He let it ring.
Took another trembling drag on his cigarette.
Then answered. Why not? He was in the mood for a fight.
The psychologist's voice had lost none of its infuriating cheeriness, 'Logan, Dave Goulding.' He said it as if it was all one word: LoganDaveGoulding.
'If you've-'
'Just wanted to have a quick word about Ricky Gilchrist.'
'You…' Logan trailed off. Not what he'd been expecting. 'Ricky Gilchrist?'
'Yeah: thought I'd keep you up to date, as we've not talked since you went off to Poland.' Diplomatically ignoring the fact that they'd just spoken thirty seconds ago. 'I've been working with Gilchrist since his arrest — made some very real progress. Fascinating character.'
Logan pulled the Post-it notes out of their pattern, stacking them back into a block as the psychologist droned on.
'This morning he remembered a story his dad used to tell about how Ricky's great grandmother abandoned three kids and ran off with a Polish airman during World War Two. Isn't it strange how something all those years ago can echo through people? Generations of bitterness, all distilled into Ricky Gilchrist. Can you imagine being spoon-fed that your whole life?'
'And that's why he did it?'
'Well, there's going to be more to it than that, but it's a great start, don't you think?'
'You helped Gilchrist, so you can help me. That supposed to be the idea?' Logan mashed his eyes with the palm of his free hand. 'You keep leaving messages.'
'Of course, we've had another Oedipus victim since he was arrested, so it's all got a bit complicated. Gilchrist now claims he's got thirteen disciples, and they're the ones carrying on His Holy Work.'
Logan took one last drag, then ground the stub out on the bonnet. 'I want you to leave me alone. I don't need any help.'
'It's possible he's been working with an accomplice, but I doubt it: Gilchrist's not the type. He's a fantasist, I think he's just been taking the credit.'
'Did you hear me?'
Pause. 'It's called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Let me guess: you've got problems sleeping? Nightmares? A heightened feeling of anxiety? You're irritable, have difficulty concentrating, feel numb? It's perfectly natural. And I know you don't want to hear it right now, but you don't have to feel this way. Talking about it will help.'
'There's nothing to talk about. I'm fine.'
'You don't have to decide right now. Just think about it. I'm free tomorrow — well, I'll be working on the revised Oedipus profile, but I'd appreciate your help?'
Logan hung up on him again.
52
Logan parked on the street outside DI Steel's house, and sat there, waiting for the inspector to turn up in her little sports car. Sunshine danced across the road and pavement, filtering through the leaves of ancient beech trees.
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.'
