Blind Eye lm-5

by Stuart MacBride

'Detective Sergeant McRae. We met a couple of-'

  'Oh aye! I remember you fine!' She dropped the posh accent and beamed at him. 'You just go straight through, he's in the editing suite.'

  Steel raised her eyebrows. 'No' a safety film is it?'

  'Oh no.' She winked. 'It's one of our special ones.' The editing suite was a bank of keyboards, dials, sliders and switches, dominated by a dozen flat-screen monitors. All of them full of naked people inserting things into each other. And for some strange reason, everyone was singing. Every time the cameras moved there was a flash of bright blue or green scenery.

  Steel paused in the doorway, looking up at the wall of flickering flesh. 'Bleeding heck…'

  'Hmmmph?' The man sitting in the room's only chair swivelled round. He was huge — tall and fat — with little rectangular glasses, a greying goatee, and a trendy haircut that made him look as if he'd dried it sideways in a wind tunnel. He was drinking soup from a mug, leaving little bits of minestrone sticking to his moustache.

  He took one look at Logan and a huge smile creased his face. 'Sergeant McRae! It's so great to see you!'

  Steel stuck her hand out for shaking. 'Hi, Mr Clark, I don't know if you remember me, but we met last year and it was, well, you know, and I wasn't, but then I watched all your films properly and they were, you probably hear this all the time, really brilliant, and I must sound like an absolute idiot, but they're just so great.'

  He frowned at her. 'Aren't you the-'

  'Yes, well, sorry about that, I'm a big fan, Mr Clark. Huge.'

  The frown became a smile. 'Then all is forgiven. And please, call me Zander. With a "Z". I'm always delighted to meet someone who appreciates-'

  Logan cut straight across him. 'Mr Clark, do you recognize this woman?' He pulled out the photograph.

  'Of course I do: Krystka Gorzalkowska.' His pronunciation was perfect. 'Such a shame, she was gorgeous — terrible actress though. Couldn't carry a tune in a rucksack.'

  'So you don't deny that she worked for you?'

  'More that she didn't work for me. She just didn't have that… spark. You know? People don't have sex in my films, they make love. They have to look happy, joyful, as if this is the best thing that ever happened to them. Poor Krystka always looked like someone just crapped in her borscht.' He sank back into his chair. 'Tried her for a couple of scenes, but it just wasn't working. I had to let her go.'

  'She claims she was forced to make porn films.'

  'Not by me she wasn't!' He spun round and fiddled with some buttons. All the screens went blank, then blue, a single image stretched to fill them all: the Crocodildo Productions logo, and then a caption, 'SCENE 174B'

  It was Krystka, on her knees on a bright blue floor, marked out with a grid of little white Ping-Pong balls. An identical blue surface acted as a backdrop. She and another pneumatic blonde were 'entertaining' a man dressed in a top hat and frock coat. The camera swooped in.

  Zander's eyes sparkled with reflected flesh. 'This is going to be my masterpiece. The whole set's digital; I've got a stack of blade servers, a brand-new rendering farm, and half a dozen top geeks. 3D modelling, animation, the whole thing. You should see some of the results we're getting. Spectacular.' He took another slurp of soup. 'I'm going to do for Aberdeen what Peter Jackson did for New Zealand.'

  And then it was time for the money shot. A look of utter horror spread across Krystka Gorzalkowska's face, just moments after the other stuff.

  'Cut!' Zander appeared on the screen, marching into shot. 'Krystka, darling, you know I love you, but you can't keep doing this. It's only sperm, it's perfectly natural and it's not going to hurt you. Kurt's medicals are all up to date. Aren't they Kurt?'

  Kurt grimaced. 'Please tell me we don't have to go again!'

  Krystka burst into tears and Zander wrapped her up in a big hug, careful not to get any perfectly natural sperm on his jumper. 'Come on, sweetheart. Napij sie herbaty. Would you like that? Nice cup of tea?' Then he led her out of shot.

  Three beeps and the screen went blank.

  'See?' The director leaned back in his chair. 'Does that look like I'm forcing anyone to do anything they don't want to?' Another slurp. 'We tried putting a happy face on her with the computers, but to be honest it's going to be cheaper just reshooting her scenes with someone else.'

  'Well…' Logan put the photo back in his pocket. 'Maybe she was working for another outfit? Who else makes porn films up here?'

  'We're the only professional studio in the North East, so it's probably just some gonzo operation. Amateurs. I can ask around if you like?'

  Steel coughed. 'Can you put the first lot of humping back on again?'

  The director shrugged, hit some buttons, and the screens filled up with pink. 'I…' He cleared his throat. 'I was so sorry to hear about Inspector Insch. It was a terrible shame.'

  And one Logan really didn't want to talk about. 'Yes, well…'

  'Is he doing OK? My dear old dad had a heart attack and it knocked the stuffing right out of him. Pretty much gave up after that.'

  'We need to-'

  'Only, I was thinking: if Insch wanted something to keep him busy, I could always use him here?'

  DI Steel shuddered. 'No' in a porn film! Jesus, who'd want to see all that blubber humping about?'

  'I meant as a production assistant.' Zander stuck the topmost of his chins in the air, the others stretching out behind it. 'And some people like larger men, thank you very much!'

  'I was only-'

  'Actually,' said Logan, 'if we could get back to Krystka Gorzalkowska? How did you get hold of her?'

  'Kostchey International Holdings Limited, it's an agency: they specialize in Polish actresses for adult films. Absolute Godsend. Their girls look fabulous, most of them can sing, they remember their lines, and they can act too. I can't get local girls who look anywhere near as good — all the attractive ones want to be on crap like Big Brother or the X-Factor.' Sigh. 'No one wants to be a porn star anymore.' DI Steel was disturbingly happy on the drive back to her house, staring at the pair of brand-new DVDs the director had given her as a parting gift: Harriet Potter and the Gobbler of Firemen and Indiana Jane and the Temple of Dildos. The covers were surprisingly classy. 'Bet these are packed with girl-on-girl actiony goodness.'

  'I want to check with the agency, see if they hired Krystka out to another outfit.'

  'Supposed to be having the weekend off, remember? Phone the station, tell them to get some idiot to do it. If Rennie's back, he'll do.'

  She turned in her seat, staring out at the sunshine as they slogged their way towards the Bridge of Don. 'Susan couldn't pick me up today because she's…' Steel fidgeted with the DVDs some more. 'She had an interview with the adoption and fostering people.'

  'Thought she liked being an accountant?'

  'Not a job interview, you moron. For a kid.' She cracked her window open and lit a cigarette, blowing a mouthful of smoke at a passing cyclist. 'Susan wants a kid. She's always wanted a kid.'

  'Ah.'

  'It really matters to her and I'm… Well, I'm no' exactly Mother of the Year material, am I? Got to go see some social working cock-weasel on Tuesday, convince them I'm the sort of person you'd want to give a wee baby to.'

  Logan followed the queue of traffic across the bridge, listening to the plaintive wail of seagulls in the background. 'You're a shoo-in. They'll love you.'

  'I'm no' good with children! I'm a forty-three-year-old lesbian chain-smoker who swears like a fucking sailor and boozes it up every night.'

  Logan couldn't believe that. 'Forty-three?'

  'Oh, shut up.' She spent a couple of minutes smoking and scowling. 'Any fuckwit under the sun can get his girlfriend knocked up and bang: he's a dad. Doesn't matter if he's a junkie, a wino, or a pervert, as long as he's got a working dick he gets to make babies. No one from the Social interviews him, do they? How fair is that?' She smacked her hand on the dashboard, sending an avalanche of ash all over the black plastic. 'Aw shite…' She swept
the worst of it up and turfed it out of the window, leaving a grey smear behind. 'No fags, no drink, and no swearing. That sound like me to you?'

  'Maybe it won't be as bad as-'

  'You know what? Sod it. If I've got to be someone else for the rest of my life, I'm bloody well giving the old me a good send off.' Steel flicked the last of her cigarette out into the beautiful afternoon, where it ricocheted off the side of an electrician's van. 'Call the gang, Laz: seven o'clock tonight we're getting blootered and hitting a titty bar.'

  Classy.

  But never let it be said that Logan wasn't a team player.

  11

  The Monday morning briefing had a carnival atmosphere to it, everyone lounging in their chairs, talking about where they were going on holiday. DC Rennie — tanned and smug — handed out a mound of bacon butties, the tinfoil packages releasing their savoury-scented steam into the crowded room. Logan's stomach growled, then lurched as Rennie stuck one under his nose, saying, 'Don't say I'm never good to you.'

  'Urgh… get that bloody thing away from me!'

  The constable sank into the next seat. 'God, you're not still on that vegetarian nonsense are you? Been seven months: get over it.'

  'You know what you can do with your bacon buttie? You can shove it right up your-'

  The door opened and everyone sat up, shut up, and prepared to pay attention. Only it wasn't DCI Finnie standing in the doorway — hauling his bra up with one hand, and carrying a plastic bag from Tesco in the other — it was DI Steel. She paused and stared at them all. 'Don't tell me he's still no' here!'

  She finished rearranging herself, then took the seat on the other side of Rennie. The constable smiled and offered her Logan's rejected buttie. 'Got an extra one for you.'

  She took it without a word, ripped a huge bite out of it, then sat chewing in scowly silence.

  Rennie sniffed. 'You're welcome.'

  'Oh don't be such a whinge.' The inspector's words were muffled by a cheek-straining mouthful. 'Is this going to take long? Only I've got a date with a rapist called Norman.'

  'You know, when I was in Thailand-'

  Steel made a little naked sock puppet out of her left hand and went, 'Blah, blah, blah. Look at me, I'm Defective Constable Rennie, and I went to the Far East with Gary Glitter Tours.'

  The constable blushed. 'That's not funny.'

  'Aye it is. Isn't it Laz?'

  Logan shook his head. 'Didn't you hear? Rennie's got himself a grown-up lady friend. About twenty years older than he is.'

  'Is it his mum?'

  Rennie scowled. 'That's the last time I get a round of bacon butties in. Ungrateful bastards.'

  'Does she make you a packed lunch in the morning and tell you not to talk to strange men?'

  'Just-'

  'Read you a bedtime story?'

  'We-'

  'Bet she gives your arse a good spanking when you've been naughty.'

  And at that, Rennie's blush got even redder.

  'She does!' Steel laughed, spraying out a claggy mush of half-chewed bread and bacon. 'Oh, you are such a pervert!' Five minutes later she was obviously getting bored of winding the constable up, because she shouted across the room: 'Hoy, Pirie — where's your lord and master?'

  DCI Finnie's sidekick looked at his watch. 'Supposed to be here.'

  'I know where he's supposed to be, what I want to know is where he actually is!'

  'Em…'

  'Oh for God's sake.' Steel marched down to the front of the room. 'Right, we're none of us getting any younger, so: briefing. Everyone who's on an active case, stand up.'

  Tumbleweed.

  'Aunty Roberta says, on your feet, you lazy bastards!'

  Reluctantly, they did as they were told, the sound of rubber-soled chair legs squeaking on the green terrazzo floor.

  'Better.' Steel crossed her arms. 'Right, if you can see someone else on your case who outranks you, sit your arse down.'

  That left half a dozen Detective Constables and Detective Sergeants. The inspector made them all give a little report on their investigations: background, current status, and estimated chances of not cocking the whole thing up. The last one standing was DS Pirie.

  He ran a hand through his wiry ginger hair, straightened his suit jacket on his skeletal frame, and brought everyone up to date on Operation Oedipus. The slideshow was set up ready for the absent DCI Finnie, and Pirie started at the beginning. The very first victim's tattered face filled the screen. 'Tolek Dobrowski, twenty-three, electrician, originally from Gdansk.'

  Steel scrunched up the tinfoil her bacon buttie came in and lobbed it at the detective sergeant. 'Don't sod about, we've been over this already. Tell us something we don't know.'

  Pirie flushed, filling in the space between his freckles. 'Fine…' He went scrabbling through his notes. 'The… here we are: the only thing our victims had in common, is that they're all Polish nationals, except for Simon McLeod. And none of them will tell us anything about what happened, or why.' He turned and poked the projection screen. 'Someone does that to you, and you don't talk to the police?'

  Steel snorted. 'They're scared, you idiot. What do you think our eye-gouger would do to them if he found out they talked: bake them a cake? Move on!'

  'Ah, yes, well…'

  Rennie stuck up his hand. 'Why are we calling him Oedipus?'

  Pirie squared his shoulders, scowling at the interruption. 'If you'd been paying attention Constable, you'd know why. Now-'

  'Yeah, but Oedipus slept with his mum, murdered his dad, then gouged his own eyes out. He didn't blind anyone else.'

  Steel snorted. 'And if anyone knows about sleeping with his mum, it's Rennie.'

  Laughter.

  The constable blushed. 'If you want a proper name we should call him Cornwall — he's the one who blinds the Earl of Gloucester in King Lear. You know, Shakespeare?'

  Pirie just stared at him. 'If you don't have anything constructive to add, Constable: shut up.'

  Rennie put his hand down and Finnie's sidekick nodded. 'Now, does anyone else have any stupid comments…?' Silence. 'Good. We got Dr Goulding to update the profile following the attack on DS McRae and DI Steel on Friday. I've got copies here at the front — make sure you take one and read it. Dr Goulding believes we're now looking for two men.' The e-fits appeared on the screen. 'You'll have seen these faces on posters all over town, but bear in mind they're probably wrong. No offence to DS McRae, but his source is highly questionable. Posters went up Friday evening and we've not had a single positive identification yet. So forget the e-fits: we're looking at a pair of men in their mid to late twenties. One will be older than the other — probably very charismatic — the younger man is following him and may be mentally subnormal.'

  Steel made another Rennie joke.

  Pirie carried on, ignoring the laughter: 'We need to start looking at the usual care-in-the-community jobs. Find out if any of them have recently fallen in with an older man.' The DS fiddled his paperwork into a neat pile. 'I would have expected the Polish community to come out in force on this one, given the fact it's them being targeted, but I get the feeling they wouldn't talk to us even if they knew. It's a conspiracy of silence out there. Keep that in mind when you're interviewing them — they don't trust us.'

  The inspector let Pirie finish his briefing before she handed out the day's assignments. 'One last thing,' she said, before anyone could escape, 'the language in this department is fucking shocking. We're going to do something about that.' She grabbed her carrier bag from the floor and dragged out a big tin of Quality Street.

  An excited murmur went around the room.

  'Don't get your hopes up, I've eaten them all.' The tin went on the desk at the front of the room, then Steel put on a sing-song voice, as if she was speaking to very small, very thick children, 'This is our new swear box, isn't that exciting! And every time you rude bastards come out with some verbal filth, you have to put money in it.'

  Everyone groaned.

  'O
h shut up. When it's full the money either goes to charity or we stick it behind the bar and get blootered.'

  She crumpled up the empty carrier bag and stuck it in her pocket. 'And before I forget: since his brother got blinded it looks like Creepy Colin McLeod's been doing a world tour of the local lowlife with his pet claw hammer. Harry Jordan got his kneecaps done last night — that makes six. Now I know drug dealers and affiliated scumbags aren't as cute as puppies and kittens, but that doesn't mean Creepy gets to cripple them. Eyes and ears open, people.'

  She sniffed, then stared at them for a moment. No Questions. 'Right, we're done. One quick chorus of "We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up" then you can all go catch some bloody crooks for a change.' By half past eight Logan was on the phone to the hospital, checking up on Kevin Murray — the man who'd got his nose cut in half on Friday night. Apparently he'd been given lots of stitches, lots of painkillers and was back on the street within twenty-four hours.

  There was no sign of the four hoodies who'd attacked him.

  'It's like a bloody jungle out there most weekends,' said the inspector in charge of the CCTV room, covering the front of his white shirt with cake crumbs. 'We've got the four little sods on tape, but there's no way to make an ID.' He called up the footage, letting it play across one of the monitors that dominated the wall opposite the control desk. 'See? They never even look at a camera. Keep their faces hidden the whole time.'

  Logan helped himself to a slice of coconut sponge. 'They had Manchester accents, if that helps?'

  'It doesn't.' The inspector spooled the tape forward a bit, and Logan watched Kevin Murray go down in a spray of blood. Hoodie Number One bounced in front Logan, then he and his fellow thugs were off and running. The picture tilted to follow them, then jumped to another camera. Then another one… And then they were gone, vanishing into one of the little side roads off George Street. Swallowed by granite and shadow.

  Logan finished his mouthful. 'Thought Britain had more CCTV cameras per head of population than anywhere in the world?'

  'Don't you bloody start — I get enough of that from the wife.' The inspector pointed at a stack of VHS videos in their black cases. 'Got about forty hours' worth of drug-related stabbings and fights there, if you want it?'