'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.
Detective Sergeant Pirie gave a tattered paperback a halfhearted kick. 'I don't need you here to hold my bloody hand.'
Logan leant against the windowsill, between the dead bluebottles. 'This wasn't my idea, OK? Blame Finnie.'
'You're a sodding jinx, you know that?'
'Thanks, it's great working with you too.'
'Why don't you kiss my-'
The living room door opened and Kylie's sister, Tracey, shuffled into the room, rubbing at the crook of her arm. 'Been through this,' she said, eyes flicking around the room. Licking her lips. Trembling. Her skin slick and shiny. 'Wasn't Creepy battered Harry's head in, OK? Was some black bloke.'
Logan pointed at the wreckage. 'You had the decorators in since I was here last?'
She sniffed and stared at the chipboard floor. 'Some blokes came round from the Environmental Health. Tore up all the carpet coz of… you know… the blood, like.'
'They break all the furniture too?'
'We had a party.'
'Course you did,' said Pirie, 'a happy house-wrecking. Bring your own crowbar.'
She glanced at him, then back at the floor. 'Does he have to be here?'
'Course I do, you silly c-'
Logan spoke over the top of him. 'Maybe DS Pirie could go make us all a nice cup of tea?'
Pirie sneered. 'Up yours. If there's anyone-'
'Now, would be good.'
He looked as if he was about to say something, then huffed, stuck his hands in his pockets. 'Fine.' He turned and stomped from the room.
'He's a right wanker, you know? Total.'
Logan shrugged. 'He's got a point though. Either you're way behind on the housework, or someone's trashed the place.'
She wouldn't look at him. 'Wasn't… We…' Deep breath. 'It wasn't Creepy, OK? I told you, it wasn't him.'
'You sure?' He let the silence grow uncomfortable. 'I meant what I said, Tracey: I can help. Get you away from…' he waved his hands, taking in the squalor and destruction, '… all this.'
She rubbed at her arm again. 'I can't…'
'If you help me put Colin McLeod away, I'll get you and Kylie into witness protection. You could start over again somewhere new. Anywhere you like.'
She looked up for the first time. 'Used to go to Lossiemouth when me and Kylie was kids, you know?' Then her eyes drifted back to the chipboard, fingernails worrying at a scab on her wrist till it started to bleed. 'We was happy there…'
'Lossiemouth, then. All you have to do is make a statement, and stick to it this time. We'll even get you into a rehab programme if you like?'
Tracey sniffed, then wiped her nose on her sleeve. 'Kinda on one now. They cut us off. Won't let anyone sell us gear… coz of what we said about Creepy.'
She crouched down and fumbled in the broken sideboard, coming out with a litre bottle of cheap vodka. 'Two blokes came round with Mrs McLeod. She was all, like, 'This is what happens when you lie about my family.' And then the blokes started smashing everything. You know? Then the old bag asks if we've learned our lesson yet. And Kylie says, 'Yeah,' you know?'
