Blind Eye lm-5

by Stuart MacBride

  'I Fookin' told yeh, Murray, but you wouldn't Fookin' listen, would yeh? Had to act the cunt?' He was trembling, spittle flying from his mouth.

  Logan dug about in his jacket for his warrant card. 'OK, let's all calm down.' He snapped his ID open and held it up. 'No need for anyone to get-'

  Murray took a swing at Hoodie Number One. The punch went wide.

  The hoodie's blade didn't.

  'AAAGGHH!' Kevin Murray fell to his knees, hands clasped over his face. Blood spilling out between his fingers to spatter on the cobbled street.

  The queue disintegrated, everyone retreating to a safe distance to watch the fight. Not one of them stepped in to help break it up. So much for community spirit.

  Logan shouted, 'POLICE! You're all under arrest!' And then wished he hadn't.

  The three back-up hoodies pulled their weapons out — a cleaver, a combat knife and a machete. All Logan had was a drunk Detective Constable Rennie.

  'OK, everyone's in enough trouble as it is, don't make it any worse.'

  Hoodie Number One laughed. 'You think you're so Fookin' big, don't yer? Well you know wha'? I eat pigs like you for breakfast…' He snaked his knife through the air in front of Logan's face. Back and forth in curving loops, his hand covered in blue DIY prison tattoos.

  Logan felt his stomach clench. Why did it have to be a knife? Why did it always have to be a knife?

  Well, Logan had a nasty surprise for him: pepper-spray beat a knife any day of the week. He felt in his pocket, then remembered it was sitting on his desk back at FHQ, waiting to be refilled.

  Damn.

  He held up his hands, trying to keep his voice level: sound as if he was in control. 'Come on, it doesn't have to be like this…'

  Murray was sobbing, lying curled up on the ground between them. 'My face!'

  Hoodie Number One grinned, wiped his blade clean on a KFC napkin, then flipped the butterfly knife shut. 'See you round, Mr Pig.' He bounced back a couple of steps, then he and his cohorts were off, bounding down Belmont Street, whooping and laughing.

  Logan pulled out his mobile phone and called Control — telling them to get the CCTV team to look out for four white males in hooded tops and baseball caps running onto Schoolhill.

  And send an ambulance.

  Logan scowled at Rennie. 'You were a lot of bloody help!'

  The constable shrugged. 'I'm actually quite pished.' He staggered on the blood-slicked cobbles. 'Aren't we going… going to chase them?'

  'Two of us against four armed men? That's a great idea.' Logan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, folded it into a square, and handed it to Kevin Murray, telling him to keep the pressure on.

  Dark red seeped through the white material, saturating it.

  Logan sent Rennie to fetch some napkins from the kebab shop, then squatted down beside the injured man.

  'You want to tell me what that was all about?'

  'Ma fuckin' face!'

  Logan snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and pulled Murray's hands away. His nose was split in two, the lower half hanging loose. A deep gash stretched across his right cheek with bone glinting away in the depths, and then it all disappeared in a wash of dark scarlet.

  'Is it bad? It's bad, isn't it? Fuckin' tell me!'

  'It's… just a scratch. Couple of stitches and you'll be fine.' Lie. Lie. Lie. 'Who were they?'

  But Murray just clutched his nose back together and started to cry, tears mingling with the blood of his slashed face.

  Rennie reappeared with a big stack of napkins. They were better than nothing, but it didn't take long before all they had left was a pile of sticky red papier-mache.

  By the time an ambulance arrived their patient had passed out on the cobblestones.

  9

  The phone sounded like an aluminium hedgehog trapped in a tumble-drier. Logan groaned, rolled over onto his side and checked the alarm clock — nearly half past nine. He flopped an arm across his eyes and waited for the answering machine to kick in.

  Blessed silence.

  And then his mobile got in on the act — the 'Danse Macabre' warbling out from somewhere on the other side of the room.

  'Bloody hell…' He struggled out of bed, padded across the bare floorboards, and rummaged through the pile of clothes dumped on the chair in the corner. His suit jacket was at the very bottom, all crumpled and wrinkly. He pulled his phone out of the pocket, checked the display, and swore. It was DI Steel.

  'Hello?'

  'Aye, Laz, where the hell are you?'

  He pulled the bedroom curtains back, blinking out at the sparkling granite buildings and the perfect sapphire sky. 'It's Saturday morning…' He yawned, and sank down on the edge of the bed. 'I'm knackered. Watching CCTV tapes till God knows when o'clock this morning.'

  'Get your arse in gear. They're discharging me, I need a lift.'

  He groaned, fell back on the rumpled duvet, and stared at the freshly painted ceiling. He'd missed a bit. 'Get Susan to do it.'

  'Susan has a… she has a thing this morning.' Steel's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, 'And the nurses are acting all weird, like I'm a serial killer or something.'

  'But it's-'

  'You can pick up my car from the station. Keys are in my desk.'

  Logan rubbed his eyes with the ball of one hand, enjoying a fleeting fantasy of feeding the inspector through a wood-chipper. 'OK,' he said at last, 'twenty minutes.' The ward was nearly empty, just a grey-haired old woman in the corner, babbling on about Aberdeen Royal Infirmary being a front for the IRA. And people with bird heads trying to steal her biscuits.

  The inspector was stuffing yesterday's clothes into a little pink suitcase, muttering away to herself.

  Logan called out from halfway across the ward, 'Madame, your carriage awaits.'

  She scowled up at him. 'You're late.'

  'You're not even packed yet.'

  'Can't find my bloody wedding ring.' Then she started stripping the bed. 'Got to be here somewhere…'

  She was still at it five minutes later, when a young woman appeared with a trolley laden with tea and coffee. The lady in the corner got fussed over for a bit, but Steel was totally ignored, the trolley making a pointed detour around where the inspector scrabbled on the floor beneath the bed.

  Logan pulled on his best smile and asked if there was any chance of a cuppa.

  The trolley's guardian looked him up and down, then asked if he was taking that — she pointed at DI Steel's waggling bum — home?

  'Problem?'

  'She's been a nightmare: they had to check her every two hours last night, because of the concussion, and everyone got their arse pinched or their breasts groped. And the language!'

  'Ah…' He watched the inspector as she started to take the little bedside cabinet apart. 'If it's any consolation, I get that every day. Well, except for the groping.'

  That got him a look of sympathy, a cup of milky tea, and a digestive biscuit.

  By quarter past ten, DI Steel was rummaging through the bins.

  Logan left her to it, and went for a wander through the hospital, treading the familiar corridors, looking at the familiar paintings, feeling the familiar depression. Drifting towards the small ward where Simon McLeod was being kept under observation.

  The big man was slumped back against a mountain of scratchy hospital pillows. White bandages kept a pair of thick gauze pads in place over his eyes… Well, where his eyes used to be.

  A woman sat in the chair beside the bed, holding Simon's hand and sniffling into a handkerchief. Early thirties, blonde, smudged makeup, with bright-red nail varnish and lots of gold jewellery, Hilary Brander — Simon's bidie-in — was basically a younger version of his mum. Which raised some disturbing questions about their sex life. But would explain why Hilary and Simon's two kids turned out the way they had.

  She wasn't the only visitor: Simon's brother was there too, pacing back and forth, mouth working soundlessly. As if he was chewing on something bitter.

  Co
lin McLeod had all of his father's rough looks, but none of the charm. Five foot four of aggressive muscle, hair cut short to disguise the fact he was going bald. Tattoos twisted up and down his furry arms: skulls, daggers, thistles, 'MOTHER', 'FREEDOM', and 'KYLIE'.

  Logan stopped at the bottom of the bed. 'How is he?'

  Colin McLeod glowered at him. 'Fuck is it to you?'

  'Hey, I was just-'

  'Someone cut his eyes out, how the fuck you think he is?'

  Hilary looked up from her bedside vigil, her Essex accent wobbling. 'Why can't you leave us alone?'

  Logan held up his hands. 'I didn't mean to intrude: just wanted to make sure he was OK. We're going to do everything we can to catch the men who did this.'

  Colin McLeod stormed across the room, only just stopping at the last moment, inches from Logan; teeth gritted, neck muscles standing out like guy-ropes, a thick vein throbbing on his forehead. 'You fucking leave this to me, understand?' He poked Logan in the chest with a finger, the word 'HATE' tattooed across the knuckles. 'This is none of your fucking business.'

  'You know we can't do that, Colin.'

  The finger made another poke. 'Get in my way and you'll be fucking sorry. Understand? He's my brother.'

  Logan took a step back. 'Don't do anything daft, OK?'

  Simon groaned, shifting painfully in his hospital bed. Hilary squeezed his hand, a fat tear rolling down her cheek, taking the last sliver of mascara with it. She wiped it away. 'Please, just leave us alone.' Outside in the corridor, Logan bumped into the nurse from yesterday. She had heavy black bags under her eyes, and a bedpan in her hands. 'Watch out!' she said, trying not to spill the contents. 'Charging about like an… Oh, it's you.' She straightened the cover on whatever was slopping about in there. 'You don't hang about, do you? I only phoned five minutes ago.'

  'Phoned?'

  'That woman who got shot: she woke up.' The blinds in the small ward were down, shutting out the sunshine and the outside world. A young couple were sitting by one of the other beds, the woman crying, the man looking as if he didn't really know where he was. The small child hooked up to the ventilator didn't move.

  Only one other bed was occupied — the shooting victim. She didn't look that much better than she had five days ago, still connected to a bank of machinery that pinged and gurgled. Her eyes were shut, but they flickered open as Logan dragged a chair over. He pulled the curtains around the bed, giving the young couple some privacy.

  'How are you feeling?'

  She looked at him for a while in silence.

  Logan tried again, going for the simplest Polish phrase he knew. 'Dzien dobry?'

  'Thirsty…' it was barely a croak.

  He poured a small glass of water from the jug by her bedside. 'Here. Take small sips.'

  'Dziekuje.'

  Logan smiled. 'I can't remember what's Polish for "you're welcome".' She emptied the glass and Logan gave her a little more. 'Too much at once and you'll be sick. Trust me, the last thing you want to do is throw up when you've got stitches in your stomach. Hurts like hell.'

  'Please not to deport me…' Her English was a damn sight better than Logan's Polish, but he had to strain to hear the words.

  'Why would we do that?'

  'The… the man who make me do films, he say he tell police I am prostitute they send me to prison. Deport me. I am sorry…' Her lips trembled, tears welling up in her eyes. 'Please…' She clutched onto Logan's hand — her fingers were cold and pale.

  'Trust me, no one's going to deport…' Frown. 'What films?'

  'Please, I will being good!' The heart monitor was starting to beep faster and faster.

  'Calm down, shh… It's OK, no one's going to deport you. What films?'

  'Dirty films. Horrible. I have to make… with men… is…' She was sobbing now, great heaving sobs.

  The heart monitor sounded as if it was about to explode.

  Logan grabbed the nurse call button and stabbed it repeatedly with his thumb. 'Come on, come on.'

  He could hear the ward door slam open, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum, then the curtains were flung open and a nurse stormed up to the bed. 'I told you not to upset her!'

  The bleeping was getting erratic.

  Logan stood. 'I didn't, I was just-'

  'Out! Now!' She ran a hand across the woman's forehead. 'Shhhhh, it's OK. You're all right. He's not going to hurt you.'

  Logan stumbled out into the corridor, lurching out of the way as a doctor hurried into the ward. Then the door closed and Logan was alone.

  Brilliant job. First class. Way to go. His one chance to find out if she knew anything about who blinded Simon McLeod and he blew it. When Finnie found out…

  He groaned and let his head thunk gently into the wall. A woman was lying in there, seriously ill, and here he was worrying about bloody Finnie.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. 'Excuse please?'

  Logan turned to find a small, round woman standing behind him, dressed like a retired schoolteacher.

  'She is to be OK, yes? Krystka?'

  Oh… crap. 'You know her? The young Polish woman?'

  'My siostrzenica. How you say this? Brother's daughter?'

  'Niece.'

  'Niece? Yes, niece. She come over here to get better job. Stay with me and Fryderyk. Send money home to her family. Now look…' She sniffed.

  Logan tried to sound reassuring. 'I'm sure she'll be fine. The doctors here are very good.' They'd better be: he didn't need any more guilt.

  'I see her in newspaper as unknown person: my brother's daughter is unknown person. I am so ashamed.'

  At least Finnie's appeal for information had been good for something.

  'Do you know who she was working for?'

  The little woman shrugged. 'She never want to speak about it. Back home she is model for clothes. Very beautiful. Look…' The woman went rummaging in a handbag the size of a small country, and produced an envelope with 'PHOTOGRAPHS DO NOT BEND' printed on it. She pulled out a glossy eight-by-ten of a young woman posing in a studio somewhere, wearing nothing but her underwear and a smile. She was stunning. Hard to believe it was the same person lying in the hospital bed.

  'Wow.'

  'She was most beautiful girl in Wloszczowski… Look what they have done to her.'

  Logan turned the photo over, there was something scrawled on the back: 'KRYSTKA GORZALKOWSKA' and a mobile phone number. 'Can I keep this?' Adding a hasty, 'I'm a police officer,' just in case she thought he was a pervert.

  The little woman looked him up and down. 'You can keep.'

  'And you're sure you don't know who she worked for?'

  'All she say is she work for crocodile man.'

  'Crocodile…' Logan closed his eyes and swore. Steel was waiting for him back in the ward. The old lady in the corner bed had fallen asleep — lying starfish-spread under the covers, snoring.

  'Where the hell you been?'

  'Find your ring?'

  The inspector held up her hand and there it was. 'Must've been off my head last night. Found it stuffed inside a tub of anti-wrinkle cream.'

  From the look of things, it wasn't working.

  Logan hooked a thumb over his shoulder. 'Got a small detour to make on the way home.'

  'Oh, you're kidding me! First you bugger off for half an hour, and now you want to-'

  'Got to see a man about a porn film.'

  And with that, Steel's face blossomed into a smile. 'Well why didn't you say so?' She hurried past, pulling her Barbie-pink suitcase behind her. 'There's always time for pornography!'

  10

  ClarkRig Training Systems Ltd was an industrial unit hidden away down a little alleyway off Hutcheon Street. Logan parked the inspector's Mazda at the front door, next to a battered Volvo Estate, and Steel climbed out into the sunshine, still clutching Krystka Gorzalkowska's photograph.

  Logan locked the car. 'You finished drooling over that yet?'

  'I'm no' drooling, I'm assessing the ev
idence. And you can talk, had to prise it out of your hands with a bloody crowbar.' She stopped and stared up at the ClarkRig sign. 'You sure she was getting forced to make porn films?'

  'That's what she told me. Said they'd get her deported if she refused.'

  The inspector blew a long wet raspberry. 'Silly cow. She's Polish — a member of our glorious European Union, how are we going to deport her? We can't even deport convicted bloody terrorists.'

  'Well, obviously she didn't know that.'

  'You know what I think? I think Gorza-le-kowska-'

  '"Gorzalkowska". You pronounce an L with a line through it like a W.'

  'Aye, thank you professor. If I want a bloody language lesson I'll show up to the ones at the station.' Steel hitched her trousers up. 'As I was saying: she's been making porn films and now she's scared her family's going to find out. So what does she do — admit she's in it for the money, or say a bad man made her do it?'

  'If she's telling the truth-'

  'I'll buy you a big sodding T-shirt with "I told you so" printed on it. That make you happy?' Steel was already heading for the front door. 'Come on. Less talk, more porn.'

  Reception was an airy room, the walls covered with safety industry awards and framed DVDs. A pair of ancient film projectors sat in the middle of the polished wooden floor, in matching glass cases. Leather couches, steel coffee tables. Everything gleamed and sparkled. No sign of naked flesh anywhere.

  DI Steel marched straight up to the long mahogany reception desk, banged on it with her fist and shouted, 'SHOP!'

  A round face appeared from one of the doors behind the desk, bringing with it a cheery smile. 'Can I help you?' She was in her late sixties with dyed brown hair, arms like sides of ham, and as she wobbled towards her chair it looked as if her stomach was giving them a Mexican wave.

  Steel stood entranced. 'Bloody hell, it's like-'

  Logan took over before the inspector got them thrown out. 'Is Mr Clark about?'

  'Whom shall I say is calling?'