and Vicky Hamilton and probably more besides. Thomas Neill Cream, abortionist, Ripper suspect and poisoner. Born in Glasgow and killer of five. Staff nurse Colin Norris, angel of death and killer of four.
It’s hardly what you would call a fine tradition but a precedent nevertheless. A lot of serial killers for such a little place. The best small murdering country in the world. Stick that on your tourist posters.
Wha’s like us? Damn few and they’re all deid. That’s Scottish irony.
But they are not like me. And I am not like them.
CHAPTER 17
He stirred slowly. His head bobbing up and down on his chest as he fought to clear his head.
When his eyes were fully opened and focused he saw me sitting in front of him. He jumped. His eyes spread wide. I was pleased to see that he looked as scared as he was confused.
It was only then that he seemed to realize that he was bound hand and foot. His arms were tied securely to the chair, his legs to the legs. He struggled but got nowhere. He was going nowhere.
He looked around but in the dim light all he could see was me. And that suited me fine. I wanted to make myself smile at him but I couldn’t. The best I could muster was a glare. Wallace Ogilvie, his limbs bound, his mouth taped shut, his confusion total, was in front of me. He did not know who I was.
‘Pierre Ambroise François Choderlos de Laclos.’
Wallace Ogilvie shrugged as best he could.
‘Pierre Ambroise François Choderlos de Laclos,’ I repeated. ‘He was the author of Les Liaisons Dangereuses . You’ll have heard of the film.’
Wallace Ogilvie just looked at me.
‘He wrote it in 1782. You know a quote from it though. La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid .’
Wallace Ogilvie continued to look.
‘No? I thought you might know a bit of French.’
Wallace Ogilvie shook his head warily.
‘Hm. How about Klingon then?’
Wallace Ogilvie’s eyebrows knitted tight in bewilderment.
‘Stupid but it’s often quoted as being a Klingon phrase. You know, from Star Trek . bortaS bIr jablu’DI’, reH QaQqu’ nay . It took me ages to learn that.’
I was trying to be glib. Trying to scare him with it. Using it to stop my anger spilling over. Control. I was the one in control.
‘No Klingon either then?’
Wallace Ogilvie shook his head. Very scared.
‘It is also said to originate in Sicilian. La vendetta è un piatto che si serve freddo . Others believe it has its roots in Chinese, Spanish or Pashtun. The Internet is great, isn’t it?’
Wallace Ogilvie was talking now behind the tape. I couldn’t make out a word. His eyes were talking too. They were telling me that I was mad and he was terrified. Perhaps. There is a fine line between the appearance of madness and insanity itself. Even I didn’t know which side of the line I stood on.
‘Got it yet?’ I asked him.
When Wallace Ogilvie shook his head again I wanted to slap him or kick him. No touching though. I had kept our contact clean until now and did not want to dirty my hands or feet on him. Control.
‘ La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid .
‘ bortaS bIr jablu’DI’, reH QaQqu’ nay .
‘ La vendetta è un piatto che si serve freddo .’
I put my head very close to his. I whispered. ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’
His eyes opened wider at that. He was trying to speak again. I didn’t need to hear the words. Revenge? For what? Who are you? Where do I know you from?
Then there it was. Recognition.
Oh, he knew now all right. I nodded and managed a smile at last.
‘Yes. That’s right.’
Wallace Ogilvie shook his head furiously. His eyes were pleading, begging with me. No need to beg, I thought. And no point.
‘I’m not going to lay a finger on you,’ I told him.
I saw hope in his eyes. Faint, short-lived hope. A bit cruel maybe. The hope disappeared when I reached for the switch on the wall and flooded the room with light.
‘ La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid .’
His eyes took
It’s hardly what you would call a fine tradition but a precedent nevertheless. A lot of serial killers for such a little place. The best small murdering country in the world. Stick that on your tourist posters.
Wha’s like us? Damn few and they’re all deid. That’s Scottish irony.
But they are not like me. And I am not like them.
CHAPTER 17
He stirred slowly. His head bobbing up and down on his chest as he fought to clear his head.
When his eyes were fully opened and focused he saw me sitting in front of him. He jumped. His eyes spread wide. I was pleased to see that he looked as scared as he was confused.
It was only then that he seemed to realize that he was bound hand and foot. His arms were tied securely to the chair, his legs to the legs. He struggled but got nowhere. He was going nowhere.
He looked around but in the dim light all he could see was me. And that suited me fine. I wanted to make myself smile at him but I couldn’t. The best I could muster was a glare. Wallace Ogilvie, his limbs bound, his mouth taped shut, his confusion total, was in front of me. He did not know who I was.
‘Pierre Ambroise François Choderlos de Laclos.’
Wallace Ogilvie shrugged as best he could.
‘Pierre Ambroise François Choderlos de Laclos,’ I repeated. ‘He was the author of Les Liaisons Dangereuses . You’ll have heard of the film.’
Wallace Ogilvie just looked at me.
‘He wrote it in 1782. You know a quote from it though. La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid .’
Wallace Ogilvie continued to look.
‘No? I thought you might know a bit of French.’
Wallace Ogilvie shook his head warily.
‘Hm. How about Klingon then?’
Wallace Ogilvie’s eyebrows knitted tight in bewilderment.
‘Stupid but it’s often quoted as being a Klingon phrase. You know, from Star Trek . bortaS bIr jablu’DI’, reH QaQqu’ nay . It took me ages to learn that.’
I was trying to be glib. Trying to scare him with it. Using it to stop my anger spilling over. Control. I was the one in control.
‘No Klingon either then?’
Wallace Ogilvie shook his head. Very scared.
‘It is also said to originate in Sicilian. La vendetta è un piatto che si serve freddo . Others believe it has its roots in Chinese, Spanish or Pashtun. The Internet is great, isn’t it?’
Wallace Ogilvie was talking now behind the tape. I couldn’t make out a word. His eyes were talking too. They were telling me that I was mad and he was terrified. Perhaps. There is a fine line between the appearance of madness and insanity itself. Even I didn’t know which side of the line I stood on.
‘Got it yet?’ I asked him.
When Wallace Ogilvie shook his head again I wanted to slap him or kick him. No touching though. I had kept our contact clean until now and did not want to dirty my hands or feet on him. Control.
‘ La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid .
‘ bortaS bIr jablu’DI’, reH QaQqu’ nay .
‘ La vendetta è un piatto che si serve freddo .’
I put my head very close to his. I whispered. ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’
His eyes opened wider at that. He was trying to speak again. I didn’t need to hear the words. Revenge? For what? Who are you? Where do I know you from?
Then there it was. Recognition.
Oh, he knew now all right. I nodded and managed a smile at last.
‘Yes. That’s right.’
Wallace Ogilvie shook his head furiously. His eyes were pleading, begging with me. No need to beg, I thought. And no point.
‘I’m not going to lay a finger on you,’ I told him.
I saw hope in his eyes. Faint, short-lived hope. A bit cruel maybe. The hope disappeared when I reached for the switch on the wall and flooded the room with light.
‘ La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid .’
His eyes took
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