Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

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!'

A muffled voice came from somewhere upstairs: 'I'm in the toilet.'

'A NICE CONSTABLE'S HERE TO LOOK AFTER YOU. DON'T SOD HIM ABOUT!'

The sound of flushing. 'OK.'

'AND PUT THE BLOODY SEAT DOWN THIS TIME!'

Clunk.

Rennie went for another rummage in the cupboards. 'If you're going back to the ranch, Finnie's looking for you.' He emerged with a packet of Jaffa Cakes. 'Tell you, ever since that bloody drugs bust on Friday he's been insufferable.'