Faulds nodded. 'And you don't say much about it in your book either.' McLaughlin opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind. He stood. 'Anyone fancy a drink? I've got gin and I've got whisky. Drank all the wine last night ...' 'Sorry, sir, but we're on duty. Tea would be nice, though.' 'Right, tea it is then.' And he was off into the kitchen. The Chief Constable stopped on his tour of the living room, selecting a book from a low shelf: Smoak With Blood - The Hunt For The Flesher. It had a photo on the front of someone dressed in a butcher's apron and Margaret Thatcher fright mask. Not surprising there wasn't a framed version up on the wall - who wanted to look at the man who killed their parents every day? By the time McLaughlin returned with the drinks Faulds was reading aloud: ''For some reason, it's one of my earliest memories - walking through the dark and rain-swept streets with my best friend. Heading back to my house. Hand in hand with a killer. Everything before that is lost to me, as if the first five years of my life never happened. As if I only came into being at that moment. Sparked into existence minutes before the death of my parents ... '' McLaughlin blushed. 'Yes, well ... I was reading a lot of Dickens at the time. Can't believe I wrote anything so pretentious.' 'What happened to Catherine Davidson? She was supposed to be walking you home.' The young man handed over Logan's tea, then poured himself a large measure of eighteen-year-old Highland Park. 'Wish I knew. When I was writing the book I tried everything: word association, hypnosis, the works. I know it sounds like a load of old wank, but everything before that walk home is a blank. It's like my childhood never happened.' He took a deep drink from his whisky, holding it in his mouth for a thoughtful pause, before swallowing. 'What about your friend: Richard Davidson?' 'Ah, yes ... Richard. We don't talk these days. Last I heard he was in Craiginches doing three years for possession, perjury, and aggravated assault. Like you said, Superintendent: some people never come out again. Wiseman took my parents and my past, he took Richard's mum and his future.' Another mouthful of whisky. 'I don't know which is worse.' 'And then he made you both dinner.' 'Yeah. Findus Crispy Pancakes with fried onions, mashed potatoes and peas. I wanted fish fingers.' A shallow laugh. 'Good isn't it? My mum and dad are being dismembered in the kitchen and I'm whinging about Captain Sodding Birdseye ... I'd never seen so much blood ...' The last of McLaughlin's whisky disappeared. 'Who's for another one?'
Rush-hour was in full swing as Logan drove them back to the station - roads packed with nose-to-tail traffic beneath the yellow streetlight. Muttered swearing came from the back seat; Alec checking the messages on his mobile phone. 'Bloody hell, why can no one get anything right? ... Delete ... Don't care ... Delete ... Holy shit!' The cameraman scooted forward, sticking his head between the front seats. 'You're not going to believe this--' Faulds' mobile phone started playing Phil Collins:'In The Air Tonight'. 'Hello?' 'I've just got a call from the BBC News Department--' 'Hello?' The Chief Constable stuck one finger in his ear,'Yes ... No, we'll be right there!'' --Wiseman's been on the phone.' Logan took his eyes off the road for a second, then had to slam on the breaks to avoid rear-ending a Porsche. 'You're kidding!'
