'Tayside Police,' said DCS Bain,'have identified the blood as Sandra Taylor's; she was a type one diabetic. It looks like the attack happened some time on Sunday evening. They've emailed up all the details, make sure you read them!' Two more victims and still no sodding clue. There was a bit of discussion about whether this was another copycat or the Flesher hunting outside of Aberdeen, and then everyone was given their assignments and told to go catch the bastard.
Back in the history room, Logan sat at his desk, eating a breakfast muesli bar and wishing the Environmental Health hadn't confiscated half the bacon in the city. There was nothing like a bacon buttie to set you up after a night in the pub. Except maybe a steak pie, and they were like hen's teeth these days as well. He pulled out the folder Colin Miller had given him in the Prince of Wales, and spread the contents across the desk - printouts and photocopies of articles from 1987 to 1990. A chunk were about the McLaughlins and their disappearance, but most were the missing person and food-poisoning stories he'd asked for. Which were about as much use as Rennie's INTERPOL reports; it was impossible to tell what might be connected and what was just random stuff. So Logan went back to the articles on Jamie McLaughlin and his missing parents. Why had they never found any sign of the third victim, Catherine Davidson? Directly after the attack, the papers were full of her photo, but as time went by she drifted into the background and the media concentrated on the tragedy of little Jamie McLaughlin. Eventually Catherine Davidson was simply forgotten. Logan flicked through the sheets again. Colin had been thorough, there was even a piece from before the attack: an article dated the eighth of October 1987 about how Ian McLaughlin had joined the team at Lindsey Arrow and was going to help them become a driving force in the field of Liner Hangers and Well Completion. Whatever that meant. McLaughlin wasn't exactly a pretty man, but then neither was the thin bloke with the Zapata moustache he was shaking hands with. Welcome to the oil industry. Logan finished his tea and stuck all the printouts back in the folder. At least Ian McLaughlin had got to enjoy his fifteen minutes of fame, all the other Flesher victims got theirs post mortem. Well, except for one of the Newcastle women. He looked at the death wall, trying to remember who it was, then went for a rummage in the old file boxes by the radiator, till he found a small stack of yellowed newspaper clippings. 'BAINBRIDGE'S BRIDGE IS A WINNER' was the headline, above a photo of Emily Bainbridge, grinning away like mad as she showed off her big oil painting of the Tyne Bridge. She'd come first: a cheque for one hundred pounds and an exhibition planned for the Autumn. She was dead three weeks later. Three weeks ... He went back to Colin Miller's printouts and pulled out the article on Ian McLaughlin again. Eighth of October 1987: a Thursday. Three and a bit weeks before Halloween and the McLaughlin's death. 'Oh you beauty ...' He fired up his computer and went onto the
