Blind Eye lm-5

by Stuart MacBride

  Steel said, 'Positive.'

  'But my nose is itchy.'

  'So I'm supposed to believe some anonymous Russian and a bent copper are trying to kill you?'

  'He's not anonymous: I saw him. When I got back outside I looked up, at the flat. The Russian was standing at the window, talking to someone on the phone. It was him — the man from the house when that gangster got blinded. Grey hair, eyes like a rapist.'

  There was a thunk on the bonnet and Logan looked around. A fat seagull was glaring at them through the windscreen. Logan honked the horn, but the bird didn't even blink. 'You lied when we put together that e-fit, didn't you.'

  'Didn't want to get involved. And now look…' He sagged, until his head was resting on the spare tyre. 'If you take me back to the station, they'll kill me.'

  Steel chewed in silence for a minute. Then turned back to face the front. 'Sounds like a load of old bollocks to me.'

  Logan cleared his throat. 'Actually… I think he's telling the truth.'

  'You soft git.' She pulled the gum from her mouth, rolled down her window, and pinged it at the seagull, then did the same thing with her cigarette butt. Missed both times. 'Fine, we'll give him the benefit of the doubt.' Steel turned back to scowl at Rory. 'Looks like it's your lucky day. But if you're lying to me, you'll be digging your own shallow grave, understand?'

  51

  The rear podium car park was nearly empty, just the Chief Constable's flash new Audi, DI Steel's MX-5, and a couple of patrol cars. Logan pulled into one of the free parking spots and turned off the engine. As it coughed and spluttered to a halt, a muffled whisper came through from the back. 'Where are we?'

  'Force Headquarters.'

  'What?' The whisper turned into a panicky yelp. 'No! You said! You promised!'

  'Shhhhhhh! We're just stopping here till Steel has a word with the head of CID.'

  'WHAT?'

  'You want someone to hear you?'

  And he was whispering again: 'She shouldn't be talking to anyone. What if he's the policeman I heard?'

  Logan turned and stuck two fingers up at the man in the boot. They'd put the back seat up again, so Rory couldn't actually see, but it was the thought that counted. 'Detective Chief Superintendent Bain was not in your flat, plotting to kill you with a Russian gangster, OK? He's…' Logan drifted to a halt, watching as Steel stuck her head out of the back doors and made come-hither motions. 'We're on.' He unbuckled his seatbelt. 'Stay where you are and keep quiet.'

  'But-'

  'No. And stop moving about: someone'll see.'

  Logan climbed out of the car, locked it, then followed DI Steel inside.

  Drunken singing echoed up from the cell block, punctuated by someone shouting, 'SHUT UP YOU NOISY BASTARD!'

  'Right,' said Steel, marching down the corridor, 'took a bit of convincing, but Bain's going to let us keep Rory at a secure location: your place.'

  'What? No! Why can't he stay at a safe house?'

  'Because the less people know we've got him, the better. He's staying at yours.'

  'No chance.' Logan followed her through a set of double doors. 'It's a one-bedroom flat, where's he supposed to go? You've got a bloody huge place, why can't he stay there?'

  'Oh aye, Susan'll love that, won't she? "Honey, I'm home! I know you're desperate for a kid, but I've brought a paedophile to stay for a bit instead." She'd have his balls off with a pair of pliers, two minutes flat.'

  'Then don't tell her.'

  'I'm no'-'

  'He's not staying at mine!'

  Steel threw her hands in the air. 'Fine! Act like a baby, see if I care!' She stomped to a halt. Turned. And poked Logan. 'But if he ends up with his knackers ripped off it's your fault.' She marched off again. 'Go get the bloody laptop.'

  Logan headed up one flight of stairs and through the keypad-controlled door to reception. Big Gary was sitting behind the counter, nibbling on a Ryvita and looking miserable.

  Logan leant on the desk. 'Better watch that, you'll waste away…' He stopped. Sniffed. Winced. The reception area stank. 'What the…'

  Big Gary pointed at the row of seats against the window, where PC Karim's best friend Dirty Bob was slumped, picking things out of his beard and eating them.

  'God almighty…'

  'Tell me about it. He's been here since half ten.'

  'Then chuck him out!'

  The fat sergeant sighed. 'Can't: his mate Richard died last night. He's got to wait here till the great Detective Inspector Beattie deigns to interview him.' Big Gary shook his head, setting off a ripple of blue-stubbled chins. 'Can you believe it? DI Beardy Beattie: all the people they could've promoted, and they picked him.'

  Big Gary took another bite of Ryvita and crunched. 'Anyway, what you doing in? Thought you were off on the sick till tomorrow.'

  'Need to pick up something for Steel.'

  'You look like crap, by the way.'

  'At least I'm not eating stale cardboard.'

  The huge sergeant took a slurp of tea and grimaced. 'Who invented camomile?' He put the mug down. 'What you after?'

  'I need a laptop with e-fit software on it.'

  'Aye, hud oan.' He disappeared from the desk, then there was some grunting, and he returned with a battered laptop bag. He thumped it down in front of Logan, then forced it through the gap between the glass screen and the desk. 'One laptop.' It was followed by a clipboard. 'Sign there. And no taking the piss! The amount of bastards who've signed stuff out as "Mickey Mouse" or "Adolf Hitler"…'

  'Who rattled your cage?'

  'Not my bloody job, is it? Sooner they get that refit done the better.' He snatched the clipboard back and peered at Logan's signature — checking. 'Right, it's all yours. And before you go…' He produced a stack of Post-it notes. 'Your messages.'

  'Off on the sick, remember? I'll pick them up tomorrow, and-'

  'No you sodding won't: I've had enough of the bloody things cluttering up my desk.'

  Logan picked up the pile of sticky yellow notes. 'You were a lot more fun before you gave up the chocolate.' Logan sat on the bonnet of his crappy car, a cigarette sticking out of the side of his mouth as he read his messages and waited for Steel. One by one he stuck the Post-it notes on the rusty brown paintwork beside him, making a little chequerboard pattern. Two from Father Burnett, reminding Logan that he was always welcome at St Peter's if he ever wanted to talk about anything. Three from Hilary Brander, demanding he call back. One from DI Beardie Sodding Beattie saying how much he was looking forward to them working together, now he'd been promoted — tosser. Three from Rennie moaning about the aforementioned tosser treating him like his personal slave. One from Tracey and her sister Kylie, about how great Lossiemouth was, and like, thanks, you know?

  And four from Doctor Dave Goulding.

  Logan read those ones last, cigarette clamped between his teeth, smoke curling up around his eyes. They were all pretty much the same: trying to set up a meeting about a fictitious case. 'REMEMBER THOSE RAPES WE WERE TALKING ABOUT? I REALLY THINK I CAN HELP.' All of them ended the same way: with the words, 'I CAN HELP' and the psychologist's phone number. Subtle.

  Logan pulled out his mobile and dialled.

  A perky Liverpudlian voice said, 'Hello, Dave Goulding?'

  'What's wrong with you?'

  There was silence. Then, 'Who is this?'

  'Are you after a restraining order? Is that it?'

  'Look, I don't know who you are, but I'm sure I can help. Why don't you-'

  'No, you can't. OK? You can't bloody help!'

  Pause. 'You have to tell me who you are, I can't-'

  'Leave — me — the fuck — alone.' Then Logan hung up.

  He took the cigarette out of his mouth, his fingers shaking so much that ash went everywhere. Maybe now-

  His mobile was ringing. Logan checked the number on the screen and swore: it was Dr Goulding calling back.

  He let it ring.

  Took another trembling drag on his cigarette.


  Then answered. Why not? He was in the mood for a fight.

  The psychologist's voice had lost none of its infuriating cheeriness, 'Logan, Dave Goulding.' He said it as if it was all one word: LoganDaveGoulding.

  'If you've-'

  'Just wanted to have a quick word about Ricky Gilchrist.'

  'You…' Logan trailed off. Not what he'd been expecting. 'Ricky Gilchrist?'

  'Yeah: thought I'd keep you up to date, as we've not talked since you went off to Poland.' Diplomatically ignoring the fact that they'd just spoken thirty seconds ago. 'I've been working with Gilchrist since his arrest — made some very real progress. Fascinating character.'

  Logan pulled the Post-it notes out of their pattern, stacking them back into a block as the psychologist droned on.

  'This morning he remembered a story his dad used to tell about how Ricky's great grandmother abandoned three kids and ran off with a Polish airman during World War Two. Isn't it strange how something all those years ago can echo through people? Generations of bitterness, all distilled into Ricky Gilchrist. Can you imagine being spoon-fed that your whole life?'

  'And that's why he did it?'

  'Well, there's going to be more to it than that, but it's a great start, don't you think?'

  'You helped Gilchrist, so you can help me. That supposed to be the idea?' Logan mashed his eyes with the palm of his free hand. 'You keep leaving messages.'

  'Of course, we've had another Oedipus victim since he was arrested, so it's all got a bit complicated. Gilchrist now claims he's got thirteen disciples, and they're the ones carrying on His Holy Work.'

  Logan took one last drag, then ground the stub out on the bonnet. 'I want you to leave me alone. I don't need any help.'

  'It's possible he's been working with an accomplice, but I doubt it: Gilchrist's not the type. He's a fantasist, I think he's just been taking the credit.'

  'Did you hear me?'

  Pause. 'It's called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Let me guess: you've got problems sleeping? Nightmares? A heightened feeling of anxiety? You're irritable, have difficulty concentrating, feel numb? It's perfectly natural. And I know you don't want to hear it right now, but you don't have to feel this way. Talking about it will help.'

  'There's nothing to talk about. I'm fine.'

  'You don't have to decide right now. Just think about it. I'm free tomorrow — well, I'll be working on the revised Oedipus profile, but I'd appreciate your help?'

  Logan hung up on him again.

  52

  Logan parked on the street outside DI Steel's house, and sat there, waiting for the inspector to turn up in her little sports car. Sunshine danced across the road and pavement, filtering through the leaves of ancient beech trees.

  A voice from the Fiat's boot: 'OK, my turn. I spy with my little eye, something beginning with S.T.'

  'Spare Tyre. Again.'

  There was a gurgling roar and Steel pulled up on the street in front of him. She had the roof down on her car, her hair whipped up into an asymmetric shambles. She hopped out, dug a tatty carrier bag out of the passenger-side footwell, then marched over to the garage and hauled open the heavy red door.

  Logan reversed his manky Fiat up the drive and into the gloomy interior.

  It was a glory hole of cardboard boxes, random tools and half-empty tins of paint encrusted with emulsion tears.

  Steel hauled the garage door down, flicked on the overhead light, then marched round and opened the Fiat's boot. A little flurry of rusty snowflakes fell on the curled up figure of Rory Simpson, hands still cuffed behind his back.

  'Hokey Cokey time, Rory.' She held up a tatty carrier bag. 'Stick your left leg out.'

  'Give me a minute… Ow… Ooh… Eee…'

  'We haven't got all sodding day!' Steel grabbed Rory's right ankle and pulled.

  'AAAAAGH!'

  'What now?'

  'Pins and needles.'

  'Oh, don't be such a Jessie.' She yanked down Rory's sock, then dug an electronic tag out from the plastic bag, wrapped it around his ankle, and Logan fastened it with the special pliers, making sure it was on nice and tight. Steel gave the thing a good tug, just in case.

  'Ow! Not so rough.' Rory rolled to the lip of the boot and struggled there until Logan grabbed a double handful of brown corduroy jacket and hauled him out. He limped a couple of paces, then stopped. 'Still don't see why this is necessary.'

  'Then you're dafter than you look.' Steel slammed the hatchback shut and more rust escaped. 'Only way that tag's coming off is if your foot goes with it. You go more than twenty yards from this house and a wee man with a big computer will tell me exactly where you are. And after I've beaten the living crap out of you, I'll drag you down to the station by your one remaining bollock.'

  'But…' Rory looked down at his crotch, then back up at Steel. 'I've got two testicles.'

  'No' when I've finished with you.'

  'Oh.'

  Steel shoved him towards the plain wooden door in the side wall. 'And if you do anything to upset my wife, if you so much as think about wee kiddies, or fucking sneeze out of place, I'll do for you. Understand?' The dishwasher gurgled in one corner of the kitchen, cleaning up after a microwaved lunch of leftover macaroni cheese and oven chips. Then they had a pot of tea on the breakfast bar, with a plate of chocolate digestives. All very civilized.

  They drank in silence, Rory dipping his chocolate biscuits in his tea before methodically licking all the topping off with a yellowy slug-like tongue.

  Steel wrinkled her nose, then turned to Logan. 'So come on, Sherlock, how did you find him?'

  'You said he was a creature of habit, so he was bound to turn up at that primary school sooner or later. All I had to do was wait.'

  'Really?' Rory sagged. 'Didn't think I was so predictable.'

  Steel took the plate of digestives away from him. 'You smell like a hoor's armpit too.'

  'Been living rough — sleeping in people's sheds, public toilets… that kind of thing. Can't say it's a lifestyle I'd recommend.' He raised an arm and sniffed his own armpit. 'Is it really that bad?'

  'Worse. There's a guest bathroom upstairs; take a shower before we all suffocate.'

  'But I don't have any clean-'

  'Don't worry.' She gave him an evil smile. 'I'll find you something to wear.' Rory looked at himself in the mirror. Frowned. Then pulled at the lemon-yellow sweatshirt DI Steel had given him. 'Are you sure you don't have anything else?'

  Logan smiled. 'I think it suits you.'

  'But…' He pulled at the sweatshirt again. A big pink triangle sat in the middle of the chest, with the words, 'OUT, LOUD, GAY AND PROUD!' reversed out of it. A pair of pastel-pink jogging bottoms finished off the ensemble, one leg ruffled up over the electronic tag attached to his ankle. 'But I'm not gay. What if people think I'm gay?'

  Steel smacked him over the back of the head. 'You're a sodding paedophile! World would be a happier place if you'd been born gay. And what's with the face?'

  Rory was bright red, double chins wobbling in time with his bottom lip. 'I don't like the "P" word, it's… it's horrible.'

  'If you don't like it, you shouldn't interfere with little girls, should you?' She took a handful of yellow sweatshirt and frogmarched him to the door. 'Come on, Gaylord. Time to sing for your supper.' 'God,' said Steel, lying on the couch, grey-socked feet dangling over the arm, 'why's it taking so long?'

  They'd decamped to the living room, Logan and Rory working at the coffee table while the inspector slumped about like a badly designed cat. 'They built the sodding pyramids quicker than this!'

  Rory licked his lips. 'Well, maybe if I had a little smackerel of something wet it would help? Like a brandy…?'

  'When you're finished.' She lifted her head and scowled at him. 'Now get back to work, or you'll get a swift snifter of my boot up your backside.'

  Logan went through every combination of nose, eyebrows, ears, mouth and chin the e-fit software had, until they finally came up with two faces
. One was angular, with a broad forehead, the hair receding at the front and shoulder-length at the back. The other had hard eyes, a nose that listed to the left, and short grey hair.

  'You're sure?' said Logan, mouse hovering over the 'SAVE' button.

  'Hmm… Well… maybe… No. This one had a scar or something, on his chin. About…' he leant forward and tapped the screen, 'there.'

  Logan selected a scar from the menu and moved it into place. 'Like that?'

  'Perfect.' Rory hopped down from his chair, and struck an I'm-A-Little-Teapot pose in his lemon and pink ensemble. 'And now, His Royal Gay-For-A-Dayness demands a brandy!'

  Steel peeled herself off the couch. 'We'll see if you deserve one first.' She loomed over Logan's shoulder and squinted at the e-fits. 'Recognize them?'

  He closed the laptop with a small click. 'I think we're all going to need a drink.' 'You took your sodding time!' Steel scowled at Detective Constable Rennie as he hobbled into the kitchen, bent under the weight of a massive, lumpy holdall.

  He dumped it on the floor. 'Any chance of a cuppa? I'm parched.'

  'Do I look like a sodding char lady?' She hoiked a thumb at the kettle. 'You know where it is.'

  Logan nudged the holdall with his foot. It rattled. 'What's this?'

  'Videos and DVDs. And for your information, I got here as soon as I could.' Rennie filled the kettle from the tap. 'You only called half an hour ago. Takes that long to find a sodding parking space.'

  The inspector peered at the bag. 'Videos, eh? Better no' be porn… Is it porn? If it's porn you can leave it here.'

  'It's not porn, it's CCTV footage and you're welcome to it.' He stuck a teabag in a clean mug. 'Anyone else want one?'

  Steel stood. 'Who knows you're here?'

  'No one: Secret Squirrel all the way. They think I'm off questioning security guards about the Sperminator case. Mind you, Beattie isn't happy about it. Bastard thinks I've got nothing better to do than run about after his beardy arse all day. Rennie, do this; Rennie, do that; like I'm his bloody sidekick!'

  'Boo hoo.' She grabbed her car keys from a pegboard by the fridge, then shouted, 'RORY!'