Samantha grinned at him. 'You ain't seen nothing yet.' They giggled their way into the flat and tumbled through to the bedroom. Kissing and groping and stumbling over a cardboard box in the gloom. Logan flicked on the bedside light. 'I want you to know,' he said, trying to sound serious, 'that I don't usually do this…' He frowned. 'Come to think of it, I've not done it for…' Counting backwards on his fingers — June, May, April, March… 'Nine months!'
Sam whistled. 'Nine months? Hope you can still remember where everything goes. I better get you started.' She pulled her T-shirt up over her head, exposing even more tattoos. A pair of skeletons stretched a banner across her chest above the bra-line with, 'QUOTH THE RAVEN, "NEVERMORE"' on it, and a spiky tribal thing poked out from the waistband of her black leather trousers, as if a really big spider was trying to escape from her pants. Both arms had a collection of skulls and hearts and swirly things.
She looked him up and down. 'Well, don't just stand there, get your kit off.'
As Logan fumbled his way out of his shirt, Sam stripped off her stripy socks and black leather trousers, until she was kneeling on the bed in nothing but her underwear. Which was a lot more impressive than Logan's slightly baggy pair of blue Marks & Spencer briefs.
'Oh very sexy!'
He shrugged. 'Didn't think anyone would see them.'
The spidery tribal tattoo reached all the way down to her left knee, thick spikes of black ink forever ingrained into her skin. It was disturbing and strangely erotic at the same time. She unhooked her bra, lay back on the bed and said, 'Well, don't just stand there…'
He didn't need to be told twice. They lay side by side, catching their breath. Samantha ran a finger across Logan's stomach — the little worms of scar tissue shining in the soft glow of the bedside light. 'Did it hurt?'
'No, you were very gentle with me.'
She hit him. 'Getting stabbed, you idiot. Did it hurt?'
'The first six or seven times are the worst. After that they all kind of blend into one another.'
She counted her way across his stomach. 'Twenty-three.'
'Think I chipped a tooth on your nipple ring.'
'Is it true you died on the operating table?'
Logan slid out of bed. Changing the subject hadn't worked, but leaving the room would. 'I'm going to get a glass of water, you want one?'
She smiled. 'Man of mystery, eh? I'll have a Coke. And then you can get your sexy scarred arse back in bed. I've still got two condoms left.'
15
Torry sat just south of the River Dee, its whorl of old granite tenements and concrete council housing making a three-quarter-mile-long fingerprint in shades of grey. The scene was a two-bedroom flat halfway along Victoria Road, with views out across the fish factories and storage sheds to the harbour. Sun sparkled off the mud and fuel storage tanks in the middle distance, a collection of huge, neon-orange supply boats lolling in the blue-grey water beyond. It was almost pretty.
A pair of white gulls circled in the clear blue sky, squawking obscenities at each other.
FLASH — and the small bedroom lit up. Green patterned wallpaper. Brown carpet. Double bed. MFI wardrobe. Dead body.
FLASH.
Three figures in breathing masks and white SOC coveralls. A cloud of bluebottles frozen mid-flight.
FLASH.
'And one more for luck…' The Identification Bureau photographer hunkered down for a close-up.
FLASH.
'Right, that's me. You can shift the body if you like.'
Logan shook his head. 'Better leave it till Doc Fraser gets here.'
'Okey-doke.' The photographer dug in the pocket of his white paper oversuit, pulled out a business card and handed it to Logan. 'Listen, if you know anyone getting married, I'm doing homers, OK? Wedding albums, family gatherings, that kind of thing.'
Logan looked down at the body oozing out into the carpet and said he'd think about it.
Luboslaw Frankowski lay on his front, head turned to face the open door. He was swollen: bloated with internal gasses fermented over the week and a half he'd lain there un disturbed. His skin was mottled purple and black with flecks of white mould. Crawling with fat, black flies.
The whole room stank — the sickly sour-sweet odour of rotting meat.
'Bloody hell!'
Logan looked up to see DCI Finnie standing in the doorway, one hand clamped over his nose and mouth.
'Morning, sir.'
Finnie gagged. 'Open a window!'
Logan did as he was told, but it didn't make any difference to the smell.
The Chief Inspector stared down at the corpse. 'Is it him?'
'Far as we can tell.' Logan pulled a photo from the folder he'd dumped on the bed earlier: Luboslaw Frankowski sitting up in a hospital bed, the bandages removed from his ravaged face. Not a pretty sight, but the way he looked now was a damn sight worse. 'We'll take fingerprints soon as Doc Fraser's been.'
'You taking my name in vain again?'
The elderly pathologist was peering around the door frame. He was swamped by his SOC oversuit, the crinkly white paper covering everything except the tired circle of his face — large nose, lined cheeks, watery eyes. Eyebrows like elderly toothbrushes, their bristles pointing in random directions. 'Come on then — everybody out, give a man some space to work.'
They did as they were asked, Finnie grabbing the excuse to get away from the smell. But he was nice enough to tell Logan to stay behind and help.
Doc Fraser levered himself slowly down beside the body. 'Death been declared?'
Logan nodded. 'Any idea what killed him?'
'Give us a chance. Only just got here.' He ran his fingers over the body's head. 'No sign of blunt trauma, no blood on the clothes… Help us turn him over, eh?'
Logan grabbed the man's stained sweatshirt and heaved. The body came away from the carpet with a sticky sound and a fresh eruption of flies — buzzing into the air like a pall of smoke. Logan let go and the body flopped down on his back with a wet belch of escaping gas. 'Ah… God's sake!'
Doc Fraser waved a hand in front of his face. 'At least it wasn't me this time.' More prodding. And then the pathologist stood and snapped off his gloves. 'Right, no obvious signs of external trauma-'
'Except for the eyes.'
'-but we'll have to get him on the slab to tell for sure. Can't rule out foul play yet, but as a wild guess,' the Doc pointed at an empty litre bottle of supermarket whisky lying on the floor by the bed, 'it was drink related.'
'Oh…' Logan stared at that bloated face again. 'Any chance you could take a look at the eyes, you know, while you're here?'
'I've taken off my gloves.'
'Quick look. Two minutes tops. We haven't got a clue what he's using to gouge their eyes out. Or burn them. We need to know what we're looking for.'
Doc Fraser furrowed his hairy eyebrows. 'I'm not a detective or anything, but I would have thought the obvious answer would be to ask the victims who're still alive.'
'They won't talk to us. Terrified of reprisals.'
He shifted from foot to foot. 'All right,' he said at last, 'two minutes.' Doc Fraser pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and went back to the body again. He peered at the flesh around the eyes. 'Skin's been cut away and stitched back… most of the upper and lower lids missing… presumably that was the hospital getting rid of any burnt tissue. Can't see inside.'
He stuck his finger in one of the eye sockets and started flicking out little wiggly things. 'Off you go…' More followed. Then Fraser pulled out a pen-sized torch, shone it in the hole, and hummed and hawed for a bit. 'No,' he said at last, 'this is totally pointless. Any evidence was erased by the surgical team. The whole site's been cleaned and sterilized.'
He tried to stand, but didn't manage. 'Little help please?'
Logan hauled him to his feet.
'Thanks.' Fraser clicked off his torch and slid it back into the pocket of his SOC oversuit. 'If you had a fresh victim, I mean before they wheeched him off to A
&E, I might be able to tell you something…' Shrug. 'Get this one back to the mortuary, post mortem will be half twelve, one-ish? Depends what's for lunch.'
Logan watched the IB roll the bloated, stinking remains of Luboslaw Frankowski into a body-bag. Somehow lunch had lost its appeal. His appetite still hadn't returned by the time he made it back to Force Headquarters. Half eleven and the canteen was gearing up for service; the smell of sausage, beans and chips wafting through the building just made him feel even more queasy.
Steel was sitting in her office, rummaging through a stack of printouts.
Logan slumped back against the wall. 'You seen Finnie?'
The inspector didn't look up. 'If I had I'd be bankrupt by now. That flipping swear box is costing me a fortune.'
'Did you just say, "flipping"?'
'Oh shut up.' She stuffed the printouts back in her in-tray. 'What do you want that… Finnie for?'
'We found one of the old Oedipus victims dead this morning. Doc Fraser thinks he probably drank himself to death.'
'Can't say I blame him. If some bast… If someone gouged your eyes out, would you no' want a wee bit of alcoholic oblivion?'
'Poor sod was face-down on the carpet for a week and a half before anyone found him.'
'In this heat?' She stared at Logan, then at his clothes. 'Thought I smelled something rank, but I was too polite to mention it. Might have been your new aftershave.' She sniffed. 'What is it with you and mouldy corpses?'
'Well, at least I'm not at the post mortem this time. Got an appointment with that criminal psychologist, Dr Goulding. Finnie's orders.'
'Yeah? Think I'd rather go to the PM myself.' She stood. Sat down again. Picked the pile of printouts back out of her in-tray. Shuffled through them. Put them down on her desk. 'Any chance of a cuppa?'
Logan stared. 'Are you wearing a skirt?'
'Milk two sugars.'
'You are, aren't you? You're actually wearing a skirt.' It was blue with little yellow dots.
Steel yanked open one of her desk drawers and pulled out an Airwave handset. 'Can you believe Finnie wants everyone in CID to carry one of these damn things now? Aye, and no' just the plebs: DIs as well!'
'Stop avoiding the subject. What's got into you today?'
She produced a moth-eaten handbag and dropped the handset inside. 'Like carting a brick round with you.'
And that was when it clicked. 'Ahhhh. You've got your adoption social work interview thing this afternoon. I told you: don't sweat it, you'll be fine.'
Steel laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. 'Bollocks I will. I've no' had a fag for two days, I'm off the booze, I'm wearing a skirt, and I'm no' allowed to swear. You got any idea how unnatural that is?' She fidgeted with the collar of her blouse. 'Feel like somebody's mum.'
'Thought that was the idea.'
'If you've got nothing better to do than get up my nose, you can go chase up that lookout request on Rory Simpson.'
'Already did: no sign of him. Even been on to Dundee, Glasgow, Fraserburgh and Inverness. He's vanished.'
Steel screwed her eyes tightly shut, bared her teeth, clenched and unclenched her hands. 'I'm no' going to swear, I'm no' going to swear…'
'Oh, and I checked out Kostchey International Holdings as well.'
'What?' She peeled open one eye. 'Who the hell are they?'
'That company supplying Polish actresses for porn films, remember? They aren't on the register at Companies House. They don't exist.'
'Oh for God's sake. I — Don't — Care. OK? I really don't. Let it go.'
'But Krystka Gorzalkowska-'
'Was a silly tart in the wrong place at the wrong time. You saw the footage — no one was getting forced to do anything. The Crocodildo girls are happy making dirty films, I'm happy watching them, and Zander with a "Z" is happy paying for them. Ergo, leave it the hell alone.' She sighed. 'Oh don't look at me like that. You know it's true.'
Logan didn't say anything.
'OK, OK, fine.' Steel banged her handbag down on the desk. 'Quit it with the puppy-dog eyes: we'll look into it, even though it's a vast waste of police time. Go see that idiot McPherson, he's supposed to be the official liaison with the Polish police. Get them to chase up Kissing International Whatever-it-is, maybe they're registered over there.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'But if Finnie finds out and goes mental, I'm telling him it was all your idea.'
Logan gave her a little salute and left the room, trying to pretend he couldn't hear Steel's parting shot: 'And don't forget: milk, two sugars!' Detective Inspector McPherson had taken over the medium-sized incident room at the back of the building, with a lacklustre view of the mortuary. There had to be nearly a hundred firearms in here, piled up on every available surface: machine guns, shotguns, handguns, rifles, each one sealed in a transparent evidence pouch.
DC Rennie was sitting behind a desk covered with semiautomatic pistols, tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth as he filled in a form.
Logan picked an AK-47 from the next desk, turning it over in his hands. It was surprisingly heavy. 'Where's McPherson?'
'Eh? Oh… Didn't you hear?' The constable went back to his forms. 'He got totally pished last night. Staggered out into the middle of the road.'
Logan winced. 'Car or bus?'
'Neither. The daft sod was sick on someone's girlfriend and the bloke twatted him one. Punch didn't do much damage, but hitting the tarmac did. Broken wrist and a concussion. Should be back in on Friday.'
'Who's doing the Polish liaison stuff till then?'
'Don't know, don't care.'
Fair enough. Logan put the machine gun to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel at the constable's head. 'So… you got any idea what all this stuff's for?'
Rennie scowled. 'Not my job to wonder, that's what sergeants and inspectors are for. Constables like me are for knocking on doors and filling in bloody forms. The thickest thickies in Thick Town. And don't point that bloody thing at me! Don't even know if it's loaded.'
Logan lowered the gun. 'Who rattled your cage?'
'Who the hell do you think: Finnie. Waltzed in this morning and said he was taking over till McPherson got back.' He chucked his pen down on the desktop. 'If it wasn't for me, we wouldn't have found any of this. And do I get the credit? Do I get mentioned in dispatches and showered with nubile young women? Do I buggery.'
Logan let him rabbit on, not really listening as the constable moaned about how unfair the world was, how genius was never appreciated in its lifetime, and how Detective Chief Inspector Finnie could take one of these machine guns, ram it up his own backside, and pull the trigger.
Rant over, the constable picked up the pen again and jabbed it at his stack of forms. 'And I'm sick of cataloguing all this crap.'
'Anyone been in touch with SCDEA yet?'
'Yeah, like that's going to happen. We can't have the Scottish Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency grabbing the glory from Darth Finnie, can we? Heaven forefend!' He leaned back in his chair and groaned. 'Fancy going out for lunch?'
'Can't. Got to see a man about a psychological profile.' Logan took another look around the room. 'You know, you could start a major drug war with this lot.' He put the AK-47 back on the desk. 'And if you're a terrorist there's worse places to blow up than Aberdeen. BP, Shell, Total: all the major oil companies… You could seriously screw up the whole North Sea in one easy move.'
Rennie gathered up the array of handguns on his desk and dumped them in a blue plastic box in the corner. 'Whatever it is, I should be getting the pat on the back for stopping it.'
Logan wished him luck with that.
16
A woman with nervous hands and pink-rimmed eyes looked up from her desk and gave a little smile. 'Dr Goulding will see you now.'
Goulding's office was part of Aberdeen University's Psychology Department, a grotesque three-storey concrete and glass sandwich stuck onto the equally unattractive Arts Lecture Theatre. A pair of Seventies-style ugly sisters
playing against the fifteenth-century grandeur of King's College.
The room wasn't huge, and wasn't designed for comfort either. Clean lines and chrome-plated furniture dominated: a black leather chair and a matching couch; a glass-topped desk covered in piles of paper and Post-it notes. One wall was solid books, the others peppered with framed diplomas and newspaper clippings.
Dr Goulding was behind the desk, poking away at a computer keyboard and peering at a pair of flat-screen monitors. He didn't look up as Logan entered, just said, 'If you'd like to take a seat I'll be with you in a minute…' in a flat Liverpudlian accent.
Logan squeaked down on the couch and looked out of the small, high window, getting a view of yet another ugly concrete building.
Eventually the psychologist stopped what he was doing and stood. 'Sorry about that.' He stuck out his hand, 'Doctor Dave Goulding.' He had a nose like a can opener, and short, dark, animal-pelt hair.
Logan took the hand and shook it, trying not to stare at the lurid green tie with two huge red dice embroidered on it. 'I know, we met last year? On the Flesher case?'
'We did?' Frown. 'Ah of course, I remember you: Sergeant McRae. The poor chap who had to eat human flesh. Well, we all might have eaten it I suppose, difficult to tell, isn't it? But at least we can pretend we didn't — you know you did.' He let go of Logan's hand. 'How did it taste?'
'It… I…' Cough. 'DCI Finnie wants me to talk to you about the men we saw when Simon McLeod was blinded.'
'Are you seeing anyone?'
Logan moved a little further away. 'Sorry? I mean, I'm flattered, but-'
'I don't mean romantically, I mean therapy.' Goulding settled into the couch's matching black leather chair, crossed his legs and folded his hands over his middle-aged paunch. 'It can't be easy coming to terms with what you went through last year. All that death and blood.'
'Erm… Look, I appreciate the-'
'Do you suffer from insomnia? Interrupted sleep? Night mares? Maybe a bit depressed?'
'Well-'
'It's "Logan", isn't it?'
'Yes, but-'
'I can help you, Logan. I want to help you. It's not healthy to keep this kind of thing bottled up inside.'
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