on me own, am I? Got Harry and Mandy to keep us company. ’Sides,’ he picked at a loose thread on the armchair, ‘house is a hell of a lot bigger than me cell back at Frankland.’
‘Hmm…’ Irvine made a note. ‘And is there anyone you’d like to spend more time with. You know, if you could?’
‘God. I’d like to spend more time with God.’
Sitting on the other side of the room, Paul raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.
Knox sighed. ‘I’ve been through all these tests before, like. Used to do them two, three times a week with this fat bird from Social Services when I got out of prison. “Is there anyone you’d like to spend more time with?”, “Has anything made you angry since we last met?”, “How did you handle it?” Same questions every time.’
Irvine shifted in her seat. ‘I’m only trying to help, Richard.’
‘Next up’s “Sexual Preoccupations”.’ Knox clutched his carrier bag tighter. ‘Am I masturbating within normal limits? Am I having deviant sexual fantasies?’
She nodded. ‘How important is sex to you these days?’
He slumped back in his seat, then ran a hand over his eyes. ‘I can save you the trouble of quizzing us. My score’s going to be “Moderate”. Should be “Low”, but you probably think I’m being all defensive about it.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Wouldn’t you be? Someone comes into your home and reads out questions like you’re on some sick game show?’
PC Irvine’s partner laughed. ‘Like Blankety Blank for perverts? Wankety Wank?’
Knox looked at him for a moment, then smiled. ‘I’ll have a “P” please Bob.’
Wrong show.
Logan shifted on the windowsill. Knox was right – this was a waste of everyone’s time. He’d just tell them what they wanted to hear. Work the system. Screw with the results.
Worthless.
Knox gave a small, humourless laugh. ‘You know, it’s funny really. All this time and I’m finally at peace. Let God into me heart, chased away me demons. And we’re still going through the same questions they was asking us in prison.’ The weedy little man went back to picking at the arm of his chair. ‘God’s forgiven us, surely that’s what matters. The minister told us all about His forgiveness and love, like. We’re all made in His image, aren’t we? Even someone like me.’ A smile crept across Knox’s pointy face. ‘God is just like me.’
Now there was a creepy thought.
Logan checked his watch. Nearly half two. If they didn’t get moving soon, by the time he got back to Bucksburn and picked up his car the Friday afternoon rush-hour would be grinding everything to a halt. And there was no way he was doing any more unpaid overtime for Steel, Finnie, or anyone else.
Logan waited in the hall with PC Paul Leggett, while Irvine was upstairs checking on the two people from Sacro. Knox was still in the lounge, on his knees on the hearthrug, praying to a broken electric fire.
Logan turned his back on the open doorway. ‘Ever taken the test yourself?’
A lopsided smile pulled Leggett’s face out of shape. ‘Apparently I’m a “High Risk” offender.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Chronic masturbation means mair than fifteen times a month. I’m off the bloody scale on that one.’
Uncomfortable silence.
Logan fidgeted.
‘Anyway…’
Constable Irvine appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘All set.’
Leggett opened the front door, motioning them out into the cold, drizzly afternoon. ‘Fit’s the live-in help saying till it?’
‘He’s not been out of the house. Keeps himself to himself. Does a lot of praying.’
‘Aye, weel, going to take a lot mair than that.’
They hurried down the path towards the grubby van parked at the kerb. By the time they clambered inside Irvine’s glasses were opaque with tiny water droplets. She turned the key in the ignition, pumping the accelerator until the engine caught.
PC Leggett cranked up the blowers. ‘Fit did you think, Babs?’
Irvine took off her glasses and dried them on a corner of her tartan-tea-towel shirt. ‘He’s hiding something.’
Logan scooted around in his seat. ‘Do I need to up the surveillance?’
She shrugged, then pointed through the slowly clearing windscreen at a black box mounted on a streetlight a couple of houses away, then at another rusty van in the old Aberdeen City Council burgundy livery. It was sitting beside a coned-off rectangle of tarmac and looked at least ten years older than the one they were currently sitting in. ‘Got level one surveillance, CCTV both ends of the street, two people staying with him full time, regular visits from Paul and me… What else can we do?’
Richard Knox stands at the living room window, watching the grimy white van drive off into the damp afternoon.
He checks the lounge doorway – no one there – then pulls the mobile phone from his pocket. The phone he’s not supposed to have, just in case he uses it to make contact with other perverts.
Like he’d want to speak to those filthy bastards.
He scrolls down through the address book until he comes to the number of a certain gentleman in Newcastle. A very influential gentleman who’s not in the least bit gentle. It rings for a while, then the voicemail picks up and Richard leaves a message.
‘Hi, Aunty Maggie, just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. Yer present’s in the post, like.’ Pause. ‘It’s all going good here, you know? Settlin’ in and that. Speak to you later.’ And then he hangs up.
Checks the doorway again.
Slides the phone back into its dark hiding place.
Happy birthday.
The police aren’t the only ones who’ve got an exit strategy.
The manky little Fiat made a horrible grinding noise every time Logan tried to put it into third. He mashed the clutch to the floor and shoved the gearstick into place, pretending he couldn’t smell something burning. Heading back along the dual carriageway towards the Horrible Haudagain roundabout, next stop: FHQ, to find somewhere quiet to hide until his shift was over.
The radio hissed and crackled, never latching onto any station for more than three
