Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

Logan frowned up at the ceiling as she bent forwards to kiss one. 'Sam?'

'Mmm?' Another kiss.

'Why do you… This thing… with my scars. It's kind of creepy.'

She froze. 'What?'

'Is it some sort of Goth thing?'

She sat upright. No more kissing. 'I can't believe you just said that.'

He looked up at her, silhouetted in the light from the window, her red hair tinged with gold, as if her head were on fire. 'Well… is it?'

'I'm a freak, is that what you're saying?'

'I didn't say that.'

'But you're thinking it.'

Logan pulled the duvet up, covering himself to the nipples. 'Every time we're naked you play with them. I'm beginning to worry about it, OK?'

'You are such a shit, McRae.' She wiped a hand across her face and clambered out of bed. 'I can't believe you.'

He snapped on the bedside light. She was struggling a leg into her pants. 'I've got to go.'

'Sam, don't be like that, I-'

'Where's my bloody bra?'

'Oh for God's sake. I'm sorry, OK?'

'I can't believe I actually thought you were different.' She grabbed her T-shirt from the bedroom floor and dragged it on over her head. Then she scooped up her leather trousers and boots, turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Logan slumped back on the bed, put his hands over his face and went, 'AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!' He couldn't find someone nice and normal to go out with, could he? No, he had to pick the ones who'd make him miserable.

The bedroom door flew open and she was back.

'You want to know? Do you?' Samantha dumped her leather trousers on the floor and marched over to the bed. She grabbed his hand and slapped it on the jagged tribal spider tattoo that wound its way from the inside of her left thigh all the way up onto her belly. 'There, feel it. Go on! Right there.'

'What? I'm not feeling-'

'Not there, here, you idiot.'

A collection of little ridges, four to six inches long. Curves, straight lines, zigzags. Scar tissue, hidden beneath the tattoo's black ink — the ones Logan thought were stretch marks. Then she slapped his hand away and got back into her trousers. 'That's why.'

This time when she slammed the door, she didn't come back.

Most of the Monday morning briefing was spent going over the caravan-full-of-guns inquiry: codenamed Operation Tailback. Then came the usual updates and warnings about gang violence, and a bit of gloating from Finnie about Agnes McLeod being in the cells all weekend. They finished with the day's assignments and the announcement that Logan was off on a jolly to Poland for three or four days.

DI Steel grabbed Logan as he tried to slip out. 'What the hell do you think you're…' She caught the head of CID watching her, stopped, smiled, nodded a greeting, then bustled Logan out into the corridor. 'Poland? You forgetting we've got bloody work to do?'

'Look, Bain said-'

'What about those Kostchey idiots: did you get an address yet?'

'Yup.'

There was a pause and Steel stared at him. 'Well? Are you going to tell me, or am I supposed to sodding guess?'

Logan gave her the address Zander Clark had emailed through — a business unit on Greenwell Road, East Tullos Industrial Estate.

'Right.' She hauled up her trousers. 'Get a pool car organized, we'll stake the place out and-'

'I can't. My flight's at five to eleven; got to be at the airport an hour before that.'

'Fine. You go to Poland, see if I care.' Steel poked him with a nicotine finger. 'But if I have to take Detective Sergeant Beardy Sodding Beattie, I'm holding you responsible, understand?' Rennie winced his way into the CID office; face, neck, and ears bright shiny pink. Even the backs of his hands were sunburnt. That, and the blond crown of spiky hair, made him look like an unsqueezed spot. He perched himself, gingerly, on the edge of Logan's desk and said, 'Ow…'

'Nice tan.'

'It's not funny.'

'Should have put on some suntan lotion then, shouldn't you?'

Rennie loosened his collar, wafting his scarlet face with a burglary report. 'Fancy an ice-cream or something? I'm boiling.'

Logan sent Dr Goulding's latest report to the printer in the corner and shut down his computer. 'Can't: have to go home and get my suitcase; Finnie's got a patrol car taking me to the airport in twenty minutes.'

'Ah well… Bring us back some vodka, eh?'

'Speaking of Finnie,' Logan grabbed the printout, 'he about?'

Logan could tell Rennie was thinking: he could smell the burning dust.

'Nope,' the constable said at last, 'got a phone call and went scurrying out of here. Back door I think?'

Logan said his goodbyes, signed out, then sauntered outside, making for the keypad controlled door that led onto Lodge Walk.

The door was ajar. Logan pushed it open, going from bright sunshine into the blue shadow of the alley.

DCI Finnie was just turning back towards the station, stuffing a brown envelope into his inside jacket pocket. He looked up and saw Logan standing there, then frowned. 'What are-'

'Going to get my suitcase.'

'Oh, right.' Finnie said something about interdepartmental cooperation with the Polish police, but Logan wasn't listening. He was looking over the Chief Inspector's shoulder at a spotty youth marching away down the gloomy alleyway and out onto Union Street. The sunlight caught in his bright green hair, making it shine like electric grass. And then he was gone.

A hand thumped down on Logan's shoulder breaking the spell. 'Good luck, I'm counting on you.'

'Oh, right… thank you, sir.'

'Soon as you're back I want you on Operation Tailback. It'll probably be a couple of days before we can make the announcement — about the promotion I mean — but I want you heading up a team ASAP. OK?'

And then Finnie's phone rang. The DCI dragged it out and headed back towards the station: 'What?… No, of course I don't mind waiting three days for a warrant. He's only wanted for armed robbery after all, not like it's anything important…'

Logan stayed where he was, staring down the alleyway to the patch of glowing street at the far end. Green hair. Spots. And a brown envelope.

No doubt about it: background radiation could be a dangerous thing.

At least he'd managed to get a window seat. Logan was halfway across the North Sea, with a strange cheese and pesto sandwich and a tiny bottle of white wine. The wheezy old woman sitting next to him had lasted a whole fifteen minutes before falling asleep, twitching as she dreamed, like a cat.

The report he'd printed out before leaving the office didn't make very scintillating reading — Goulding went on and on about 'behavioural indicators' and 'stress-point escalators', none of which made any sense to Logan. Gilchrist continues to refuse to discuss his victims, or even acknowledge their existence. By removing their eyes he has removed the very essence of their humanity; many cultures believe the eyes to be the gateway to the soul, and Gilchrist has removed that gateway, rendering them spiritually inert (an important distinction for someone with Gilchrist's strong, though twisted, religious convictions {see Appendix B, section 3.2}), as such they have no meaning to him.

It would not surprise me if Gilchrist later admits to consuming the eyes. Possibly as part of a ritual based on his somewhat individual views on the sacrament, designed to absorb his victim's immortal soul.

However, this remains conjecture at this point.

Blah, blah, blah… Logan skimmed forward a couple of pages. The whole thing was a great steaming pile of conjecture as far as he could see. Certainly Ricky Gilchrist represents a very real danger to the public, and while there are no current indications that he may be suicidal, I recommend that he be kept under close observation.