Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

'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?' Finnie 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.