‘Oh, sorry. Excuse the language, Mrs eh . . .’ ‘Kinross.’ ‘Aye. Sorry. It’s not a pretty sight.’ ‘He’s away then,’ said the wee woman, peering up to the landing where the policeman and woman stood. ‘Afraid so.’ McGregor had instantly regretted releasing the missing digit detail to the press. He had had no idea there could be so many nine-fingered males in the Lothians, and the cooperative public hadn’t let the ‘at least 6’5” tall’ part of the description deter them from reporting every bastarding one of them, never mind the specification that it was the right index finger that was lacking, and not the left pinkie, right thumb or either arm. The call had come at about ten o’clock that night, after an endlessly irritating day, and he had feared the worst when the switchboard operator told him what it was in connection with and he heard the prim, elderly tones at the other end. He had listened to the part about the nine-fingered man staying in her guest house with stoic patience, inclining gradually away from professional politeness when she started on about him killing her dog and trying to fake its accidental death in next door’s garden.
