Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

'Well, at least I'm not at the post mortem this time. Got an appointment with that criminal psychologist, Dr Goulding. Finnie's orders.'

'Yeah? Think I'd rather go to the PM myself.' She stood. Sat down again. Picked the pile of printouts back out of her in-tray. Shuffled through them. Put them down on her desk. 'Any chance of a cuppa?'

Logan stared. 'Are you wearing a skirt?'

'Milk two sugars.'

'You are, aren't you? You're actually wearing a skirt.' It was blue with little yellow dots.

Steel yanked open one of her desk drawers and pulled out an Airwave handset. 'Can you believe Finnie wants everyone in CID to carry one of these damn things now? Aye, and no' just the plebs: DIs as well!'

'Stop avoiding the subject. What's got into you today?'

She produced a moth-eaten handbag and dropped the handset inside. 'Like carting a brick round with you.'

And that was when it clicked. 'Ahhhh. You've got your adoption social work interview thing this afternoon. I told you: don't sweat it, you'll be fine.'

Steel laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. 'Bollocks I will. I've no' had a fag for two days, I'm off the booze, I'm wearing a skirt, and I'm no' allowed to swear. You got any idea how unnatural that is?' She fidgeted with the collar of her blouse. 'Feel like somebody's mum.'

'Thought that was the idea.'

'If you've got nothing better to do than get up my nose, you can go chase up that lookout request on Rory Simpson.'

'Already did: no sign of him. Even been on to Dundee, Glasgow, Fraserburgh and Inverness. He's vanished.'

Steel screwed her eyes tightly shut, bared her teeth, clenched and unclenched her hands. 'I'm no' going to swear, I'm no' going to swear…'

'Oh, and I checked out Kostchey International Holdings as well.'

'What?' She peeled open one eye. 'Who the hell are they?'

'That company supplying Polish actresses for porn films, remember? They aren't on the register at Companies House. They don't exist.'

'Oh for God's sake. I — Don't — Care. OK? I really don't. Let it go.'

'But Krystka Gorzalkowska-'

'Was a silly tart in the wrong place at the wrong time. You saw the footage — no one was getting forced to do anything. The Crocodildo girls are happy making dirty films, I'm happy watching them, and Zander with a "Z" is happy paying for them. Ergo, leave it the hell alone.' She sighed. 'Oh don't look at me like that. You know it's true.'

Logan didn't say anything.

'OK, OK, fine.' Steel banged her handbag down on the desk. 'Quit it with the puppy-dog eyes: we'll look into it, even though it's a vast waste of police time. Go see that idiot McPherson, he's supposed to be the official liaison with the Polish police. Get them to chase up Kissing International Whatever-it-is, maybe they're registered over there.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'But if Finnie finds out and goes mental, I'm telling him it was all your idea.'

Logan gave her a little salute and left the room, trying to pretend he couldn't hear Steel's parting shot: 'And don't forget: milk, two sugars!' Detective Inspector McPherson had taken over the medium-sized incident room at the back of the building, with a lacklustre view of the mortuary. There had to be nearly a hundred firearms in here, piled up on every available surface: machine guns, shotguns, handguns, rifles, each one sealed in a transparent evidence pouch.

DC Rennie was sitting behind a desk covered with semiautomatic pistols, tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth as he filled in a form.

Logan picked an AK-47 from the next desk, turning it over in his hands. It was surprisingly heavy. 'Where's McPherson?'

'Eh? Oh… Didn't you hear?' The constable went back to his forms. 'He got totally pished last night. Staggered out into the middle of the road.'

Logan winced. 'Car or bus?'

'Neither. The daft sod was sick on someone's girlfriend and the bloke twatted him one. Punch didn't do much damage, but hitting the tarmac did. Broken wrist and a concussion. Should be back in on Friday.'

'Who's doing the Polish liaison stuff till then?'

'Don't know, don't care.'

Fair enough. Logan put the machine gun to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel at the constable's head. 'So… you got any idea what all this stuff's for?'

Rennie scowled. 'Not my job to wonder, that's what sergeants and inspectors are for. Constables like me are for knocking on doors and filling in bloody forms. The thickest thickies in Thick Town. And don't point that bloody thing at me! Don't even know if it's loaded.'

Logan lowered the gun. 'Who rattled your cage?'

'Who the hell do you think: Finnie. Waltzed in this morning and said he was taking over till McPherson got back.' He chucked his pen down on the desktop. 'If it wasn't for me, we wouldn't have found any of this. And do I get the credit? Do I get mentioned in dispatches and showered with nubile young women? Do I buggery.'

Logan let him rabbit on, not really listening as the constable moaned about how unfair the world was, how genius was never appreciated in its lifetime, and how Detective Chief Inspector Finnie could take one of these machine guns, ram it up his own backside, and pull the trigger.

Rant over, the constable picked up the pen again and jabbed it at his stack of forms. 'And I'm sick of cataloguing all this crap.'

'Anyone been in touch with SCDEA yet?'

'Yeah, like that's going to happen. We can't have the Scottish Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency grabbing the glory from Darth Finnie, can we? Heaven forefend!' He leaned back in his chair and groaned. 'Fancy going out for lunch?'

'Can't. Got to see a man about a psychological profile.' Logan took another look around the room. 'You know, you could start a major drug war with this lot.' He put the AK-47 back on the desk. 'And if you're a terrorist there's worse places to blow up than Aberdeen. BP, Shell, Total: all the major oil companies… You could seriously screw up the whole North Sea in one easy move.'

Rennie gathered up the array of handguns on his desk and dumped them in a blue plastic box in the corner. 'Whatever it is, I should be getting the pat on the back for stopping it.'

Logan wished him luck with that.

A woman with nervous hands and pink-rimmed eyes looked up from her desk and gave a little smile. 'Dr Goulding will see you now.'

Goulding's office was part of Aberdeen University's Psychology Department, a grotesque three-storey concrete and glass sandwich stuck onto the equally unattractive Arts Lecture Theatre. A pair of Seventies-style ugly sisters playing against the fifteenth-century grandeur of King's College.

The room wasn't huge, and wasn't designed for comfort either. Clean lines and chrome-plated furniture dominated: a black leather chair and a matching couch; a glass-topped desk covered in piles of paper and Post-it notes. One wall was solid books, the others peppered with framed diplomas and newspaper clippings.

Dr Goulding was behind the desk, poking away at a computer keyboard and peering at a pair of flat-screen monitors. He didn't look up as Logan entered, just said, 'If you'd like to take a seat I'll be with you in a minute…' in a flat Liverpudlian accent.

Logan squeaked down on the couch and looked out of the small, high window, getting a view of yet another ugly concrete building.

Eventually the psychologist stopped what he was doing and stood. 'Sorry about that.' He stuck out his hand, 'Doctor Dave Goulding.' He had a nose like a can opener, and short, dark, animal-pelt hair.

Logan took the hand and shook it, trying not to stare at the lurid green tie with two huge red dice embroidered on it. 'I know, we met last year? On the Flesher case?'

'We did?' Frown. 'Ah of course, I remember you: Sergeant McRae. The poor chap who had to eat human flesh. Well, we all might have eaten it I suppose, difficult to tell, isn't it? But at least we can pretend we didn't — you know you did.' He let go of Logan's hand. 'How did it taste?'