Blind Eye

by Stuart MacBride

  The music was louder now. Bmm-tchhh, bmmm-tchhhhh, bmmmm-tchhh…

  Logan watched her heft a collection of carrier bags up onto the working surfaces. ‘Mrs Gilchrist, we’d like a word with your son, if that’s OK?’ Pause. ‘Mrs Gilchrist?’

  She was busy stacking tins of sweetcorn into a cupboard.

  Logan tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Mrs Gilchrist?’

  She jumped. Turned. Stared at him for a moment. ‘Do I know you? How did you get into my house?’

  ‘You let us in, just a minute ago? Remember? You thought we were Jehovah’s Witnesses?’

  She smiled. ‘We’ve not had Jehovah’s Witnesses for ages. I think our Daniel scares them off. Of course, he’s dead now, but he wouldn’t let a little thing like that stop him.’ She nodded towards a framed portrait on the windowsill, of a stern-faced man with eyes like cigarette burns. ‘Sometimes he comes to the shops with me.’

  Logan’s gaze drifted past the portrait to the view beyond. From here you could see the boxy houses on Burnbank Place. He scanned the rows until he found the one with a skip outside it, where Doc Fraser had done a living post mortem on one of the Oedipus victims. ‘We need to speak to your son, Mrs Gilchrist.’

  She looked blank for a moment. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit deaf. “Deaf and daft,” my Daniel used to say. He’s dead now.’ She pulled a clunky beige hearing aid from a kitchen drawer and waggled it at them. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Jehovah’s Witnesses are allowed tea, aren’t they?’

  ‘We’re not…’ Logan stopped. ‘Yes, we’d love one, thanks.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ She smiled. ‘We’ve not had Jehovah’s Witnesses for ages. I think our Daniel scares them off.’

  ‘Can we speak to your son, Mrs Gilchrist?’

  ‘Of course he’s dead now. Got the cancer, didn’t he? Terrible shame… He was always such a sweet man.’

  ‘Your son, Mrs Gilchrist?’

  ‘Hmm? Ricky?’ She seemed to stare at them from very far away. ‘Oh, he’ll be in his room.’ She pointed at a door with a little skull-and-crossbones sticker on it. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  Logan tried the handle – it wasn’t locked. The door opened on a dingy little bedroom. The curtains were closed, but a huge television set cast a flickering pink glow over the debris-strewn room: unwashed plates; piles of dirty washing; a small stack of newspapers; some lad-mags; a laptop, monitor and printer. A CD player on a bookshelf thumping out what could almost pass for music.

  The occupant, Ricky Gilchrist, was slumped on a beanbag in front of the telly, earphones on, trousers round his ankles, hammering away one-handed at his erection.

  There was a light switch beside the door. Logan flicked it on and brilliant white filled the room, followed a heartbeat later by screaming as Ricky exploded out of his beanbag and tried to cover the enormous television screen with his half naked body. His skin was the colour of yoghurt, sprinkled with dark red freckles, ribs clearly visible. He fumbled for his trousers, shouting, ‘Jesus, Mum, you’re not allowed in here!’

  Logan pulled out his warrant card. ‘Jehovah’s Witnesses: we understand you might be having improper thoughts.’

  Ricky span around, cock bobbing in the breeze, framed in a bramble patch of orange pubes. ‘You … what … NO!’ He covered himself up, still standing in front of the television. Then pulled off his headphones. ‘You can’t come in here, you’ve got no right!’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Logan McRae, Grampian Police.’ Logan tried not to watch as Ricky did up his flies. ‘I won’t shake hands, if it’s all the same to you.’

  A blush turned Ricky’s pale skin hot pink. ‘It’s not illegal, OK? It’s personal… Privacy of your own home… I’ll sue.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s all go to court and you can tell the jury how we barged in on you playing with yourself. That’ll do your reputation the world of good.’ He leant against the door-frame. ‘I hear you’ve been harassing members of the Polish community, Ricky. Following them home from Mass. Making a nuisance of yourself.’

  The young man pulled a T-shirt on over his scrawny chest. ‘They’re liars. They’re all bloody liars. Look.’ He pointed at his face, where the last hint of a black eye was slowly fading. ‘They hit me. I was assaulted. I should press charges!’

  But Logan wasn’t listening any more: when Ricky bent over to pick up the T-shirt, Logan had got a clear view of the TV screen. It was Krystka Gorzałkowska, the woman Guthrie had accidentally shot. She was on her knees, biting her lip, trying not to cry out, tears running down her face as the two men behind her kept on going. Krystka was naked, but the men wore cheap plastic Halloween masks – a bulldog and an Alsatian.

  Logan grabbed the headphone cable and yanked it out of the socket.

  ‘Hey, you can’t just—’

  A man’s voice boomed out of the television’s speakers: ‘You like that, don’t you bitch? Eh?’ A slap. ‘That’s right, take it you dirty whore!’

  Krystka let out a sob, but that only seemed to excite them even more. ‘Yeah, you fucking love it! Say it, bitch! SAY IT!’

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  Ricky fumbled for the remote control and the screen went black. ‘Just a bit of fun, OK? It’s private. You can’t just—’

  Logan shoved him hard, and Ricky fell back into the beanbag. ‘She’s being raped! Think that’s “just a bit of fun”? Do you?’

  Ricky looked away, his voice barely audible over the music. ‘Fucking Polish bitch deserves it, doesn’t she?’

  Logan closed his eyes and tried really hard not to cross the room and smack the living hell out of him. Instead he turned his back, and stared at the laptop in the corner. There was a collage of newspaper articles pinned to the wall behind it, all about the Oedipus case. Newsprint pictures from the Aberdeen Examiner of the victims, their eyes scribbled out in angry red biro. ‘You don’t like Polish people, do you, Ricky?’

  No reply, just the thump-thump-thump of another dreadful song. Logan switched the CD off, then walked over to the television. A DVD player sat on top of it, covered in a thick layer of dusty grey fluff. Logan pressed eject and a shiny home-recorded disc slid out. The kind you could buy blank in any supermarket. A laserprinted label read, ‘KRYSTKA GET’S F*CK~D DIRTY 3-WAY!!!*!’

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  Logan pulled on a pair of evidence gloves, then slid the DVD into an evidence pouch. ‘We know, Ricky.’

  There was a long pause. And then the pale man said, ‘They’re animals. They roam the streets, marking their territory. Worse than dogs. Someone had to do something.’

  Logan nodded. ‘I want you to come down the station with me, Ricky.’

  ‘Someone had to make the streets safe.’ He levered himself out of the beanbag. ‘Someone had to make them pay.’

  ‘Are you going to come quietly?’

  ‘Do I need a lawyer? I don’t have a lawyer.’

  ‘You’re not under arrest, you’re coming down to the station voluntarily.’

  ‘Oh …’ He seemed to think about it for a minute. ‘I did it. All of it.’ He stuck his hands out, wrists together, waiting for the cuffs. ‘I cut their eyes out. It’s me. I’m Oedipus. I did it because you wouldn’t.’

  32

  By the time Logan had processed Ricky Gilchrist – photos, fingerprints, and DNA swab – the news was all over the station. A handful of uniform and CID loitered in the corridor, watching as Logan led him into interview room two.

  An hour later there was a knock on the door, then a custody assistant stuck her head in and said someone needed to have a word with DS McRae.

  Logan got PC Guthrie to suspend the interview. Gilchrist didn’t even look up, just kept on going with his manifesto for a Polish-free Aberdeen.

  Out in the corridor the custody assistant nodded down the hall towards the observation suite. ‘He’s in there.’

  It was DCI Finnie, hunc
hed over the tiny monitor connected up to the cameras in room two. Whoever had called it the ‘Observation Suite’ had a twisted sense of humour. It was a cramped little place, with bare breezeblock walls, a kitchen-worktop desk, two rickety plastic chairs, and a TV screen for each interview room.

  Normally it smelt of armpits and stale socks, but tonight it reeked of second-hand alcohol. All of it coming from Detective Chief Inspector Finnie. He looked up at Logan, then patted the plastic chair next to him.

  Logan sat. ‘Sir, I tried calling you, but—’

  Finnie held up a hand. ‘I know, I know. Had my phone switched off while I was in with Professional Standards.’ The words rolled out on a cloud of whisky. ‘Bastard rubber-heelers had me in there for three hours. But you did it!’ He grinned and slapped Logan on the back. ‘You did it. You got him.’

  ‘I really did try—’

  ‘Nonsense. Credit where it’s due. You did good. You went out there and you got him! I was on the case for months and never even got close. But you, you turn up and POW!’ He banged his hand on the working surface, making the picture on the monitor jiggle. Ricky Gilchrist was still at it, babbling away about how Aberdeen had been ruined. ‘See – this is why I brought you on board.’

  Finnie jabbed the grainy image with a thumb, as if he were squashing a bug. ‘He cop for the lot?’

  ‘Everything. All the victims, and all the notes. Showed us the original files on his computer. Goulding was right, he wanted us to catch him, and now we have he’s Captain Cooperation.’

  ‘Good work. No, really, I mean it: excellent work. I’d sit in on the interview, but I’ve been drinking.’ He leant in close, and Logan tried hard not to recoil. ‘Just between you and me,’ he whispered, ‘the guy who replaced DI Insch is going off on the stress. Can’t cope with the pace. We’re going to promote someone.’ He slapped Logan on the back again. ‘There’s no way they can overlook you this time. Not after this.’

  The DCI wrapped an arm around Logan’s shoulders and gave him a shoogle. ‘You and me, we’re going to go through that CID Department and drag it up by its Y-fronts!’

  Which was a lovely image.

  By the time Logan staggered back to his flat it was nearly midnight. He locked the front door, kicked off his shoes on the way to the toilet, did his teeth then dragged himself through to the bedroom. He didn’t bother switching on the light: the room was a pigsty anyway. A mess of boxes and things from the lounge, all waiting for him to finish deco rating so they could go back where they belonged.

  He stripped, chucking his clothes on the chair in the corner, then crawled into bed and went, ‘WHAT THE HELL?’

  ‘Mmmph?’

  He scrambled for the bedside light, and click: Samantha’s face appeared in the bed beside him. She hadn’t taken her makeup off, and the white face powder was all smudged into the black eyeliner and dark purple lipstick.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  She blinked, sat up, and the covers fell away, exposing a black-and-white striped corset. The duvet was covered in rose petals. ‘Where am…? What time is it?’

  ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Wanted to surprise you. There was champagne, but I drunk it.’ She yawned, exposing her fillings. ‘Urgh … ooh, need to pee.’

  ‘The door was locked. I’m sure I locked it.’

  ‘Give us a minute.’ She hauled herself out of bed, and tottered off to the bathroom on what looked like very high-heeled kinky boots.

  Logan slumped back, hands over his face, trying not to listen as she filled, then flushed the toilet. She was back ten minutes later with two tumblers full of dark brown liquid and chinking ice cubes. Makeup perfect once more, like a dead Barbie doll, tattoos standing out against her pale white skin.

  ‘Here.’ She handed him a glass.

  Logan took a sip: Jack Daniels and Coke.

  ‘Best I could do at short notice.’ She put one high-heeled foot up on the bed, next to him. ‘It’s your lucky night, Sergeant McRae: I finished fingerprinting all those sodding guns today, and now I’m in the mood to celebrate.’

  ‘But how did you get in?’

  ‘Picked the lock. One of my many talents.’ She took the drink from his hands and pushed him back on the pillow. ‘Want to see another one?’ She popped an ice cube in her mouth, then kissed her way down his neck and chest. Running the cold tip of her tongue over each of the little ribbons of scar tissue that crisscrossed his stomach. ‘They taste of iron filings.’

  Logan frowned. ‘Sam, I’ve been on duty since seven, I’m knackered. Can we not … ooh.’

  She’d moved further south. And suddenly Logan wasn’t so tired anymore.

  33

  It was a strange start to the day – at 07:00 Logan was dragged into Professional Standards for what amounted to a bollocking over yesterday’s live fire incident at the Krakow General Store, and at 07:30 he was in the Chief Constable’s office getting a pat on the back.

  ‘Excellent work.’ Chief Constable Brian Anderson, AKA: Baldy Brian, stood with his back to the room, staring out through a picture window at his domain. Early-morning sunlight sparkled back from granite walls and slate roofs as Scotland’s third-largest city geared itself up for another day. ‘Isn’t it excellent, Finnie?’

  The DCI passed Logan a copy of that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner: ‘POLICE CATCH OEDIPUS – POLISH COMMUNITY SAFE AT LAST’.

  Finnie sniffed. ‘Could have done without that “at last” bit, but it’s a big improvement on the kicking we’ve been getting.’

  The Chief Constable bounced on the balls of his feet. ‘Indeed. And it’s not just the local press who’ve picked it up. We made front page of the Scotsman, Times, Observer, and a lot of the tabloids too. The Guardian spelt my name wrong, but still… Can’t knock good publicity.’ He turned to face the room, favouring Logan with a smile. ‘And I understand you captured him without a warrant or backup?’

  ‘Yes…’ Not sure if this was a trap or not. ‘We were following up a complaint of harassment from members of the Polish community. Gilchrist’s mother let us into the property, and materials in his bedroom led me to believe he might be involved in the recent spate of Oedipus blindings… Sir.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The Chief Constable put his head on one side and examined Logan for a minute. ‘I suggest you work on that a bit more before this comes to court, Sergeant.’

  Logan blushed. ‘I… Yes, sir.’

  ‘In the meantime, you say he’s made a full confession?’

  Finnie held up a manila folder. ‘We’re going to go over everything with the Procurator Fiscal this morning. Our forensic psychologist’s coming in at half two to do a workup. Gilchrist’s going nowhere.’

  ‘Good. Very good.’ The Chief Constable went back to staring at the city. ‘Don’t let me keep you, gentlemen.’

  DI Steel stuck her feet up on her desk and blew a wet raspberry. ‘If you’ve come here looking for someone to kiss your backside, Hero-Boy, you’re in for a long wait.’ She picked up an empty plastic cup and waggled it at him. ‘Unless you’re here to make a deposit? In that case…’ She puckered up and made kissy-kissy noises.

  Logan ignored her.

  She stuck the cup back on her desk. ‘Anyway, thought you’d be playing with your new boyfriend Finnie this morning.’

  ‘Nope. I questioned Gilchrist last night, Finnie’s doing this morning, and we’re going in mob-handed with Dr Goulding this afternoon. Keep him off balance.’

  Logan sank down in one of the visitor’s chairs. ‘I found something yesterday you might be interested in.’ He tossed a freshly minted DVD onto the inspector’s desk. ‘Got the lab to make you a copy.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Steel examined it suspiciously, then slipped the silver disc from its clear plastic wallet. ‘It’s no’ you and Lydia the Tattooed Lady humping in the broom closet, is it? Only I’ve just had breakfast.’

  ‘A: no. And B: shut up.’

  ‘Don�
��t push it.’ Steel stuck the DVD into her computer and fiddled about with the mouse for a while. ‘How do I get it to play?’

  ‘Shift over.’ Logan got it going and they sat and watched the opening sequence. There wasn’t much to it – a woman bound hand and foot, with a pillowcase over her head, being thrown onto a tan leather couch. That was as far as the foreplay went.

  It had been filmed in someone’s living room: cream carpet, red walls, glass and chrome coffee table, a framed print of some not-very-talented artist’s impression of Union Street on the wall.

  The inspector frowned. ‘You brought porn to work?’

  ‘Just watch.’ Logan sent the picture into fast forward, hitting pause when one of the dog-mask men pulled the pillowcase off the woman’s head. She’d been gagged with silver duct tape. The camera went in for a close-up as Bulldog slapped her around the face with his erection. And then he ripped off the gag.

  Logan hit pause. ‘It’s definitely her. Look…’ He dropped a glossy photograph on the inspector’s desk: a young woman posing in a studio somewhere, wearing nothing but her underwear and a smile. ‘Krystka Gorzałkowska.’

  Steel squinted at the photo, then at the screen.

  Her mouth became a hard, angry line. ‘Where the hell did you get this?’

  ‘Ricky Gilchrist. He was watching it when I picked him up.’

  ‘I want his arse in an interview room now, so I can kick the crap out of it!’

  Logan shook his head. ‘Finnie won’t let you anywhere near him.’

  Steel jabbed the screen with a nicotine finger. ‘This isn’t porn, this is rape.’ She sat back again, worrying at her disaster-movie hair. ‘Fine,’ she said at last, ‘Finnie won’t let me near Gilchrist but he’ll no’ stop you, will he? No’ now you’re best mates.’

  Quarter to ten and Logan was hanging about outside interview room one, waiting for Finnie to call a break. The DCI was in there now with Ricky Gilchrist, going over the same ground again and again. Trying to pick holes in Gilchrist’s story, making sure his confession would stand up in court. Logan had watched half an hour’s worth in the observation suite, crammed in with four CID officers – one of whom really needed to cut down on the garlic.