'This isn't the way we do things!'
'Well maybe it should be.' She rubbed a hand across her cheek, then kicked Gary again.
Gary dragged in a shuddering breath, tears and toilet water dripping from his face. 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…'
Logan pushed past Steel, getting between her and Gary before she did him some permanent damage. 'Who was it? Who rented Krystka Gorzalkowska out like she was a bloody Transit Van?'
'We got… we got her from this guy Allan knows. Some Polish bloke…'
'Name.'
'I don't know…'
'Name, Gary. I want a name and address, or I'm out of here; you can go back to your swimming lesson.'
'I don't know! I swear, on my mother's grave! I never met him, Allan did all that stuff.' Gary howched up a mouthful of something foul and spat it into the bowl. 'He said they were like a company that did porn actresses and stuff.'
'What company?' Logan got the sinking feeling he knew where this was going.
'Cost Key Internal somethings… She was two hundred pounds for the day…'
'Kostchey International Holdings Limited.' Steel was in the back garden, sitting on an upturned wheelbarrow in the long grass, smoking a sulky cigarette. The sound of Radio One wafted over from three houses down — some TV talent show wannabe murdering an Elvis song.
Logan settled back against the wall. 'That was out of order.'
'Rape's a nasty thing, Sergeant. You should try it some time, see how tolerant you are then.' She flicked a little swirl of ash into the still morning air.
'You can't assault a prisoner in custody. Look what happened to DI Insch.'
'Aye, well, technically he's no' in custody yet. He's just had an unfortunate toilet-related mishap.' She took a deep drag on her fag. 'He going to press charges?'
Logan looked away. 'I had a word with him.'
'Oh aye?'
'Still got a pile of those Polaroids from Rory Simpson's flat: little girls running about with their panties on show. Told Gary it would be a shame if we find some of them when we search his house. Might not go down too well when he gets to prison.'
'Ta.'
'You owe me.'
'Aye…' The grey cat was back, picking its way along the fence at the bottom of the garden. Steel dug in her trouser pocket and came out with a five pound note. 'Here.' She handed it over. 'For the swear box. Should only be three fifty, but I'm planning on calling Gary a worthless sack of shite a couple of times.'
Logan watched the cat jump down and disappear into the long grass. 'You can't ever do that again, you know that, don't you?'
'Like you said, I owe you one.' Steel ground her cigarette out on the wheelbarrow, then flicked the remains away into the jungle. 'How's Rennie?'
'Got bashed on the head with an iron. Might be brain damaged, but who'd know the difference?'
She hauled herself to her feet, brushing dust and cobwebs from the seat of her trousers. 'Better get on the blower to your mate the fat pornographer. I want to know who these Kostchey International Dickheads are and where I can find them.'
'Already did it. No answer, so I left a message.'
She nodded. 'Right, let's go see what the Little Mermaid has to say for himself.'
Gary was sitting on a ratty brown armchair in the lounge, staring off into the middle distance, hair plastered to his head, T-shirt soaked through all the way down to his waist.
Rennie was perched on the sofa, a bag of frozen sweet-corn clutched to the side of his head. He looked up as Steel creaked down beside him, then handed over his notebook. 'Mobile number.'
Gary sniffed. 'We had to call it when we was finished with the girl.' He raised his cuffed hands and rubbed at his pink eyes. 'They'll kill me if they find out.'
'Oh aye? That'd be such a shame.' Steel produced her phone and dialled with her thumb, held the thing to her ear. 'Ringing…'
Gary wiped his nose on his arm. 'You got to get me that witness protection, yeah?'
'Oh don't be so wet. They're just-' Steel stopped, then spoke into the phone, 'Hello?' Pause. 'Aye, got your number from a friend. Said you had… women for hire. You know, for doing films and stuff?… His name?… Aye, aye, keep your shirt on, it was Duane Cowie. You… Hello? Hello?'
She clicked the phone shut, pursed her lips, then said, 'Hung up. Some people got no manners.' The inspector slapped Gary on the back of the head again, sending little droplets of water flying. 'Backside in gear, Toilet Boy. Got a nice warm cell waiting for you.' He only had ten minutes before Dr Goulding was meant to come in and do a psychological workup on Ricky Gilchrist, but Logan's stomach sounded as if he'd swallowed an angry bear. He sealed the interview tapes and signed them into evidence, then headed up to the canteen, on the off chance there was something nice left.
For once the interview had gone without a hitch: Gary had been a good boy, repeated everything about his coconspirators and where he'd got the girl from — on the record this time — and kept his mouth shut about his underwater adventure. Going to prison would be bad enough, he didn't want someone carving 'PAEDOPHILE' into his forehead with a homemade knife when he got there.
Logan grabbed an egg mayonnaise sandwich and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, eating them on his way back down to the interview rooms.
Goulding was early — Logan could hear him chatting with DCI Finnie in the observation suite. Today the psychologist was wearing a sharp, collarless suit and a tie that wouldn't have looked out of place on a carnival Wurlitzer. He smiled at Logan and shook his hand. 'Ah, Sergeant McRae. You got him! Great stuff.'
'Well… you know… team effort.'
Finnie snorted. 'No it wasn't, you- bugger.' His phone was ringing. He excused himself, and took the call out in the corridor. 'What? Yes… What do you mean they won't talk?' He closed the door.
Goulding pointed at one of the observation suite monitors. Ricky Gilchrist was already in room two, sitting alone at the interview table, a burly PC standing against the window behind him. 'Fascinating, isn't he?'
The psychologist pulled up one of the creaky plastic chairs and sank into it. 'He fits the profile perfectly. Dead father, emotionally distant mother — I know it's not her fault, after the stroke and everything, but it's still true. Ricky's a single white male, in his mid twenties, and he used to work as a labourer on a building site until the company fired him and took on Polish migrants instead…' Goulding rested the tips of his fingers against the screen, just like he'd done with his whiteboard. 'Fascinating.' There was a thoughtful pause. 'Do you know if he has any history of violence? Fire-raising? Cruelty to animals?'
Logan checked the file. 'Nothing he was caught for.'
'Ah, well, I'm sure it'll all come out in the fullness of time.' Goulding tapped the image of Gilchrist. 'I can't wait to open up that little head and see how it ticks… Do you know he won't refer to any of his victims by name? It's just like the notes he sent: he's completely dehumanized them.'
'He told me they don't deserve names. "They're just bloody animals."'
'I know…' And then, 'How about you? Sleeping any better?'
'Eh? What's that got-'
'You look tired.'
'Busy day yesterday.'
Goulding turned and stared at him. 'I meant what I said: therapy could really help you.'
'Can we just focus on Ricky Gilchrist? Please?'
'It would be in the strictest confidence. You could tell people you were following up on offender profiles if you like?'
The door opened again and Finnie grumbled into the room. 'Right, McRae, I've got a job for you.'
Thank God for that. 'Good cop, or bad cop?'
The DCI paused. 'Actually, I want you to give DS Pirie a hand. He's getting nowhere with Harry Jordan's tarts.'
'What? But I-'
'Look: you caught Gilchrist and you got him to confess. You're getting full credit for it. What we're doing now is just a tidying-up exercise. And let's face it, Pirie hasn't exactly been setting the world on fire recently, has he?' Finni
e patted Logan on the shoulder. 'I need a right-hand-man who can get results.' Harry Jordan's manky flat-cum-brothel was a tip. Not just dirty, but ruined. As if someone had gone on the rampage with a sledgehammer. The furniture was all smashed: the grey sofas flattened and broken, huge chunks of stuffing spilling out onto the bare chipboard floor. The smell of industrial bleach made Logan's eyes water, even with the windows open.
Detective Sergeant Pirie gave a tattered paperback a halfhearted kick. 'I don't need you here to hold my bloody hand.'
Logan leant against the windowsill, between the dead bluebottles. 'This wasn't my idea, OK? Blame Finnie.'
'You're a sodding jinx, you know that?'
'Thanks, it's great working with you too.'
'Why don't you kiss my-'
The living room door opened and Kylie's sister, Tracey, shuffled into the room, rubbing at the crook of her arm. 'Been through this,' she said, eyes flicking around the room. Licking her lips. Trembling. Her skin slick and shiny. 'Wasn't Creepy battered Harry's head in, OK? Was some black bloke.'
Logan pointed at the wreckage. 'You had the decorators in since I was here last?'
She sniffed and stared at the chipboard floor. 'Some blokes came round from the Environmental Health. Tore up all the carpet coz of… you know… the blood, like.'
'They break all the furniture too?'
'We had a party.'
'Course you did,' said Pirie, 'a happy house-wrecking. Bring your own crowbar.'
She glanced at him, then back at the floor. 'Does he have to be here?'
'Course I do, you silly c-'
Logan spoke over the top of him. 'Maybe DS Pirie could go make us all a nice cup of tea?'
Pirie sneered. 'Up yours. If there's anyone-'
'Now, would be good.'
He looked as if he was about to say something, then huffed, stuck his hands in his pockets. 'Fine.' He turned and stomped from the room.
'He's a right wanker, you know? Total.'
Logan shrugged. 'He's got a point though. Either you're way behind on the housework, or someone's trashed the place.'
She wouldn't look at him. 'Wasn't… We…' Deep breath. 'It wasn't Creepy, OK? I told you, it wasn't him.'
'You sure?' He let the silence grow uncomfortable. 'I meant what I said, Tracey: I can help. Get you away from…' he waved his hands, taking in the squalor and destruction, '… all this.'
She rubbed at her arm again. 'I can't…'
'If you help me put Colin McLeod away, I'll get you and Kylie into witness protection. You could start over again somewhere new. Anywhere you like.'
She looked up for the first time. 'Used to go to Lossiemouth when me and Kylie was kids, you know?' Then her eyes drifted back to the chipboard, fingernails worrying at a scab on her wrist till it started to bleed. 'We was happy there…'
'Lossiemouth, then. All you have to do is make a statement, and stick to it this time. We'll even get you into a rehab programme if you like?'
Tracey sniffed, then wiped her nose on her sleeve. 'Kinda on one now. They cut us off. Won't let anyone sell us gear… coz of what we said about Creepy.'
She crouched down and fumbled in the broken sideboard, coming out with a litre bottle of cheap vodka. 'Two blokes came round with Mrs McLeod. She was all, like, "This is what happens when you lie about my family." And then the blokes started smashing everything. You know? Then the old bag asks if we've learned our lesson yet. And Kylie says, "Yeah," you know?'
She cracked the seal on the vodka and took a swig. 'And Mrs McLeod says, "No you haven't. But you will." and the big bloke grabs Kylie and starts smacking her around.' Tracey's voice was getting quieter and quieter. Another swig. 'Like she's not still hurting from when Harry knocked her about, you know, for the wheelchair joke? So I wades in, and they take it out on me instead…' She stared at the bottle in her hands. 'Used to work with our stepdad too.'
'And Mrs McLeod was there the whole time?'
'She was the one said they'd be back if we didn't tell the police it was someone else who battered Harry.' Tracey knocked back another mouthful. 'But it wasn't, you know? Creepy did it, I saw him do it.'
Logan slipped his notebook back in his pocket. 'Then all you have to do is come down to the station with me. We'll get it all typed up properly, you can sign it, then I'll get something sorted with Witness Protection. OK?'
The lounge door creaked open and in came DS Pirie with three steaming mugs. 'Milk was off, so you've got some sort of soya crap instead.' He clumped the mugs on the windowsill, sending a slop of weak coffee over the edges and onto the dusty paintwork.
Logan took one. There was lipstick on the rim, and a thin brown line to mark a previous high tide. He put it back down again. 'No offence, but I think I'll wait till we get back to the ranch. How about you, Tracey? You want to get Kylie and we can head off?'
She looked up at Pirie, then back at the floor again. 'I don't want to come back here. You know? After.'
'Pack whatever you need. We're in no rush.' Pirie perched himself on the edge of the broken sofa, hands in his pockets, face turned to the window. Outside, a couple of small children were running about on the communal drying green, screeching happily. 'So,' said Pirie, 'you got them to talk.'
Logan shrugged. 'Yeah, well…'
'Thought you were supposed to be a complete fuck-up?'
'Thanks.'
Pirie cleared his throat, paused. 'I…' Another pause. 'Finnie's going to cream his pants when he finds out.'
The sounds of muffled conversation came from the hallway — Kylie and her sister picking through the debris of their flat for anything worth salvaging.
Logan watched as one of the small children outside, looking over his shoulder at the kid chasing him, ran right into a metal clothes pole. CLANGGGGG… He went flat on his back, then started to wail. 'Why's Finnie so obsessed with the McLeods?'
'What, other than all the unsolved armed robberies, punishment beatings, drugs, loan-sharking, prostitution, tobacco smuggling…? You name it they're up to their ears in it.'
'What about Wee Hamish Mowat?'
'Ah… Yes.' Pirie ran a hand through his curly orange hair.
'Let's just say that it's complicated.'
'You mean Finnie's dirty?'
'What? No…' He drifted off into silence for a moment. 'The thing you got to remember about Wee Hamish is that he's a bit like background radiation. You can live with it for generations, then suddenly all your teeth fall out.' He cleared his throat again. 'Look, I'm sorry if I was a dick earlier, OK? I've been… This sodding caravan full of guns: I'm getting nowhere. And I just…' Pirie sighed, shrugged, stuck his hands in his pockets. 'Well, you know.'
Out on the communal green, the screaming child's mother had arrived, all hugs and kisses. If anything the kid's bawling got even louder.
Pirie prodded the remains of the shattered coffee table with his toe. 'You heard about the DI's position coming up?'
'Gray's going off on the stress.'
'Yes, well,' said Pirie, 'I was odds-on favourite… Don't suppose it matters now. Finnie's going to put you forward, isn't he?'
'No idea.'
'Be mad if he didn't.' What was left of the coffee table collapsed. A handful of DVDs and dog-eared dirty magazines slithered onto the carpet. 'Sod it…' He bent down and picked up a copy of Naughty Nuns 2: Hardcore Devotions. 'Suppose we'll all have to start being nice to you. Just in case.'
Logan smiled. 'Wouldn't hurt.' Ten minutes later they were out in sunshine again, Pirie helping Tracey and her sister pack their stuff into the CID pool car while Logan listened to DI Steel whinging on the other end of his mobile.
'Hope you're happy,' she was saying, sounding out of breath. 'I had to take that idiot Beattie…' There was some rustling, then she told someone, 'Well, ring the damn thing then!'
Logan heard the sound of a doorbell in the background. 'Where are you?'
'Where do you think? Got a warrant for Gary the Cameraman's rapist chums. Did yo
u get an address for Kostchey International Whatevers?'
'Not yet.'
There was a pause.
'Right, first thing tomorrow we'll- Hoy! You! Stop right there!' Some rustling, and then the inspector's voice was all over the place. 'Come… back… here… you… little… shite!' Puffing, panting, then what sounded like the ocean crashing repeatedly against a stony shore.
She'd probably stuffed her phone in her pocket.
Logan listened for another minute, but the only thing he could hear was the SWOOOSSHH, PWSHHHH of fabric on the mobile's microphone. He hung up. If it was important she'd call back.
36
Quarter past six and Logan was just starting the report on their visit to Harry Jordan's train-wreck brothel. It wasn't the interview that had taken the time — that was the easy bit — it was haggling with the Witness Protection people. Then filling in all their bloody forms. But finally Tracey and her sister had been picked up by an extremely plainclothes officer in a dented Citroen Picasso.
Both stick-thin junkies had given Logan a big hug before they left.
And now, the paperwork beckoned.
Two pages into it, DS Pirie stuck his head round the CID room door and grinned. 'You're going to want to come downstairs and see this.' The back doors boomed open, and a pair of uniformed officers dragged an old lady out of the back of a police van. Mrs McLeod's housekeeper: hands cuffed behind her back, face red and swollen from a good dose of pepper-spray, kicking and screaming.
'YOU FUCKING PIG BASTARDS, I'LL FUCKING KILL THE WHOLE FUCKING LOT OF YOU!'
Pirie waved her goodbye as she was hauled down the corridor. 'Isn't she sweet? When they kicked the door in, she went for someone with a kitchen knife.'
Next out of the van was Mrs McLeod herself. She was dressed in her black and white silk and cashmere ensemble again, jewellery glittering as she stepped down from the van and into the station's fluorescent lighting.
Finnie came strolling in behind her. 'Ah yes, Agnes, you'll love it here. The rooms are a bit snug, but the views are terrific.' He did a little skip-step, then winked at her, 'Make sure you tip the bell-boy, OK? They might put bogies in your tea otherwise.'
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