‘Same as all the others.’ Pirie’s voice was clipped, his face an ugly shade of pink that clashed with his hair. Still sulking – it probably didn’t help that Finnie had made him drive, instead of Logan. ‘No prints on the letter or the envelope, and no fibres either.’
Finnie handed over a second evidence bag. This one had the envelope in it. ‘Posted day before yesterday in Aberdeen.’
Logan read through the letter again. ‘So are the Polish people supposed to be dogs or wolves now?’
DS Pirie glanced over his shoulder. ‘I think the fact this guy has a tendency to mix his metaphors is the least of our problems, don’t you?’
Finnie smirked. ‘So, tell me: does the great Detective Sergeant Logan “Lazarus” McRae have any startling insights to share with the class? Come on, this is why I brought you on board, remember? Chance to redeem yourself?’
‘Well… He’s definitely unhinged. No sane person uses that many exclamation marks.’
‘That’s your startling insight? The man who gouges people’s eyes out and burns the sockets is “unhinged”? Pirie, call the Press and Journal: tell them to hold the front page.’
Bastard.
‘OK… Postage dates. This was posted day before yesterday, right? What about the others? Is there a pattern?’
‘Pirie?’
Finnie’s ginger-haired sidekick shrugged. He was tailgating a Renault Megane with a ‘HONK IF YOU’RE HORNY’ sticker in the back window. ‘The letters arrive pretty much at random. Dr Goulding thinks they’re a coping mechanism, by writing to us he makes us complicit in his acts. That’s why he keeps telling us it’s our fault: if we didn’t want him to keep on blinding people we’d have caught him by now.’
‘I suppose…’ Logan handed the evidence bags back to Finnie. ‘Then why attack Simon McLeod? He’s not Polish.’
The DS leant on the horn: BREEEEEEEEEEEP! ‘Come on: move it!’ The Megane lurched forward and Pirie accelerated up behind it again. ‘Who knows with whack-jobs? The McLeods run a stable of hoors, maybe our boy was after a nice piece of local ass and ended up with a Polish bird instead? Doesn’t like them mucking up our good Aberdonian gene pool with their filthy foreign ways. Or maybe Simon McLeod was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?’
Finnie smiled again. ‘Serves him bloody right too – whole family’s been a pain in my arse for years.’
Twenty minutes later, DS Pirie parked outside a rose-encrusted bungalow in Garthdee. Not really the kind of place you’d expect a criminal mastermind to operate out of, but for forty years that’s exactly what Tony McLeod did. Right up until his third heart attack. CID sent a wreath, then threw a party.
‘Right,’ said Finnie, climbing out into the warm afternoon, ‘Sergeant McRae, do you think you could keep your eyes open and your mouth shut in there? Hmmm? Just for me?’
Logan sighed. ‘Yes, sir.’
They opened the gate and marched up the path, bathed in the scent of roses. A little old woman answered the door on the second ring, smiling up at them. She had a pair of bright-yellow Marigold gloves on and smelt of furniture polish.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Morning, Doris.’ Finnie showed her his warrant card, and the smile disappeared from her face. ‘Agnes about?’
She turned and shouted back into the house, ‘Mrs McLeod, the pigs are here! Again.’
Simon McLeod’s mother appeared: a hard-faced woman with short blonde hair, dressed in black cashmere and white silk. She was clarted in gold jewellery, every finger encrusted with rings of bling: diamonds and sapphires and rubies and sovereigns. A magpie with a credit card.
She took one look at Finnie and said, ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘Mrs McLeod, can we come in please?’
‘You got a warrant?’
Finnie tried on a smile. ‘Wouldn’t be asking if I did.’
‘Then you can bugger off back where you came from.’ She let her eyes drift from the Chief Inspector to Logan and Pirie. ‘Aye, and you can take your pet poofs with you.’
‘It’s about Simon, Mrs McLeod.’
She folded her arms, hoisting her bosoms up a notch. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself – there’s perverts out there walking the street and you’re round here harassing us. My Simon’s a legitimate businessman, and he’s—’
‘He was attacked this morning.’
‘Don’t be stupid, who would be daft enough to—’
‘Simon’s up at A&E. He’s been blinded.’
All the colour drained from her face. ‘But… We…’
‘Someone gouged his eyes out.’
‘Oh God…’ Mrs McLeod stumbled and the old woman rushed to her side, holding her up.
Finnie’s voice softened. ‘Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm your son?’
Doris pulled Mrs McLeod gently back into the house, turning her back on the policemen on the doorstep. ‘Go away. Can’t you see she’s had a terrible shock?’ And then she slammed the door.
Logan unlocked the front door to his flat and slumped inside. He should have been home an hour and a half ago, but sodding Finnie had insisted on following Mrs McLeod up to the hospital. Just to let her know he was watching her. Dickhead.
Taking one look at the lounge – dust sheets over the sofa, carpets ripped up, bare light bulb, the smell of paint – Logan decided he really couldn’t be bothered with the decorating. So five minutes later he was sitting in Archibald Simpson, a converted bank on the corner of Union Street and King Street. The pub was busy, full of off-duty police officers and assorted locals, numbing the memory of another week with beer, wine, and spirits.
Logan sat at his usual table, nursing a pint of Stella and waiting for his mushroom stroganoff. He had the whole weekend to commit DIY, one night off wasn’t going to hurt.
Someone said, ‘Hey, Billy No Mates, where’s your wrinkly old girlfriend then?’ and Logan looked up from his pint.
Samantha – the Identification Bureau’s only Goth – was standing over him, holding a pitcher of something evil and alcoholic-looking. She had those strange tribal tube things in her earlobes, stretching them beneath half a dozen sparkly piercings. Another ring in her bottom lip. Scarlet lipstick, black eye makeup, Marilyn Manson T-shirt, black leather jeans, pixie boots… But it was the top of her head that made Logan stare.
‘New
