Blind Eye (16 page)

'Thought that was the idea.'

'If you've got nothing better to do than get up my nose, you can go chase up that lookout request on Rory Simpson.'

'Already did: no sign of him. Even been on to Dundee, Glasgow, Fraserburgh and Inverness. He's vanished.'

Steel screwed her eyes tightly shut, bared her teeth, clenched and unclenched her hands. 'I'm no' going to swear, I'm no' going to swear...'

'Oh, and I checked out Kostchey International Holdings as well.'

'What?' She peeled open one eye. 'Who the hell are they?'

'That company supplying Polish actresses for porn films, remember? They aren't on the register at Companies House. They don't exist.'

'Oh for God's sake. I - Don't - Care. OK? I
really
don't. Let it go.'

'But Krystka Gorzalkowska--'

'Was a silly tart in the wrong place at the wrong time. You saw the footage - no one was getting forced to do anything. The Crocodildo girls are happy making dirty films, I'm happy
watching
them, and Zander with a "Z" is happy paying for them. Ergo, leave it the hell alone.' She sighed. 'Oh don't look at me like that. You know it's true.'

Logan didn't say anything.

'OK, OK,
fine
.' Steel banged her handbag down on the desk. 'Quit it with the puppy-dog eyes: we'll look into it, even though it's a
vast
waste of police time. Go see that idiot McPherson, he's supposed to be the official liaison with the Polish police. Get them to chase up Kissing International Whatever-it-is, maybe they're registered over there.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'But if Finnie finds out and goes mental, I'm telling him it was all your idea.'

Logan gave her a little salute and left the room, trying to pretend he couldn't hear Steel's parting shot: 'And don't forget: milk, two sugars!'

Detective Inspector McPherson had taken over the medium-sized incident room at the back of the building, with a lacklustre view of the mortuary. There had to be nearly a hundred firearms in here, piled up on every available surface: machine guns, shotguns, handguns, rifles, each one sealed in a transparent evidence pouch.

DC Rennie was sitting behind a desk covered with semiautomatic pistols, tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth as he filled in a form.

Logan picked an AK-47 from the next desk, turning it over in his hands. It was surprisingly heavy. 'Where's McPherson?'

'Eh? Oh... Didn't you hear?' The constable went back to his forms. 'He got totally pished last night. Staggered out into the middle of the road.'

Logan winced. 'Car or bus?'

'Neither. The daft sod was sick on someone's girlfriend and the bloke twatted him one. Punch didn't do much damage, but hitting the tarmac did. Broken wrist and a concussion. Should be back in on Friday.'

'Who's doing the Polish liaison stuff till then?'

'Don't know, don't care.'

Fair enough. Logan put the machine gun to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel at the constable's head. 'So ... you got any idea what all this stuff's for?'

Rennie scowled. 'Not my job to wonder, that's what
sergeants
and
inspectors
are for. Constables like me are for knocking on doors and filling in bloody forms. The thickest thickies in Thick Town. And don't point that bloody thing at me! Don't even know if it's loaded.'

Logan lowered the gun. 'Who rattled your cage?'

'Who the hell do you think: Finnie. Waltzed in this morning and said he was taking over till McPherson got back.' He chucked his pen down on the desktop. 'If it wasn't for me, we wouldn't have found
any
of this. And do I get the credit? Do I get mentioned in dispatches and showered with nubile young women? Do I buggery.'

Logan let him rabbit on, not really listening as the constable moaned about how unfair the world was, how genius was never appreciated in its lifetime, and how Detective Chief Inspector Finnie could take one of these machine guns, ram it up his own backside, and pull the trigger.

Rant over, the constable picked up the pen again and jabbed it at his stack of forms. 'And I'm sick of cataloguing all this crap.'

'Anyone been in touch with SCDEA yet?'

'Yeah, like
that's
going to happen. We can't have the Scottish Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency grabbing the glory from Darth Finnie, can we? Heaven forefend!' He leaned back in his chair and groaned. 'Fancy going out for lunch?'

'Can't. Got to see a man about a psychological profile.' Logan took another look around the room. 'You know, you could start a major drug war with this lot.' He put the AK-47 back on the desk. 'And if you're a terrorist there's worse places to blow up than Aberdeen. BP, Shell, Total: all the major oil companies... You could seriously screw up the whole North Sea in one easy move.'

Rennie gathered up the array of handguns on his desk and dumped them in a blue plastic box in the corner. 'Whatever it is, I should be getting the pat on the back for stopping it.'

Logan wished him luck with that.

16

A woman with nervous hands and pink-rimmed eyes looked up from her desk and gave a little smile. 'Dr Goulding will see you now.'

Goulding's office was part of Aberdeen University's Psychology Department, a grotesque three-storey concrete and glass sandwich stuck onto the equally unattractive Arts Lecture Theatre. A pair of Seventies-style ugly sisters playing against the fifteenth-century grandeur of King's College.

The room wasn't huge, and wasn't designed for comfort either. Clean lines and chrome-plated furniture dominated: a black leather chair and a matching couch; a glass-topped desk covered in piles of paper and Post-it notes. One wall was solid books, the others peppered with framed diplomas and newspaper clippings.

Dr Goulding was behind the desk, poking away at a computer keyboard and peering at a pair of flat-screen monitors. He didn't look up as Logan entered, just said, 'If you'd like to take a seat I'll be with you in a minute...' in a flat Liverpudlian accent.

Logan squeaked down on the couch and looked out of the small, high window, getting a view of yet another ugly concrete building.

Eventually the psychologist stopped what he was doing and stood. 'Sorry about that.' He stuck out his hand, 'Doctor Dave Goulding.' He had a nose like a can opener, and short, dark, animal-pelt hair.

Logan took the hand and shook it, trying not to stare at the lurid green tie with two huge red dice embroidered on it. 'I know, we met last year? On the Flesher case?'

'We did?' Frown. 'Ah of course, I remember you: Sergeant McRae. The poor chap who had to eat human flesh. Well, we all might have eaten it I suppose, difficult to tell, isn't it? But at least we can pretend we didn't - you
know
you did.' He let go of Logan's hand. 'How did it taste?'

'It... I...' Cough. 'DCI Finnie wants me to talk to you about the men we saw when Simon McLeod was blinded.'

'Are you seeing anyone?'

Logan moved a little further away. 'Sorry? I mean, I'm flattered, but--'

'I don't mean
romantically
, I mean therapy.' Goulding settled into the couch's matching black leather chair, crossed his legs and folded his hands over his middle-aged paunch. 'It can't be easy coming to terms with what you went through last year. All that death and blood.'

'Erm... Look, I appreciate the--'

'Do you suffer from insomnia? Interrupted sleep? Night mares? Maybe a bit depressed?'

'Well--'

'It's "Logan", isn't it?'

'Yes, but--'

'I can help you, Logan. I
want
to help you. It's not healthy to keep this kind of thing bottled up inside.'

'Look, Dr Goulding--'

The psychologist smiled. 'Please, call me Dave.'

'I just want to go over the Oedipus attack, OK? I don't need my head shrunk. I'm fine.'

The psychologist sat and stared at him, expression completely blank. 'How's your relationship with your mother?'

'DI Steel and I were attacked by two men, one of them had an Eastern European accent.'

'Yes...' Goulding played with the lumpy little mole on his cheek. 'I'm a little uncomfortable about that.' He stood and crossed the room to a large whiteboard covered in black scribbled notes, all linked by a dense web of coloured lines. It was flanked by a pair of corkboards, full of Post-its, printouts, and articles clipped from the newspapers. He unpinned one of the sheets of A4, frowned at it for a moment, then handed it to Logan.

It was a photocopy of an early Oedipus note, the writer banging on about how the Polish incomers were stealing God.

'You see,' said Goulding, 'these messages definitely aren't a joint project, they're one man's very personal obsession. Full of rage. The blindings are too. It's
possible
the eyes are gouged out by two people working together, but when he burns the sockets it's...' Goulding waved a hand about, 'excessive. It's not necessary - they're already blind. It means something to him.'

'Maybe it's a warning?'

'Perhaps. Would you say you feel tired: all the time, often, sometimes, rarely, or almost never?'

'What? Erm, often, it's the shift work. Anyway, we know couples do horrible stuff all the time: Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, Rose and Fred West ... Richard and Judy.'

'Not really the same thing, is it? Do you ever keep yourself awake at night, going over things that happen in your life?'

'Can we just stick to the Oedipus case?'

'Looking at the notes and the previous victims, the pattern's clear: we're looking for a single male, probably works in construction, or hotel services, that kind of thing. Mid twenties. Recently unemployed.'

'Yes, but--'

'He blames the turn his life's taken on the Polish workforce coming over and stealing his job. He's likely to have a very harsh super-ego: he's externalizing his own guilt and projecting it onto the people he blinds. His actions are an attempt to redeem himself in the eyes of an absent father figure. Possibly deceased.'

'That's lovely, but it doesn't help us, does it? There were definitely two of them: I
saw
them. We have a witness.'

'Ah yes ... your paedophile.' Goulding crossed his arms and leant back against the cork board. 'Your colleagues would never need to know, if that's what you're worried about? I really think therapy could help you.'

Logan shifted forward in his seat. 'What if Simon McLeod wasn't anything to do with Oedipus? He's not Polish - he's a mid-level gangster. What if it was someone using the attacks as a cover? Someone getting their own back and blaming it on the nut-job in the papers?'

'Ah yes, that well known psychological term: "nut-job".'

'You know what I mean.'

'It
would
explain why Simon McLeod doesn't fit my victim profile.' Goulding turned and faced the scribble-covered white-board. 'And if we take him out of the picture, it means we're still looking for that white male, early to mid twenties, who lost his father. Probably still lives at home with his mother. But she's emotionally distant...'

The psychologist ran his fingers across the board, just above the surface, as if feeling his web for vibrations. A Liverpudlian spider in a nasty tie, waiting for its prey to reveal itself. 'He's a local lad, we know that from the disposal of the victims - each of them left in an unoccupied building. All in Torry... Did you know there are so many Polish people living in Torry now they're calling it Little Warsaw?'

Goulding traced a line of red boxes, each one detailing a different address. 'Our man knows the territory. He knows where to take them so he won't be disturbed while he carves out their eyes. All that "They're stealing God" stuff means he's very religious, or at least he believes he is...' There was a long pause. 'Fascinating.'

The psychologist stepped back from the board and smiled at Logan. 'Tea, coffee? Might even have some biscuits. Then we can have a chat about you coming to see me on a regular basis.'

'Liver failure.' Doc Fraser was standing in his office, wearing nothing but his vest and pants, skin so white it was almost fluorescent. He looked like a threadbare sock puppet. There wasn't any hair on top of his head, but he more than made up for that with the tufts growing out of his ears. 'Our friend Mr Frankowski drank and drank and drank and drank and died. Stomach contents reeked of whisky. Have to wait for the tox screen to come back, but I'll bet you a fiver his blood's about eighty percent proof. And he'd ingested a serious amount of painkillers and antidepressants.'

Logan stuck the kettle on. 'Suicide?'

'Maybe. Or an accident. Difficult to tell.' The pathologist paused for a good scratch. 'Can't say I'd blame him either way, after what happened to his eyes...'