sniffed. ‘You chase up YouTube?’
‘Nothing. They can trace the upload back through to a couple of servers in Bangladesh, but after that…? Could’ve come from anywhere.’ Logan picked the forensic report out of his in-tray. ‘Everything: every note, every envelope, every video – it’s like they’ve been put together in a vacuum by bloody ghosts.’
A gravelly voice came from the CID room outside, ruining a Fifties song, ‘Oh yes, I’m the great pudenda; pudendin’ I’m doing well…’
DI Steel pushed through the door to the Wee Hoose, huge mug of coffee in one hand, chocolate biscuit in the other. ‘Morning, ladies.’ She stuffed the biscuit in her gob and bumped the door closed with her hip.
Logan scowled at her. ‘Seven AM sharp, you said. Where have you been?’
‘It’s your lucky day, Laz. Susan says she’s probably up for a wild ride on the orgasm express this weekend, so I shall forgive your rudeness if you tell me you’ve sent that letter off.’
‘You said you’d get Rennie to do it.’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘You bloody well did! Bob, tell her.’
‘Now, now, Laz.’ Bob grinned and turned back to his computer. ‘It’s not nice to contradict a lady.’
‘You rotten—’
A knock on the door, then PC Guthrie stuck his pasty head into the Wee Hoose. ‘Guv?’ He nodded at DI Steel. ‘This just came in…’
Guthrie held up a clear plastic evidence pouch. There was a sheet of A4 in it, creased as if it had been folded into thirds, covered in jagged blue biro.
Steel grabbed it off him, squinted at the note for a bit, then held it out to Logan. ‘Read.’
It was all in block capitals, the letters lopsided and sloppy, traced over and over again. Probably disguising their handwriting. ‘Sodding hell…’
The inspector wrinkled her nose. ‘Well? What does it say?’
‘It’s a tip-off. Says Alison and Jenny were snatched by a paedophile ring.’
Bob squeaked around in his chair and peered over Logan’s shoulder. ‘They’ve spelled “paedophile” wrong. And “snatched”…’
‘Says they’re going to auction Jenny off – after they’ve all … Shite. After they’ve all “sampled the merchandise”. They’re going to kill her mum soon as they get the ransom.’
Guthrie nodded. ‘Arrived in the post today. Finnie said I had to show you, then get it up to the lab.’
Steel crunched her way through her biscuit, frowning. ‘Bit risky, isn’t it?’
Logan read the note again. ‘Could be a hoax?’
‘Don’t know.’ Bob poked the evidence bag. ‘If you’re going to lust after wee girls, what could be better than screwing the pretty six-year-old off the telly? Bet there’s paedos up and down the country recording Britain’s Next Big Star and wanking themselves ragged every time she comes on.’
Celebrity paedophilia – why not, they’d had celebrity everything else … Logan handed the note back to Guthrie. ‘Anything on the envelope?’
‘Just the address. Didn’t even have a stamp; lucky it got delivered at all.’
‘Right,’ Steel dumped her mug on Doreen’s desk. ‘Laz, get onto Bucksburn: I want the Diddymen hauling in every pervert they’ve ever dealt with. And no’ just the ones on the register, the lapsed ones too. We’ll start with the paedos, then try our luck with the rapists. And don’t let them fob you off with—’
‘Why would rapists—’
‘Just because they’ve no’ been done for kiddy-fiddling, doesn’t mean they’re no’ into it. Sometimes you’ve got to convict the filthy fucks for what you can get.’
Logan thumped the wodge of stapled-together paper down on DI Steel’s desk. ‘Three hundred and thirty-nine sex offenders living in the north-east. That’s them arranged by offence, in order of closeness to Alison McGregor’s house.’
Steel prodded the paperwork with a stained finger. ‘This all of them?’
‘All the ones on the register. Ingram says he’ll get the rest written up by close of play.’
‘Sodding hell, that’s a lot of perverts…’
‘Can’t drag them all into Bucksburn, or FHQ – someone’s bound to notice and call the media, so I’ve booked a bunch of rooms at the Munro House Hotel. Told them we’re interviewing for Special Constables; they’re even doing us a discount on the corporate rate. If we haul three-hundred-odd people in there over a couple of days, no one’s going to notice.’
She scrunched one eye closed, flipping through the wodge of printouts. ‘Right, get onto Big Gary, I want—’
‘Twelve-man team, all accredited interviewers, six video cameras, and an unmarked minibus. Ready to go whenever you are.’
There was a pause.
‘Nobody likes a smart arse.’
The hotel was a huge Victorian mock-Scottish-Baronial mansion – a forbidding lump of granite with turrets, bay windows, and gable ends shaped like a staircase for crows – only a five-minute walk from the Bucksburn police station, where the Offender Management Unit were based.
Steel marched up the sweeping grey steps, past two carved lions. ‘How many we doing?’
Logan checked the list. ‘As many as we can get through. DI Ingram’s lot are bringing them in from half nine.’
‘All paedos?’
‘A mixture. I’ve told him to bring them in based on how close they live to Alison McGregor’s house.’
The unmarked minibus kangarooed into the car park, a grim-faced Rennie wrestling with the steering wheel. It jerked to a halt and a ragged cheer went up from the passengers.
‘Fair enough.’ She shoved open the heavy oak door and barged through into the reception, with Logan right behind her.
The Munro’s carpet was a muted blue tartan, with a pale groove worn into it leading away into the gloomy interior. Wooden panelling lined the walls, peppered with water colours of mountains in heavy golden frames. A stag’s head was stuffed and mounted above the reception desk, glaring out in mild surprise at Logan and the inspector.
‘Can I help you?’ A man in a charcoal-coloured suit appeared at the inspector’s elbow. He stood slightly hunched and knock-kneed, as if his underwear was doing horrible things to his undercarriage.
Logan flashed his warrant card. ‘I called earlier about running some interviews?’
‘Ah, yes, of course: the Special Constables.’ The
