‘Good.’ Faulds ran a hand through his hair and looked up at the sparkling granite tenement. Cleared his throat. Marched up to the door.
Logan leaned over and whispered to the cameraman, ‘So … Insch tell you to get lost again?’
Alec pulled a face. ‘He’s a nightmare. Thought he was going to smack me one this morning. All I did was ask how his diet’s going.’
They followed Faulds into the building. It was dark inside: a welcome mat smeared with mud and the faint smell of dog shit; a mountain bike chained to the banisters; a stack of junk mail slowly festering in a dirty puddle on the tiled floor. Faulds started up the stairs.
‘Anyway,’ said Alec, ‘this is going to be great for the Flesher special – revisiting the original case, talking to the witnesses, walking the crime scenes.’
Faulds paused on the first landing, leant on the balustrade and called down to them: ‘Something wrong?’
‘With you in a second.’ Alec lowered his voice. ‘Just between you and me: what do you reckon to Faulds, then?’
Logan shrugged. ‘He’s OK, I suppose. Fancies himself a bit. I was expecting him to be more of an arse, pull rank the whole time … you know: your average Chief Constable.’
‘You remember that Birmingham Bomber case? Well Faulds was the one who—’
‘You two asleep down there?’
Logan sighed and started for the stairs. ‘Our master’s voice.’
Flat six was on the top floor, the door painted dark red with a little brass plaque above the letterbox: ‘James McLaughlin PHD’ engraved at the top, ‘Cerberus, Medusa & Mrs Poo’ underneath. Logan rang the doorbell.
It was answered two minutes later by a young, bearded man in his pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers. Mid-twenties. Cup of tea in one hand, slice of toast in the other. Glasses perched on the end of his nose. He took one look at the three of them standing in the hallway, saw Alec’s camera, and said, ‘Ten minutes. I get to plug the book twice. It stays in shot the whole time. Agreed?’ He stuck the toast in his mouth then offered his hand to seal the deal. There was jam on it.
Logan didn’t shake it. ‘We’re not from the television, Mr McLaughlin.’ He dug out his warrant card. ‘DS McRae: Grampian Police: this is Chief Constable Faulds, West Midlands. We’re here to ask you a few questions about the night your parents disappeared.’
‘It was twenty years ago!’ McLaughlin rolled his eyes. ‘Look, read the book, OK? It’s all in there. I can’t remember anything else.’
‘We’ll try not take up too much of your time, sir. It is important.’
Sigh. ‘OK, OK. You can come in. But watch where you’re walking. I’m pretty sure Medusa’s been sick, but I haven’t found out where yet …’
James McLaughlin’s living room was littered with books. A computer desk sat in the bay window, covered in bits of paper and more books. A typist’s chair sat in front of it, a large, grey, furry cat watching them from the seat, master of all it surveyed.
McLaughlin shooed it off. ‘Come on, Cerberus, that’s Daddy’s chair.’
Logan couldn’t see anywhere to sit himself, so he moved a pile of paperbacks from the settee to the floor. ‘Sorry if we got you out of bed.’
The man shrugged. ‘Nah, you’re all right: I was working.’ He swept a hand down the front of his pyjamas. ‘Standard writers’ uniform.’
Faulds picked his way round the room, peering at the framed photographs on the wall. ‘I read your book,’ he said at last. ‘Very good. I especially liked the bit about all the fancy policemen coming up from down south.’
McLaughlin beamed. ‘Glad you liked it. It was …’ He frowned. ‘Detective Superintendent! Thought I recognized you. Jesus, you’ve not changed much.’
‘Chief Constable now. For my sins.’ Faulds picked up a little wooden plaque, read the inscription and put it back down again. ‘I’m really glad you did something with your life, Jamie. Some people would have curled up in a little ball and never come out again.’
‘Yes, well, I was always good at English and my therapist thought writing the whole thing down would be … well … therapeutic. And now look.’ He smiled, indicating the four framed covers on the wall – all bestselling children’s books. Aberdeen’s answer to J.K. Rowling, only nowhere near as famous. Or rich. ‘But you’re not here to talk about Simon and the Goblins, are you?’
‘You’ve seen the news?’
McLaughlin shuddered and pointed at a copy of the Daily Mail sitting on a pile of encyclopaedias –‘CANNIBAL KILLER STILL AT LARGE’. ‘Difficult to miss it. Been having nightmares ever since I heard about those body parts down the docks. Last night I dreamt Wiseman came back to finish me off … Took half a bottle of Macallan to make that one go away.’ He wrapped his dressing gown around himself, tying the cord tight.
Logan pulled out his notebook, flipping through the pages till he got to the bit about McLaughlin’s parents. ‘We’ve been reviewing the old case files. They’re a bit vague about what happened before you got to the house.’
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 the 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