whisky into each glass. 'Slainte mhar. Or, I suppose we should say 'Na zdrowie' now, what with all the Polish people we've got over here.'
They returned the toast and sipped in silence.
'So,' Finnie twisted the crystal tumbler in his hands, 'about that caravan…?'
'Tell me, Logan, what do you think of the whisky?'
Logan put his glass down on the big wooden coffee table. 'Very nice.'
'Good.' Wee Hamish smiled, showing off a set of perfect white dentures. 'I do like a man who appreciates a good malt. I think we're going to get on perfectly.'
Which wasn't exactly the most comforting thing Logan had ever heard.
The old man took another drink. 'From what I understand, your caravan was full of machine guns and bullets.' The smile faded. 'Some people just don't understand how business works here. They watch all these big American movies, with the gunfights and the explosions, and they think that's what the real world's like.'
Finnie nodded.
'This,' said Wee Hamish, poking his couch with a finger, 'is not some bloody third world country. Guns are for professionals, not rank amateurs. Don't you agree, Logan?'
Logan glanced at Finnie, but got no help there. 'I think Aberdeen doesn't need this kind of trouble.'
'Well put, Logan. Well put. You see, your Chief Constable was right — I heard him on the radio the other day — people look at Aberdeen and they see a fat hog, swollen with oil money and ready for slaughter.' He leaned forward in his chair. 'The funny thing about pigs though, is that they'll devour anything. Hair, skin, bones. And if you're not very careful, you can end your days as a big pile of pig shit.'
Silence.
Logan cleared his throat. 'Is that what happened to Simon McLeod? He wasn't careful enough?'
Finnie nearly choked on his whisky.
'That was a terrible, terrible thing. Blinded like that…' The old man stared across the coffee table. 'According to the papers you're looking for a serial killer who doesn't kill people?'
The DCI glowered at Logan. 'You'll have to excuse Sergeant McRae, he-'
'Nonsense,' Wee Hamish waved a liver-spotted claw, never taking his eyes off Logan, 'I want to hear what Logan has to say. I read that your psycho doesn't like Polish people. Which is a pity; personally I think they're marvellous. I've got one of them retiling my bathroom right now.'
'Why would Oedipus attack Simon McLeod? He's not Polish, he's one of Aberdeen's biggest-'
'Entrepreneurs,' said Finnie. 'Biggest entrepreneurs.'
Wee Hamish laughed. 'Oh don't be so sensitive, Chief Inspector. We all know what Simon is.' Then the old man turned his glittering grey eyes back towards Logan. 'Go on.'
'I think this was business related.'
This time the silence went on for an uncomfortably long time, and then Finnie broke it with, 'I want to apologize on behalf of-'
Wee Hamish ignored him. 'So, you think this was someone trying to muscle in on the McLeods'
