LITMIR.BIZ

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      Knox had taken the armchair nearest the broken electric fire. Knees together, arms wrapped around that same tatty carrier bag from Asda. He sniffed. ‘OK, I suppose.’

      ‘Good. That’s good.’

      More silence.

      Knox coughed.

      Logan checked his watch. God this was exciting.

      Finally the front door banged and someone shouted, ‘Hello?’

      PC Irvine called back, ‘In here.’

      A short, beefy man poked his head into the room. ‘Sorry I’m late. Benny tried tae dee hisself in again last nicht. You ken fit he’s like.’

      Irvine nodded. ‘Slit his wrists again?’

      ‘No, thought he’d gie hanging a go. Neck’s one big bruise this morning.’ The newcomer stepped forward and held his hand out for Logan to shake. ‘Paul Leggett. I’m Barbara’s partner. Well, not partner-partner, we work together, like.’ He grinned. ‘You the boy told that fat prick fae Newcastle tae awa bile his heid?’

      ‘Something like that.’

      ‘Good stuff.’ PC Leggett slapped his hands together then settled in the seat opposite Knox, looking him up and down for almost a whole minute before asking much the same question Irvine had. ‘Fit like ’i day, Richard?’

      Knox straightened the seams on his trousers. ‘If it’s all right with you, I’d like to get this over with.’

      ‘Fair enough.’

      Irvine flipped to the first page of the treasury-tagged sheets. From where Logan was standing, he could see a little printed table, headed ‘VICTIM ACCESS’. She cleared her throat. ‘So, Richard, have you been out and about yet? Or are you sticking to home for now?’

      He shrugged, the plastic bag in his arms rustling as he moved. ‘Home.’

      Irvine scrawled a zero in the box at the bottom of the sheet, then turned to the next page. ‘Must be a bit claustrophobic, just rattling about in the house on your own…’

      ‘Not on me own, am I? Got Harry and Mandy to keep us company. ’Sides,’ he picked at a loose thread on the armchair, ‘house is a hell of a lot bigger than me cell back at Frankland.’

      ‘Hmm…’ Irvine made a note. ‘And is there anyone you’d like to spend more time with. You know, if you could?’

      ‘God. I’d like to spend more time with God.’

      Sitting on the other side of the room, Paul raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.

      Knox sighed. ‘I’ve been through all these tests before, like. Used to do them two, three times a week with this fat bird from Social Services when I got out of prison. “Is there anyone you’d like to spend more time with?”, “Has anything made you angry since we last met?”, “How did you handle it?” Same questions every time.’

      Irvine shifted in her seat. ‘I’m only trying to help, Richard.’

      ‘Next up’s “Sexual Preoccupations”.’ Knox clutched his carrier bag tighter. ‘Am I masturbating within normal limits? Am I having deviant sexual fantasies?’

      She nodded. ‘How important is sex to you these days?’

      He slumped back in his seat, then ran a hand over his eyes. ‘I can save you the trouble of quizzing us. My score’s going to be “Moderate”. Should be “Low”, but you probably think I’m being all defensive about it.’

      ‘Aren’t you?’

      ‘Wouldn’t you be? Someone comes into your home and reads out questions like you’re on some sick game show?’

      PC Irvine’s partner laughed. ‘Like Blankety Blank for perverts? Wankety Wank?’

      Knox looked at him for a moment, then smiled. ‘I’ll have a “P” please Bob.’

      Wrong show.

      Logan shifted on the windowsill. Knox was right – this was a waste of everyone’s time. He’d just tell them what they wanted to hear. Work the system. Screw with the results.

      Worthless.

      Knox gave a small, humourless laugh. ‘You know, it’s funny really. All this time and I’m finally at peace. Let God into me heart, chased away me demons. And we’re still going through the same questions they was asking us in prison.’ The weedy little man went back to picking at the arm of his chair. ‘God’s forgiven us, surely that’s what matters. The minister told us all about His forgiveness and love, like. We’re all made in His image, aren’t we? Even someone like me.’ A smile crept across Knox’s pointy face. ‘God is just like me.’

      Now there was a creepy thought.

      Logan checked his watch. Nearly half two. If they didn’t get moving soon, by the time he got back to Bucksburn and picked up his car the Friday afternoon rush-hour would be grinding everything to a halt. And there was no way he was doing any more unpaid overtime for Steel, Finnie, or anyone else.

      Logan waited in the hall with PC Paul Leggett, while Irvine was upstairs checking on the two people from Sacro. Knox was still in the lounge, on his knees on the hearthrug, praying to a broken electric fire.

      Logan turned his back on the open doorway. ‘Ever taken the test yourself?’

      A lopsided smile pulled Leggett’s face out of shape. ‘Apparently I’m a “High Risk” offender.’

      ‘Yeah?’

      ‘Chronic masturbation means mair than fifteen times a month. I’m off the bloody scale on that one.’

      Uncomfortable silence.

      Logan fidgeted.

      ‘Anyway…’

      Constable Irvine appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘All set.’

      Leggett opened the front door, motioning them out into the cold, drizzly afternoon. ‘Fit’s the live-in help saying till it?’

      ‘He’s not been out of the house. Keeps himself to himself. Does a lot of praying.’

      ‘Aye, weel, going to take a lot mair than that.’

      They hurried down the path towards the grubby van parked at the kerb. By the time they clambered inside Irvine’s glasses were opaque with tiny water droplets. She turned the key in the ignition, pumping the accelerator until the engine caught.

      PC Leggett cranked up the blowers. ‘Fit did you think, Babs?’

      Irvine took off her glasses and dried them on a corner of her tartan-tea-towel shirt. ‘He’s hiding something.’

      Logan scooted around in his seat. ‘Do I need to up the surveillance?’

      She shrugged, then pointed through the slowly clearing windscreen at a black box mounted on a streetlight a couple of houses away, then at another rusty van in the old Aberdeen City Council burgundy livery. It was sitting beside a coned-off rectangle of tarmac and looked at least ten years older than the one they were currently sitting in. ‘Got level one surveillance, CCTV both ends of the street, two people staying with him full time, regular visits from Paul and me… What else can we do?’

      Richard Knox stands at the living room window, watching the grimy white van drive off into the damp afternoon.

      He checks the lounge doorway – no one there – then pulls the mobile phone from his pocket. The phone he’s not supposed to have, just in case he uses it to make contact with other perverts.

      Like he’d want to speak to those filthy bastards.

      He scrolls down through the address book until he comes to the number of a certain gentleman in Newcastle.

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