room’s only other chair. He’d turned it the wrong way around, straddling it and leaning his arms on the back. Head tilted to one side, watching the pathologist watching the video. Goulding had on his little rectangular glasses, and a brand-new 1960s-Beatles-style moustache to go with his pelt-like hair. He ran a finger along the bridge of his hooked nose. ‘It’s an interesting choice, don’t you think?’ The voice was pure Liverpool.
Doc Fraser shrugged. ‘They obviously know what they’re doing. The stitching’s good – not wonderful, but good … Which button pauses it again?’
Logan clicked it with the mouse.
‘Thanks. Well, they’ve definitely got access to proper medical supplies. The brown stuff they’ve painted her feet with is Videne – it’s an iodine-based disinfectant used to prep people for surgery. She’s on an IV drip, so I’m assuming they don’t have access to a PCA system—’
‘PCA?’ Logan opened his notepad.
‘Patient Controlled Analgesia. You know, one of those machines where you press a button and it gives you more morphine? Well, until it thinks you’ve had enough, then it cuts you off so you can’t overdose.’
‘I see.’ Goulding pointed at the screen. ‘So they don’t want to cause Jenny pain.’
Logan tried not to laugh. ‘They cut off her toes, Dave.’ So much for a psychology degree.
That got him a shrug. ‘But that doesn’t mean they want her to suffer. First they try to fob everyone off with a surrogate big toe from another child – it doesn’t work, so they’ve got no choice, they have to amputate. It shows they’re serious about killing her.’
Doc Fraser nodded. ‘Aye.’
‘And I think, if they do end up killing her, they’ll do it so she doesn’t have to suffer.’
Logan settled back against the windowsill. ‘Kidnappers with a conscience.’
‘Make it play again.’
He clicked the button.
‘This is not a hoax. You have four days left. If you raise enough money, they will live. If you do not, they will die. Do not let Jenny and Alison down.’
A mobile phone rang.
Doc Fraser sighed. ‘That’ll be Finnie. Probably having a wee strop because the post mortem was supposed to start …’ Quick check. ‘Ten minutes ago.’ The pathologist gave a big, pantomime stretch. ‘Any more biscuits?’
Logan pushed the packet over.
‘Now what I find interesting,’ Goulding opened a pale blue folder and pulled out a half-dozen sheets of paper, placing them on the desk, ‘is the language used. The voice on the videos is precise – no contractions, no colloquialisms – but the notes …’ He read the latest one out. ‘“The police isn’t taking this seriously. We gave them simple, clear, instructions, but they still was late. So we got no other choice: we had to cut off the wee girl’s toe. She got nine more. No more fucking about.”’
Goulding let his fingertips drift across the surface of the note. ‘“The police isn’t.”, “But they still was.”, “So we got no other choice.”, “She got nine more.”‘
‘Different people?’ Doc Fraser helped himself to another Jammie Dodger.
Goulding shook his head. ‘No … different media. If they were slapdash, they’d use a voice-changer – like you get in toy Iron Man or Dalek helmets – but they don’t. They know if we can get hold of the conversion algorithm we can decode their voice; and the pattern and rhythm of your speech stay the same anyway. So when they write the notes, they’re typing in a fake accent. Trying to put us off.’
The psychologist held the note up. ‘But even then they still use a colon to delineate two parts of the compound sentence, and all the apostrophes are in the right place – given the idiom. Even the commas are correct.’
Doc Fraser’s phone went again. ‘Oh … bloody hell.’ He gave a long sigh. ‘I suppose I should really get down there and start the post mortem.’ But he didn’t move.
‘I do wonder about the toes …’ Goulding fiddled with the mouse, setting the video playing again.
Doc Fraser’s phone stopped ringing. Then started again almost immediately. ‘All right, all right. Some people.’ He levered himself to his feet and stuck his hands in the pockets of his beige cardigan, pulling it all out of shape. ‘Well, if you need me I’ll be downstairs discovering traces of morphine, thiopental sodium, and Barbie-pink nail polish.’
‘Thanks, Doc.’ The door clunked shut and Logan stood in front of the window, looking out at the grey city.
Rain hammered the glass, gusts of wind shivering the few straggly trees planted between FHQ and Marischal College, tiny green buds whipping back and forth. He couldn’t see the crowd gathered outside the front doors from here, but he had a perfect view of the outside broadcast units, parked illegally on the other side of the road.
The media must be loving this – the chance to whip up moral outrage, the chance to broadcast and print the most salacious and disturbing images and stories, all with the excuse that the kidnappers would kill Alison and Jenny McGregor if they didn’t … ‘What about the toes?’
‘How you getting on?’
He looked around, saw the psychologist starting at him, then turned back to the window. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You’ve not turned up for a session for five weeks, Logan.’
Someone hurried across the road, passing in front of a grey Transit van with a satellite antenna on top of it, struggling to control an umbrella that looked hell bent on making a break for freedom.
‘Do you think it’s important they’re sending toes, not fingers?’
Goulding sighed. ‘The big toe – that’s a huge loss to a foot, isn’t it? It’s the point of balance – cut it off and you’re facing months and months of physical therapy learning to walk again. But the little toe …’ A pause. ‘Not just one, but both little toes …’
The umbrella broke free, tumbling end-over-end away down Queen Street. Its owner lumbered after it, right out into the path of a taxi. A blare of horn. Flashing lights. Probably a few choice swearwords as well.
‘Logan, therapy isn’t a quick fix. You have—’
‘I had meat yesterday.’
‘You did? Really?’
‘Lasagne. Not vegetarian: proper beef sauce.’ Well, if you couldn’t lie to your therapist, who could you lie to?
The umbrella buried itself in a bush.
‘And how did that make you feel?’
‘Can we stick to the toes?’
This is quite a breakthrough, Logan. Seriously, well done – I’m proud of you.’
And
