The chipboard flooring creaked beneath Logan's feet as he crept inside.
First left: the living room was empty. A green tarpaulin had been stretched over the glassless window, shrouding everything in mouldy shadows. No sign of anyone. Dining room: empty. Downstairs toilet: empty, just the hole where a WC was supposed to go and a couple of plastic pipes poking out through the floor. The kitchen was little more than a storeroom for piles of wood, boxes of tiles, bags of concrete, thick rolls of Rockwool insulation, and sheets of plasterboard.
Logan worked his way back to the stairs and started to climb. If anything it was even darker up here. It looked as if the builders had started their renovating job on this floor: the granite walls were already clad; doors hung; double glazing in; architrave, windowsills and skirting nailed in place. Logan froze on the top step and whispered, 'Did you hear that?'
'What…?' Steel frowned. 'Why the hell are we creeping about?' She took a deep breath, 'POLICE! Come out with your hands up and no one has to get hurt!'
A voice sounded in one of the bedrooms: 'Kurwa!'
A figure exploded out of the open bedroom door — large, male, it was difficult to tell much more than that in the dark. He had something in his hand. Something long, that glinted in a rogue sliver of light. Crowbar.
He tried to take Logan's head off with it, swinging the thing like a broadsword.
Logan ducked and it whistled by close enough to ruffle his hair before embedding itself in the plasterboard. Logan slammed his fist into the man's stomach.
He didn't collapse and roll about on the floor in agony, he just grunted and yanked the crowbar out of the wall, taking a puffball of Rockwool with it.
Oh God…
Logan flipped the cap off his pepper-spray and gave him a liberal dose in the eyes.
'Aaaaghh… Matkojebca!'
It was close quarters. Too close. The jet hit and spattered back off the man's face, a mist of stinging liquid that coated everything within a three-foot radius. Including Logan.
'Ah, Jesus!' It was like being sandpapered with dried chillies, his eyes were on fire, he could barely breathe.
The crowbar smashed into the balustrade, bounced, and went spiralling down the stairwell.
Steel swore.
Clang, crash, bang, wallop.
When Logan peeled his eyes open again, the man at the top of the stairs was just a blurry figure: on his knees, swearing and panting.
God that stuff stung…
Steel shoved past Logan shouting, 'POLICE! Get your arse-' She smashed backwards into the balusters with a splintering crack.
Logan staggered against the wall, trying to peer through the pain and tears as a second figure loomed at the top of the stairs. Logan dragged up the canister of pepper-spray. 'You! Face down on the ground!'
The man stepped forwards, right arm whipping out, grabbing Logan's spraying hand and twisting it back on itself.
Logan swung a left hook, but the man blocked it, took hold of the sleeve and yanked him off balance.
'Let go you bas-'
A knee slammed into Logan's stomach, and his world went from bad to worse. The pepper-spray was painful, but this was agony, tearing across his scarred abdomen. His legs gave way.
A hand wrapped itself into his hair, pulling his face up.
Even through pepper-spray blur the silhouette was unmistakeable: a semiautomatic pistol. The man pressed the barrel against Logan's forehead, cold metal on hot skin.
At this range the bullet would leave a little burnt halo around the entry wound as superheated gas forced the chunk of copper-jacketed lead out of the barrel and into Logan's skull. The hole would be about the same size as a garden pea on the way in, bigger than a grapefruit on the way out, spreading grey and pink and red all over the nice new plasterboard walls.
Logan closed his stinging eyes.
And then the Airwave handset in his pocket went off, the voice of Control announcing that backup was on its way.
The man let go of Logan's hair and patted him on the cheek.
'You are lucky boy today,' he said in a heavy Eastern European accent. 'I let you live. You remember this.'
Then he was gone, dragging his fallen friend with him.
6
Logan knelt on the floor with his forehead resting against the cool chipboard. He was still alive… Oh thank God.
He could hear the gunman and his friend thumping down the stairs; Steel groaning; a magpie cackling somewhere outside; the blood singing in his ears. Fear-induced adrenaline made his whole body tremble.
Maybe now would be a good time to be sick?
A crash sounded from downstairs and Logan struggled to his feet, forcing his wobbly legs to take him to the big window at the far end of the hall. It was double-glazed, the glass covered in blue plastic to keep it clean and scratch free while it was being installed. He twisted the handle and wrenched it open. The world was a blurry haze. Logan wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and squinted through the tears.
The gunman had made it out of the front door — he was half dragging, half carrying his friend across the dry mud of the drive.
Logan scrubbed at his eyes again, but the two men wouldn't stay in focus. And then they were on the pavement and the tarpaulin-draped scaffolding that covered the house hid them from view.
He clambered out of the window and onto the little walkway of boards outside. They bounced beneath his feet as he staggered to the outer edge, yanking back a green tarpaulin sheet. Logan took a deep breath and yelled: 'STOP POLICE!'
They didn't even turn around. The two blurry figures hurried along the pavement towards the CID pool car: the one with Rory Simpson handcuffed in the back.
For a brief moment Logan caught sight of a pale blob — Rory's face, peering up from the gap between the front and back seats — and then the gunman and his friend were past.
They disappeared from view, and the sound of a car starting echoed up from the street below. The engine roared, the wheels spun, and it accelerated away: getting out of there before the sound of distant sirens got any closer.
They were gone. Logan staggered back to the landing, where Steel was lying slouched against the cracked woodwork of the banisters, head lolling, making incoherent mumbling noises.
'Inspector? Are you OK?'
'Nnnffff… can't find my hat… mphhhh…'
Logan dug out his Airwave handset and called Control, telling them to get an ambulance over here ASAP. He slumped back against the banisters next to Steel, listening to the background chatter of the control room as it got everything organized.
His stomach ached, the initial biting pain settling down to a dull throb. His face wasn't much better. No doubt about it — they came, they saw, and they got their arses kicked.
Logan stared through the open doorway into the darkness of the bedroom the gunman had burst out of. There was something lying on the floor.
He grunted his way to his feet and wobbled into the room.
It was a large bedroom, complete with ensuite shower, he could just make out the tiles glittering in the gloom. The whole place smelled of scorched meat.
The something lying on the floor was a man, smoke curling up from the holes where his eyes used to be.
He was large, heavily built, muscle just starting to turn to fat. Half of his left ear was missing. Simon McLeod.
Logan didn't think it was possible, but today had just got even worse. The ambulance sat on the road beside the skip, flanked by a pair of patrol cars. Half a dozen uniformed officers were already going door-to-door. Logan watched their fuzzy, out-of-focus figures from the tailgate of the ambulance, while a paramedic rummaged about in the back.
'Right,' said the man, dressed in a wrinkly green jumpsuit, 'head back and we'll wash that crap out your eyes.'
Logan did as he was told, and instantly regretted it. The stinging pain had been easing off a little, but now it was back at full strength. 'Ahh, Jesus!'
'Hold still…'
> And gradually it began to subside. He could actually see by the time they were walking DI Steel out of the house. They helped her into one of the ambulance beds. She sat there swaying back and forth as they checked Simon McLeod was securely strapped into the other bed. Unconscious and hooked up to a heart monitor.
'OK,' said the paramedic who'd washed out Logan's eyes, 'we've got to get going.' He shouted through to the driver. 'Lights and music, Charlie!'
Logan hopped down off the tailgate, said, 'I'll follow you up there,' then marched over to the CID pool car. Trying to pretend he wasn't still in pain. He climbed in behind the wheel, starting the engine as the ambulance pulled away — lights and sirens blazing in the sunny afternoon.
Rory's voice sounded from the back, 'What happened?' He was still handcuffed to the seat support.
'You saw them, didn't you? You must have been looking right at them when they passed.' Logan stuck the car in gear, accelerating after the ambulance as it turned right onto Leslie Road.
'I… What did they do? We-'
'I want a description.'
The speedometer hit fifty as they screamed through the roundabout and onto Westburn Drive.
'Aaaagh! Slow down! I haven't got a seatbelt on!'
'Did you see them or not?'
Right again, onto Cornhill Road, the grey and brown concrete mass of the old children's hospital whipping past as they made for Accident and Emergency.
'Slow down!'
'Hold on tight — speed bump.'
'AAAAAAAGH! OK, OK: I saw them, I saw them!'
Logan pulled the car into the closest A &E parking spot and jumped out.
Rory shouted from the back, 'Wait! You can't leave me like this!'
'Oh for God's sake.' Logan opened the door and uncuffed one of Rory's hands.
'Ow…' Rory creaked upright, groaning, rubbing at the small of his back. 'That wasn't funny.'
There was a uniformed PC standing by the automatic doors; Logan called him over. The officer looked as if he was about twelve, his badge number marking him out as one of the newest batch of recruits — probably only been on the force for a couple of months. Logan steered him towards the pool car.
'Keep an eye on Captain Cardigan, here. And if he offers you any sweeties, don't take them.'
As the young constable got into the back, Rory Simpson smiled, patted him on the knee, and asked him if he liked puppies. Accident and Emergency looked as depressing as it always did. This wasn't a place people came to have fun, it was where they went when something had gone spectacularly wrong, and after all these years a little bit of that suffering had seeped into the room's magnolia walls and green lino floor. A couple of women sat at opposite ends of the grimy seating area, one of them breastfeeding a small child and swearing quietly to herself. The other was sitting next to a little boy who kept screaming, 'Mummy, it hurts! It hurts!'
'Well you shouldn't have fallen down the bloody stairs, should you?'
Logan flashed his warrant card at the desk and asked what had happened to DI Steel and Simon McLeod. One of the admin staff looked up from her computer, sighed, then said, 'Are you a relative? Because-'
A cry of, 'HELP!' came from the direction of the examination rooms, then, 'LIE STILL, DAMN IT!'
Someone screamed.
Logan lurched into a run, following the sounds down the corridor, towards a row of cubicles. He burst through the curtain: a nurse and a female doctor were struggling with Simon McLeod, trying to keep him on the examination table. A second doctor was crunched up against the far wall, clutching his groin and moaning.
The nurse glared at Logan. 'Don't just bloody stand there!'
He grabbed one of Simon's flailing arms, putting a lock on the wrist. The huge man roared and tried to break free, feet flying in random directions. One caught the nurse on the side of the hip and she staggered back, swearing.
The doctor let go of Simon McLeod's waist and grabbed his ankles, trying to pin them to the table and failing — he was just too big for her.
'Bugger this!' Logan tightened his grip on Simon's wrist and yanked, pulling Simon off the examination table and onto the floor. He crashed into the linoleum, and Logan twisted, forcing him over onto his ruined face.
The doctor tried to drag Logan off. 'What the hell are you doing? He's been seriously injured!'
Logan stuck a foot on Simon McLeod's shoulder and shoved, keeping the arm fully stretched out and twisted round. 'You want me to let him go?'
She paused for a second. 'No. Stay there!' She hurried out through the curtain and was back thirty seconds later with a hypodermic syringe and a small glass vial of clear liquid.
She threw the syringe cover onto the floor, drew a hefty measure from the vial, then stepped in close to Logan. 'Hold him still…' She yanked Simon's shirt sleeve back, smacked his wrist a couple of times, and slid the needle in.
Slowly the struggling began to fade. One kick. Two. The fingers clenched and unclenched. And then Simon McLeod went limp.
Which was when three burly men in hospital security uniforms burst in through the curtains.
The doctor dropped the used syringe in a yellow sharps bin, then gave the new arrivals a slow handclap. 'Oh yes, well done. Very good. We could all be dead by now.'
One of the guards shrugged. 'Fight in the maternity ward — some bloke turned up to see his kid. The mother's husband wasn't very happy about it.'
'You think Doctor Patel's happy about the state of his goolies?' She pointed at her groaning colleague. 'You're lucky I was next door, or he'd be a eunuch by now.' Then she asked Logan to help her get Simon McLeod's unconscious body back onto the examination table.
'Is he going to be OK?'
'I doubt it.' The doctor peeled back the gauze dressing they'd put on in the ambulance, exposing the top half of Simon's face. Then winced. 'Both eyes are gone and the optic nerve's been burnt. He's blind. Probably in a great deal of pain. All we can do is clean his wounds, keep him sedated, and hope he doesn't get an infection.' Five minutes later, Logan followed the doctor through to the next cubicle, where DI Steel was sitting up on the examination table, wobbling slightly. The doctor pulled out a tiny torch and shone it in Steel's eyes, flicking the light away, then back again. 'OK,' she said, 'can you tell me who the Prime Minister is?'
'Is it…? I can picture him…' Steel scrunched her face up, lips moving silently for a moment. 'Whatsisname — slimy, lying tosspot…?' As if that narrowed it down.
'Well, you've definitely got a concussion.' The doctor felt around the back of Steel's head with a latex-gloved hand. 'Probably going to have one hell of a lump tomorrow, but nothing's broken. We'll keep you in overnight for observation, OK?'
Steel frowned again. 'Is it Margaret Thatcher?'
'I'll give you something for the headache.' She turned to Logan, 'Do you want to contact her next of kin? Let them know where she is.'
'I'll give Susan a call. Get her to bring in some-'
'Next of kin!' Steel hopped down from the table. 'We- oops!' Her legs gave way and the doctor grabbed her. Steel kissed her on the cheek. 'Is that a stethoscope in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?'
'Maybe we should sedate you?'
The inspector tugged at Logan's sleeve. 'We need to tell McLeod's next of kin.'
'I'll get someone on it when I get back to the station.'
She shook her head, and nearly collapsed again. 'You do it. I'm no' trusting one of Finnie's monkeys: they'll screw it up.' She snapped her fingers. 'Tony Blair!'
The doctor steered her towards the wheelchair in the corner. 'Nice try, but no cigar. Come on, we'll get you into bed.'
'Ooh, saucy. I love a woman in uniform.'
Logan held the curtain open for them, watching as the doctor wheeled Steel away. The inspector flapped her arms and tried to turn around in her seat. 'Laz! Laz — look after my car, OK? It's parked round the back of… thingy. You know: the place we work?' And then she was round the corner and out of sight, laughing li
ke something out of a Carry On film.
But Logan didn't have anything to laugh about — not if he had to tell Colin McLeod someone had mutilated his brother.
7
'Ah…' Rory Simpson looked up at the camera bolted to the wall of the interview room. 'That wasn't what I meant.'
Logan sat back in his seat and folded his arms. 'You said you saw them!'
'Heat of the moment. I got caught up in all the excitement: high-speed chase, the sirens… Being handcuffed bent double like that, blood must have rushed to my head.'
Rory had developed amnesia the moment he'd overheard some idiot talking about what had happened to Simon McLeod and the other victims.
'Do you have any idea how important this is? People are being-'
'Suppose I had seen them — and I'm not saying I did — but suppose I had. What do you think they'd do to me if they found out I'd identified them?' He ran a hand across his bushy grey moustache. 'I'm rather attached to my eyes. I need them for looking at stuff.'
'Rory, we can stop them. But we need to know what they look like.'
'Can't you…' He waved his hands around. 'You know, DNA, fingerprints, that kind of thing.'
'They were wearing gloves.' Logan scooted his chair closer to the interview table. 'We can protect you. Make sure they can't lay a hand on you.'
Silence.
'Hmmm…' Rory pursed his lips and stared at the camera again. 'And would it make you forget all about our little… misunderstanding at the school this morning?'
'You mean when you were trying to coax little kids into your car with drugs?'
Rory actually blushed. 'Well, it might have looked like that, but-'
'Were you shopping for yourself, or someone else?'
This time the awkward pause stretched out for almost a minute. 'I… I don't know what you mean.'
'Don't play dumb, Rory. We know someone's in the market for young "livestock" — we've been hearing rumours for years. Was the little girl for you, or were you snatching to order?'
He shifted in his seat, licked his top lip, fidgeted. 'About those men this afternoon… I may have seen them after all.'
Blind Eye lm-5 Page 4