Blind Eye

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.