wall behind it, all about the Oedipus case. Newsprint pictures from the Aberdeen Examiner of the victims, their eyes scribbled out in angry red biro. 'You don't like Polish people, do you, Ricky?'
No reply, just the thump-thump-thump of another dreadful song. Logan switched the CD off, then walked over to the television. A DVD player sat on top of it, covered in a thick layer of dusty grey fluff. Logan pressed eject and a shiny home-recorded disc slid out. The kind you could buy blank in any supermarket. A laserprinted label read, 'KRYSTKA GET'S F*CK~D DIRTY 3-WAY!!!*!'
'Where did you get this?'
'I didn't do anything.'
Logan pulled on a pair of evidence gloves, then slid the DVD into an evidence pouch. 'We know, Ricky.'
There was a long pause. And then the pale man said, 'They're animals. They roam the streets, marking their territory. Worse than dogs. Someone had to do something.'
Logan nodded. 'I want you to come down the station with me, Ricky.'
'Someone had to make the streets safe.' He levered himself out of the beanbag. 'Someone had to make them pay.'
'Are you going to come quietly?'
'Do I need a lawyer? I don't have a lawyer.'
'You're not under arrest, you're coming down to the station voluntarily.'
'Oh…' He seemed to think about it for a minute. 'I did it. All of it.' He stuck his hands out, wrists together, waiting for the cuffs. 'I cut their eyes out. It's me. I'm Oedipus. I did it because you wouldn't.'
32
By the time Logan had processed Ricky Gilchrist — photos, fingerprints, and DNA swab — the news was all over the station. A handful of uniform and CID loitered in the corridor, watching as Logan led him into interview room two.
An hour later there was a knock on the door, then a custody assistant stuck her head in and said someone needed to have a word with DS McRae.
Logan got PC Guthrie to suspend the interview. Gilchrist didn't even look up, just kept on going with his manifesto for a Polish-free Aberdeen.
Out in the corridor the custody assistant nodded down the hall towards the observation suite. 'He's in there.'
It was DCI Finnie, hunched over the tiny monitor connected up to the cameras in room two. Whoever had called it the 'Observation Suite' had a twisted sense of humour. It was a cramped little place, with bare breezeblock walls, a kitchen-worktop desk, two rickety plastic chairs, and a TV screen for each interview room.
Normally it smelt of armpits and stale socks, but tonight it reeked of second-hand alcohol. All of it coming from Detective Chief Inspector Finnie. He looked up at Logan, then patted the plastic chair next to him.
Logan sat. 'Sir, I tried calling you, but-'
Finnie held up a hand. 'I know, I know. Had my phone switched off while I was in with Professional Standards.' The words rolled out on a cloud of whisky. 'Bastard rubber-heelers had me in there for three hours. But you did it!' He grinned and slapped Logan on the back. 'You did it. You got him.'
'I really did try-'
'Nonsense. Credit where it's due. You did good. You went out there and you got him! I was on the case for months and never even got close. But you, you turn up and POW!' He banged his hand on the working surface, making the picture on the monitor jiggle. Ricky Gilchrist was still at it, babbling away about how Aberdeen had been ruined. 'See — this is why I brought you on board.'
Finnie jabbed the grainy image with a thumb, as if he were squashing a bug. 'He cop for the lot?'
'Everything. All the victims, and all the notes. Showed us the original files on his computer. Goulding was right, he wanted us to catch him, and now we have he's Captain Cooperation.'
'Good work. No, really, I mean it: excellent work. I'd sit in on the interview, but I've been drinking.' He leant in close, and Logan tried hard not to recoil. 'Just between you and me,' he whispered, 'the guy who replaced DI Insch is going off on the stress. Can't cope with the pace. We're going to promote someone.' He slapped Logan on the back again. 'There's no way they can overlook you this time. Not after this.'
The DCI wrapped an arm around Logan's shoulders and gave him a shoogle. 'You and me, we're going to go through that CID Department and drag it up by its Y-fronts!'
Which was a lovely image. By the time Logan staggered back to his flat it was nearly midnight. He locked the front door, kicked off his shoes on the way to the toilet, did his teeth then dragged himself through to the bedroom. He didn't bother switching on the light: the room was a pigsty anyway. A mess of boxes and things from the lounge, all waiting for him to finish deco rating so they could go back where they belonged.
He stripped, chucking his clothes on the chair in the corner, then crawled into bed and went, 'WHAT THE HELL?'
'Mmmph?'
He scrambled for the bedside light, and click: Samantha's face appeared in the bed beside him. She hadn't taken her makeup off, and the white face powder was all smudged into the black eyeliner and dark purple lipstick.
'What are you doing here?'
She blinked, sat up, and the covers fell away, exposing a black-and-white striped corset. The duvet was covered in rose petals. 'Where am…? What time is it?'
'How did you get in?'
'Wanted to surprise you. There was champagne, but I drunk it.' She yawned, exposing her fillings. 'Urgh… ooh, need to pee.'
'The door was locked. I'm sure I locked it.'
'Give us a minute.' She hauled herself out of bed, and tottered off to the bathroom on what looked like very high-heeled kinky boots.
Logan slumped back, hands over his face, trying not to listen as she filled, then flushed the toilet. She was back ten minutes later with two tumblers full of dark brown liquid and chinking ice cubes. Makeup perfect once more, like a dead Barbie doll, tattoos standing out against her pale white skin.
'Here.' She handed him a glass.
Logan took a sip: Jack Daniels and Coke.
'Best I could do at short notice.' She put one high-heeled foot up on the bed, next to him. 'It's your lucky night, Sergeant McRae: I finished fingerprinting all those sodding guns today, and now I'm in the mood to celebrate.'
'But how did you get in?'
'Picked the lock. One of my many talents.' She took the drink from his hands and pushed him back on the pillow. 'Want to see another one?' She popped an ice cube in her mouth, then kissed her way down his neck and chest. Running the cold tip of her tongue over each of the little ribbons of scar tissue that crisscrossed his stomach. 'They taste of iron filings.'
Logan frowned. 'Sam, I've been on duty since seven, I'm knackered. Can we not… ooh.'
She'd moved further south. And suddenly Logan wasn't so tired anymore.
33
It was a strange start to the day — at 07:00 Logan was dragged into Professional Standards for what amounted to a bollocking over yesterday's live fire incident at the Krakow General Store, and at 07:30 he was in the Chief Constable's office getting a pat on the back.
'Excellent work.' Chief Constable Brian Anderson, AKA: Baldy Brian, stood with his back to the room, staring
