Logan patted him on the shoulder and said he'd think about it. DI Steel was slumped in her office with her feet up on the desk, a cup of coffee sitting in front of her, while she fiddled about in her cleavage. Logan settled down into the only visitor chair that didn't look as if it was covered in pee-stains. 'Is it just me,' he said, 'or is Pirie a total wanker?'
'Yup…' The inspector kept on rummaging.
'I mean, can you believe all that rubbish? "The profile says this, the profile says that." Idiot.' There were copies of the e-fits on the inspector's desk, Logan picked them up, staring at the two faces. 'We know Oedipus isn't in his early twenties — Rory saw him — he had grey hair… And what kind of serial nut-job goes after Simon McLeod?'
'Suicidal one?' She managed to get two hands down the front of her shirt.
'Would you stop doing that?'
'Lost a bit of nicotine gum…'
Logan took another good long look at the e-fit of the older man. Short grey hair, chiselled jaw, stern eyes… 'Does he not look a bit… familiar to you?'
Steel snatched it off him, one hand still well and truly rammed down her cleavage as she squinted at the composite photo. 'No.' She handed it back. 'Susan and me watched that Indiana Jane and the Temple of Dildos last night. Brilliant. Tell you, she can raid my forbidden palace any time she likes.' Steel gave up on the rummaging, stood, and untucked her grey blouse.
'If you're getting naked, I'm leaving the room.'
'Don't flatter yourself…' She jiggled up and down until a small white rectangle of gum fell out onto the carpet. 'Aha! Knew it was in there somewhere.' She bent to retrieve her spoils.
'What if Rory screwed us over?'
'Nah,' said Steel, brushing the fluff off her nicotine gum, before popping it in her mouth, 'the wee shite only likes little girls.'
'No — I mean what if this isn't the guy who attacked us in the house? Rory didn't want to ID them in the first place, was scared in case they found out. What if Rory fiddled the description so he'd be in the clear?'
'I'll bloody kill him!'
'Maybe that's why no one's recognized the pictures yet?'
Steel grabbed her coat and tucked her blouse back into her trousers. 'Well, come on then: let's go pay Mr Rory Simpson a visit. Dirty wee bastard should still be in the cells.'
'And that's one pound fifty you owe the swear box.'
'No I don't.'
'Yes you do. One "bloody" one "bastard" and a "shite". Fifty pence each.'
The inspector opened her mouth, then closed it again. 'You are such a…' Scowl. 'Well, you called Pirie a wanker!'
She had him there. Down in the cell blocks, the sound of someone yelling echoed around the concrete and breezeblock walls. 'POLICE BRUTALITY! HELP! SOMEONE CALL A LAWYER! FUCKING BASTARD FUCKERS! HELP!'
Steel stopped on the stairs. 'Maybe we should come back when things are a bit less shouty?'
'You want me to do it?' asked Logan, one hand on the stairwell door.
'Oh aye, and take all the credit? No thank you.' She pushed past him into the depressing grey corridor.
'POLICE BRUTALITY!'
One of the Police Custody and Security Officers was standing in the middle of the cellblock, grinding her teeth.
'What's all this then?' said Steel. 'You been beating up our prisoners again? How often do I have to tell you that's CID's job?'
'POLICE FUCKING BRUTALITY!'
The PCSO gave cell number six a filthy look. 'Says he found a pubic hair in his tea. As if! Lucky we give the bastards breakfast at all. Next time he's brought in I'm farting on his rowie.'
'Come on then, Celebrity MasterChef, which one's Rory Simpson in?'
'He's not-'
'WHAT ABOUT MY BLOODY HUMAN RIGHTS?'
The PCSO banged on the cell door with the palm of her hand. 'WILL YOU SHUT UP!' There was a moment of blessed silence. 'Rory Simpson's been here since Friday afternoon so he got dibs on an early court hearing. They took him first thing. Got released on bail — trial date's been set for three weeks.'
'Oh for fff…' Steel ground to a halt. 'I mean, oh dear.' She turned and marched back towards the rear doors. 'Rory's a creature of habit: he'll go straight home from court, pausing only to pick up a wee bottle of brandy and a packet of custard creams to make himself feel better. We'll pick him up there. Not a problem.'
Wrong.
12
According to the Police National Computer, Rory Simpson rented a top-floor flat in a seventies development in Ruthrieston — not too far from Great Western Road, but just far enough from the local primary school to avoid breaching the exclusion zone required by his registered sex-offender status. The block was three storeys of bland, white-painted concrete — about two dozen flats in total — the walls streaked with grey and patches of green mould.
Logan abandoned their CID Vauxhall in the empty car park out back, then they worked their way round to the front of the building, avoiding the collection of broken wheely bins. The contents were being artistically spread all over the tarmac by a pair of cackling magpies.
'So,' said Logan, 'why the sudden desire for a swear box?'
'Told you, language in the department is appalling. Supposed to be professionals…' The inspector drifted to a halt. They'd reached the building's front door. The lock had been ripped right out of the wooden frame. She placed a hand against the door and pushed — it swung open on a tatty stairwell.
DI Steel peered inside. 'You thinking what I'm thinking?'
Logan reached out a hand and pressed the buzzer marked 'R SIMPSON'. An electronic grinding noise sounded from somewhere above.
No answer.
'Maybe we should call for backup?'
'You always want backup.'
'Yeah? Well look what happened last time.'
She stepped across the threshold and started up the stairs. 'We'll just take a quick peek.'
Logan watched her disappear into the gloomy hallway. Swore. Then followed her. 'Still say this is a bad idea…'
Whoever the landlord was he hadn't wasted any money making the block of flats look homely. The stairwell and landings were bare concrete, the walls a cheap shade of builder's magnolia.
Rory's flat was right where the computer said it would be. The front door was hanging from a single hinge, wide open, exposing a hallway cluttered with broken furniture and crockery.
'That's it,' Logan dragged out his phone, 'I'm calling for backup.'
But Steel was already heading inside.
'Damn it.' He snuck in after her, mobile clamped to his ear, waiting for Control to pick up.
The hallway led onto a lounge that looked like a bomb-site. Everything was smashed. The small bedroom was the same, drawers torn from the bedside cabinets, their contents scattered about the place. A loose mosaic of Polaroids spilled from the upturned bed onto the floor — all little girls in their school uniforms. Albyn School, Robert Gordon's, Springbank Primary, Victoria Road, Hamilton… All these and many more. Rory seemed to like it best when they were running around the playground, especially if he could capture a flash of white pants.
Steel picked her way through the devastation to the window, looking out at the magpies and their collage of nappies and takeaway food containers. 'You know what I think? I think our Rory's nasty little habits finally caught up with him. Some outraged parent finds out there's a paedophile living next door and decides to do something about it.' She looked down at the Polaroids. 'Can't say I blame them.'
They searched the rest of the flat, but there was no sign of its owner. Or his battered body. The inspector found a brand-new half bottle of supermarket brandy lying on the carpet behind the broken front door. 'It's no' been touched… Better get a couple of uniforms over here sharpish. I want everyone in the building given the full Spanish Inquisition, and don't spare the thumbscrews.'
Logan took another look around the lounge. 'You'd think there'd be signs of a struggle.'
Steel pointed at the broken picture frames, the upturn
ed sofa, the smashed CDs, the television set with a coffee table embedded in it. 'You're kidding, right?'
'No. You attack someone, they fight back, a couple of things get knocked over; broken. This place has been trashed. If they had Rory, why do all this? And why isn't there any blood?'
Shrug. 'Maybe… Well… How the hell am I supposed to know?'
'I think they broke in, but he wasn't here, so they took it out on the furniture. He comes home, sees the mess and does a runner.'
Steel groaned, rubbing at her eyes with nicotine-yellowed fingers. 'So now we've got a paedophile on the run. The sodding media are going to have a field day.'
'Look on the bright side, maybe he's lying dead in a ditch somewhere.' BANG — the incident room door bounced off the wall and Finnie stormed in, face like a bad day in Chernobyl. 'Is this some sort of joke to you? Is it? Do you think it's funny, Inspector? Rory Simpson was a key witness in the Oedipus case, and you thought it'd be a giggle to let him get away!'
Steel didn't even look up from her copy of that morning's Aberdeen Examiner: 'DRUG VIOLENCE AT AN ALL TIME HIGH'.
'Morning, Andy.'
'Don't you "morning Andy" me.' Finnie thrust a finger in Logan's direction. 'And you: why haven't you been to see Dr Goulding yet?'
'Tomorrow afternoon, sir. He's been away at a conference in Birmingham.'
Steel put her paper down on the desk. 'Laz, why don't you go get the teas in, eh? Milk and two for the DCI here. Go on, run along like a good wee boy.'
Logan didn't need to be told twice; if there was going to be an explosion he wanted to be as far away as possible.
As soon as the door was closed behind him, the shouting started. He stood there for a minute, listening to Steel and Finnie having a go at each other, then sloped off somewhere safer. He was up in CID, working his way through a pile of incident reports, when Steel finally put in an appearance. She didn't say anything, just marched straight over to the swear box and stuck a pile of cash in it.
Everyone in the room looked up to watch her feed in the coins.
Clatter, clang, clink, clink, clatter, clink — sounded like about a fiver's worth.
And then she turned on her heel and marched back out again, pausing only to tell Logan to get his backside in gear, they were going out. 'You want to talk about it?' Logan inched the pool car forward. Mounthooly roundabout looked more like a huge bronze-age burial mound than a roundabout, and it was just starting to get busy as people sneaked out for an early lunch.
'What the hell do you think?' Steel folded her arms, and sat there like a wrinkled gargoyle, while Logan waited for a break in the traffic.
The inspector shoogled in her seat. 'I hate these new pool cars. What the hell was wrong with the old ones?'
'Falling to bits, remember?'
'Well… the new ones don't smell right.'
'That's because they've not been used as rubbish tips for years. Anyway, it's nice not having to worry about rats hiding under the seats for a change…'
Steel scowled at him. 'Are you planning on sitting here all day, or should I just get out and bloody walk?'
He put his foot down and they joined the rush, all the way round to the other side. 'There's no point taking it out on me, OK?'
'You know what that sanctimonious, cock-faced, fuck-weasel said to me — and if you tell me that's another quid I owe the swear box I'm going to batter you one — he said it was my fault Rory Simpson walked. Like I had any sodding choice in the matter?' She put on her best DCI Finnie impersonation. '"He was a key witness in the Oedipus case, Inspector." "Why did you let him go, Inspector?" "Why can't you do anything right, Inspector?"'
Logan kept his mouth shut. No point throwing petrol on a burning building.
'And Oedipus is his bloody case!' she said. 'If anyone should've been keeping an eye on Rory Simpson, it was him.' She slammed her hand down on the dashboard. 'Pull over at that wee shop. Sod the "new me" I want a packet of fags.'
Logan didn't stop, just kept on going.
'Hoy!'
'You'll thank me later.'
'I'll bloody murder you now!' She watched the little shop slide past, then thumped back in her seat as they drove deep into darkest Froghall.
Two minutes later, Logan pointed through the windshield. 'That's it up there, second from the end.'
The street was all council owned, a pair of matching terraces running down both sides. They were broken up into blocks of six flats, three on each floor, arranged around a communal door and stairway. White harling walls shone in the noonday sun, but there were no mad dogs or Englishmen about, just a couple of evil-looking children jumping up and down on an old brown sofa someone had hauled to the kerb.
Steel stared at the scenery. 'No' exactly Butlins, is it?'
Logan climbed out into the sunshine, leant on the roof of the car, and watched the bouncing children watching him. Then one — a snottery-faced girl of six or seven — stuck her middle finger up at him and shouted, 'Fuck you lookin' at, pervert?'
The inspector slammed her door, and yelled back, 'Bugger off you ugly wee shite, or I'll come over there and ram my boot so far up your arse the Tooth Fairy will be picking up your molars for weeks!'
The little girl froze for a moment. Then ran off crying.
And Steel thought she wasn't good with children… The shared hallway didn't stink of old urine and disinfectant, which made a nice change. Logan stepped up to the steel-vault-style front door of Flat C and knocked. The sound echoed down the stairwell. Second floor: must have been a sod for Harry Jordan to get up here with two smashed kneecaps.
Steel was still grumbling away, 'Bloody Finnie; not his sodding messenger boy; I'll give him "no' competent"; frog-faced, arsehole-licking spunk-bucket…'
Logan tried the door again. 'Maybe no one's in?'
'Aye, typical Finnie: send us all the way over here on a wild bloody goose chase. "Make yourself useful, Inspector, go check on Harry Jordan, Inspector."' She made the universal hand-gesture for 'wanker'. 'Give it one more try then we're sodding off for lunch.'
Logan did, and a voice sounded on the other side — female, afraid, 'Who is it?'
'Police. Can you open the door please?'
'I… I'm not… What's it about?'
Steel stopped swearing and kicked the door, making the whole thing rattle. 'Tell Harry to get his crippled arse out here. I'm having a shitty day and I'm in no mood to piss about!'
Two minutes later they were standing in the living room. Inside, the place was surprisingly spacious — three bedrooms, one bathroom, kitchen, and the heart of Harry Jordan's little criminal empire.
The lounge was shrouded in darkness, curtains closed against the sunshine, just a tatty standard lamp to break the gloom. Three painfully thin women in various stages of undress hovered in the background. Dark circles lurked beneath their eyes; it was about the only colour on their emaciated frames. Can't be a pimp without merchandise.
Harry Jordan sat in a wheelchair in the middle of the room, both legs sticking straight out: encased in fibreglass casts from hip to ankle. The rest of him didn't look much better — his nose looked like a squashed prune, and the purple-yellow stain of fresh bruises covered the whole left-hand side of his face. According to his police record he was only twenty-nine, but with the lank hair and spreading bald spot he looked at least forty.
'Harry!' Steel beamed at him. 'A wee birdy tells me you had a falling out with Creepy Colin McLeod.'
A joint smouldered between Harry's lips, the smell filling the lounge: a cross between sweat, herbs, and chocolate. He squinted, then let out a huge lungful of smoke. His pupils were dark and wide. 'It's medicinal, OK? I'm in a lot of pain…'
'Serves you right.' Steel settled herself down on the huge grey couch, and stuck her feet up on the coffee table.
Logan got the feeling it was his turn to play 'Good Cop' again. 'We need to speak to you about Colin McLeod.'
The joint fell from Harry's lips. 'Aye… W…' He looked down
at the hand-rolled parcel, smouldering away on the burgundy carpet, then up at one of the stick-thin women. 'Fuck's wrong with you? PICK IT UP!'
She hurried forward, track marks standing out against the pale skin on her arms as she grabbed the joint and returned it to its rightful place in Harry's trembling fingers.
Steel tutted. 'Can't even pick up your own spliff, Harry. Creepy really did you over, didn't he?'
Another deep drag. Harry closed his eyes, letting the delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol ooze its way into his bloodstream. 'Girls,' he said, on a wave of sweet-smelling smoke, 'leave us…'
Steel grinned. 'What's the matter, Harry, scared the poor cows'll find out you're no' invincible after all?' She pointed at the wheelchair. 'Bit late for that, isn't it?'
Harry slammed his hand down on the armrest. 'I SAID LEAVE!'
The girls hurried out and closed the door behind them. Now the only sound was Harry's laboured breathing and some halfwit playing Whitney Houston's Greatest Hits in the flat downstairs.
'So,' the inspector stretched out, knocking a pile of hard-core Swedish pornography off the coffee table with her feet, 'Colin McLeod came round and battered the crap out your knees with a claw hammer last night? That's gotta hurt!'
Harry just went on nursing his joint, so Logan had a go: 'You should be in hospital where they can look after you.'
'Fucking hospitals do my head in, Man. Checked myself out.' Another toke. ''Sides, got me some painkillers and vodka, know what I mean?' He scowled at the closed door. 'Bitches think I'm not up to it any more. Fucking showed them though, didn't I? Nobody screws with Harry Jordan.'
'Except Creepy Colin McLeod.' Steel smiled at him. 'Why'd he do it? That tart of yours give him a dose of something? Path of true love, and all that.'
'You want to know what happened?' Harry finished the joint and crushed the remains out with his fingers. 'OK… Here's what happened. Creepy barges in here, acting the big man, ranting on about his brother's eyes. Like I'm supposed to know something about it-'
'Do you?'
Blind Eye lm-5 Page 8