Blind Eye lm-5

by Stuart MacBride

  'You just get Steve Preston into room three and let me worry about that.'

  'Actually, sir,' said Pirie, 'I was kinda hoping to sit in on the interview-'

  'You've got more important things to do.' The Detective Chief Inspector was on his feet and heading for the door. 'We've got a drugs war on its way and a caravan full of automatic weapons. I will not have a bunch of incomers turning my city into downtown Basra.' 'Don't play stupid with me,' Finnie leant on the tabletop and glowered at the prisoner, 'we know you did it.'

  Logan got the feeling Steve Preston wasn't playing stupid at all, he was the real deal.

  'I'm not saying nothin' without me brief.' The Manchester accent sounded a bit rough at eight o'clock in the morning, but it went with the grey face and bloodshot eyes. Whatever he'd been on the night before was long gone, leaving him to cope with reality all on his own.

  Finnie folded his arms and pulled his rubbery lips into a pout. 'Oh, I'm sorry, did I confuse your little brain the first four times I explained this? You'll get a lawyer when I say so, not before.'

  'Naw, I been arrested loadsa times: I knows me Fookin' rights.'

  The Chief Inspector closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. 'For God's sake… McRae?'

  Logan tried again: 'The Scottish legal system's different, Steve. You'll get to see your brief when we're done here.'

  'I knows me rights!'

  Finnie: 'Why did you want Kevin Murray to torch the Turf 'n Track?'

  'Never 'eard of no Kevin Mornay.'

  'Really? Because that's not what Kevin Murray says. He says you and your mates threatened to kill his mum and kids if he didn't do what you said. Got his statement right here…' Finnie produced a sheet of paper from a manila folder and slapped it down on the chipped Formica.

  Pause.

  'Fookin' tosser's lying, ain't he?'

  Logan tapped the tabletop. 'You don't remember me, do you, Steve? I was there the night you and your hoodie mates slashed Kevin Murray's face.'

  Steve shifted in his seat. 'Nah… I wasn't nowhere near nothin'.'

  Logan stared at the man's hands. There was a DIY tattoo in the webbing between the thumb and forefinger. It was far too small and on the wrong hand to make him Hoodie Number One, but what the hell: 'Sure you were. In fact, I think you were the one who cut him.' Logan turned to Finnie. 'What are they giving people for assault with a deadly weapon these days?'

  Finnie thought about it. 'Eight years. Ten if you get Sheriff McNab, he's a real bastard.'

  'I didn't stab no one!'

  'Yes you did,' said Logan. 'And you know what? Detective Constable Rennie saw you too. Two police officers as witnesses, that'll be good enough for any jury.'

  'It weren't me! It were Baz…' And then his eyes went wide, and he clamped his mouth shut. 'I mean, I weren't there. And neither was nobody else.'

  Logan made a show of writing: 'IT WAS BAZ' in his notebook in big block capitals.

  'What? No, you can't write that: I never said it were Baz.'

  'We can rewind the tape and check if you like?'

  Finnie pulled another sheet of A4 from the folder. 'Where are you staying, Steve?'

  'I never said it were Baz! Tell 'im.'

  'According to this you're supposed to report to your parole officer every Wednesday morning. In Manchester.' Finnie checked his watch. 'Ooh, looks like you're not going to make it. Do you think he'll be disappointed when I tell him you've been picked up for drug dealing and attempted murder in Aberdeen?'

  'Attempted murder? Wha? No, it weren't me, you said I only stabbed the bastard-'

  'The suspect said, "I only stabbed the bastard…"' Logan wrote it down in his notebook.

  'Make 'im stop doin' that!'

  Finnie sucked a breath through his teeth, like a mechanic about to deliver bad news. 'Not looking good, is it Steve?'

  'I didn't do nothin'!'

  'Tell you what: why don't we pick up your good mate, Baz, AKA: Barry Hartlay… oh don't look so shocked, when I spoke to Manchester Police they gave me a list of your known associates.'

  'What? No, I-'

  'When we play him that bit of the tape where you grass him up, think he'll do the decent thing? Own up and let you off the hook? Like a good mate?'

  Steve was sweating, eyes going from Logan to Finnie and back again. 'I… I… You can't… No… He…'

  Logan watched him stammer for a while, then a thought occurred. He reached across the table and patted Steve on the arm. Steve flinched.

  'Did you know that Polish guy's shop had CCTV?' It was a lie, but there was no harm in trying.

  Finnie and Steve both said, 'Polish guy?' at the same time.

  'Must've been fun, that: smashing the place up. Looked fun anyway. Jars exploding, pickles going everywhere.' Logan whistled. 'That stupid look on the Polish guy's face when the display cabinet hit the deck… Sweet.'

  The sudden change of subject seemed to confuse Steve for a second, and then an appalled look crawled all over his face. 'There was cameras and that?'

  'Oh, yeah.' Logan leant forward and dropped his voice to a loud whisper, 'Got a great shot of you smashing stuff.'

  'There wasn't supposed to be no cameras…'

  'Mind you, the shopkeeper told me you were all a bunch of Jessies; said he could take you with one hand tied behind his back. Not going to give you a penny.'

  Steve collapsed in his seat, hands covering his face. '"Come to Aberdeen," he sez. "Take over no problem," he sez…'

  'Apparently next time you and your gay-wad mates show up, he's going to spank the lot of you.'

  'Yeah?' Steve came out from behind his hands, scowling. 'We'll see if he's so Fookin' brave this afternoon, then! See if he's got the stones to stand there and… What you smiling for?' He sat back and frowned at Logan and Finnie. 'What?'

  26

  Finnie sat in the passenger seat, watching Logan out of the corner of his eye. 'There never was any CCTV in that shop, was there?'

  'Nope.' Logan smiled and pulled out to pass a bendy bus that had stopped to pick up passengers. 'Shopkeeper said four hoodies trashed his shop, I thought it was worth a punt. Just like you did with Kevin Murray.'

  The DCI nodded. 'You're learning, good.' He let the patronizing compliment hang in the air for a moment. 'And you're sure these hoodies are going to be armed?'

  'Knives and machetes.'

  'Good. Nothing worse than begging a firearms team then have them sitting about twiddling their thumbs.' He dug something out of his pocket and handed it over when Logan pulled up at the lights. It was a photocopy of an Oedipus note. 'Came in this morning.' I can not help you any more!!! I have tried and tried but you will not listen! I cut out their filthy eyes, while you do nothing!! You are deaf and they are blind!

  What happens now is YOUR fault!!! I am the burning of GOD and salvation will be mine! Logan handed it back as the lights went green. 'Eleven exclamation marks: he's getting worse.'

  'That's the third note in three days. Before it was one, maybe two a week. Dr Goulding says our boy's escalating.'

  There was silence.

  And then Finnie cleared his throat, looked out of the window, and said, 'I'm open to suggestions.'

  'Ah…'

  'I don't care how daft it sounds.'

  Logan took them up Mid Stocket Road and across Anderson Drive, heading towards Mastrick. 'I spoke to one of the priests at St Peter's this morning.' He filled the DCI in on his chat with Goulding about Oedipus being a religious nut. 'You know what Aberdeen's like. Used to be the most secular city in Scotland, but a lot of these Eastern Europeans are devout. Been a windfall for the Roman Catholic churches, they've actually got bums on pews for a change. Goulding thinks our boy feels squeezed out.'

  Finnie stared at him. 'Believe it or not, I did actually think of that. Pirie checked every church, mosque, and synagogue in Aberdeen. No joy.'

  Damn. Now Logan would have to think of something else to make the DCI put him forward for that promotion. 'Well… how
about the victims then? We could put a bit of pressure on? See if they'll cooperate?'

  Finnie waved a hand, as if wafting away a bad smell. 'I've already got Pirie doing that on a regular basis, they won't budge. They're terrified.' He pointed through the windshield. 'Take a right here.' They parked in the shadow of a tower block. Mastrick wasn't exactly Logan's happy place, but it looked a lot nicer in the sunshine than it did in his nightmares. A breeze caught a small drift of empty crisp packets and crumpled pages torn from a lad's mag, sending them into a whirlpool dance of salt and vinegar and half-naked women.

  A couple of old men shuffled their way across the road, dragging an unhappy-looking terrier between them, the dog whining and scrabbling against the tarmac.

  Logan locked the car, then looked around. 'Why are we here, exactly?'

  'Just let me do the talking,' said Finnie, leading the way across a patch of grass. 'And for God's sake, try not to piss anyone off.'

  It was little more than a collection of squat concrete buildings, encircled by a rusting chainlink fence. A workshop, a garage, a small two-storey office block with not enough parking space, and a couple of warehouses. A bottle-green Jaguar XJS was up on the ramp inside the garage, a shower of electric-blue sparks marking out some serious welding going on. Old-fashioned accordion music echoed out between the flashes.

  And then there was silence.

  A pale face watched them from the other side of the car, and then its owner stepped out into the sunshine. He was huge, at least twenty stone, squeezed into grubby blue overalls, wiping his hands on a rag as he waddled towards them. 'Yeah?' The man's face was a topographical map of scar tissue and fat, a patchy beard struggling to conceal the damage. He stank of motor oil and ozone.

  Finnie nodded a greeting. 'Reuben. Is Wee Hamish in?'

  The man mountain looked them up and down. 'Depends, doesn't it?'

  'Like a word.'

  'Aye, I'll bet you would…' He stared at them for a little longer, then lumbered towards the shabby office block. They went to follow him, but the big man stopped dead, turned and pointed at Logan. 'Where the fuck you think you're going?'

  'I'm-'

  'No you're not. You're staying right there.'

  Finnie patted Logan on the back. 'Don't go anywhere. Fidget doesn't like people wandering around his yard.'

  Logan raised an eyebrow and the DCI pointed towards the dark interior of the garage, where the rectangular head of a Rottweiler glared out of the shadows. 'He's called Fidget, because if you don't stand perfectly still he goes for you.' Logan stood on the forecourt, trying not to make any sudden movements. Bloody hell: Wee Hamish Mowat…

  Fidget the Rottweiler lumbered out to the garage door and thumped himself down in the sunshine. He was huge. And unlike the McLeods' second-hand Alsatian, Fidget definitely looked as if he could outrun an out-of-shape Detective Sergeant. And then eat him.

  It was probably only ten minutes, but it felt like hours before Reuben the man mountain returned, hooking an oil-stained thumb over his shoulder at the offices. 'You: inside.' And then he went back to his welding. Wee Hamish Mowat's office looked like something straight out of a National Trust catalogue — wood panelling, hunting prints, bookcases, two brown leather chesterfield sofas, and a mahogany desk the size of Switzerland.

  Finnie was sitting on one of the sofas, directly across from the office's owner.

  Wee Hamish Mowat: grey hair, hooked nose, hands like vulture's feet, and eyes like chips of flint. He looked up at Logan, and a stray beam of sunlight flashed across his rectangular glasses. 'Ah, Detective Sergeant Logan McRae, I've heard so much about you.' The voice was a gravelly Aberdonian with a slight hint of public school. 'Your Chief Inspector was just telling me about his little problem.'

  Finnie shifted, making the leather creak. 'Yes, well…'

  Wee Hamish stood, crossed to an antique sideboard, and pulled out a bottle of whisky and three glasses. 'Macallan, thirty year old. I take it you'll join me?' He pointed at one of the sofas.

  Logan sat.

  The old man poured a measure of whisky into each glass. 'Slainte mhar. Or, I suppose we should say "Na zdrowie" now, what with all the Polish people we've got over here.'

  They returned the toast and sipped in silence.

  'So,' Finnie twisted the crystal tumbler in his hands, 'about that caravan…?'

  'Tell me, Logan, what do you think of the whisky?'

  Logan put his glass down on the big wooden coffee table. 'Very nice.'

  'Good.' Wee Hamish smiled, showing off a set of perfect white dentures. 'I do like a man who appreciates a good malt. I think we're going to get on perfectly.'

  Which wasn't exactly the most comforting thing Logan had ever heard.

  The old man took another drink. 'From what I understand, your caravan was full of machine guns and bullets.' The smile faded. 'Some people just don't understand how business works here. They watch all these big American movies, with the gunfights and the explosions, and they think that's what the real world's like.'

  Finnie nodded.

  'This,' said Wee Hamish, poking his couch with a finger, 'is not some bloody third world country. Guns are for professionals, not rank amateurs. Don't you agree, Logan?'

  Logan glanced at Finnie, but got no help there. 'I think Aberdeen doesn't need this kind of trouble.'

  'Well put, Logan. Well put. You see, your Chief Constable was right — I heard him on the radio the other day — people look at Aberdeen and they see a fat hog, swollen with oil money and ready for slaughter.' He leaned forward in his chair. 'The funny thing about pigs though, is that they'll devour anything. Hair, skin, bones. And if you're not very careful, you can end your days as a big pile of pig shit.'

  Silence.

  Logan cleared his throat. 'Is that what happened to Simon McLeod? He wasn't careful enough?'

  Finnie nearly choked on his whisky.

  'That was a terrible, terrible thing. Blinded like that…' The old man stared across the coffee table. 'According to the papers you're looking for a serial killer who doesn't kill people?'

  The DCI glowered at Logan. 'You'll have to excuse Sergeant McRae, he-'

  'Nonsense,' Wee Hamish waved a liver-spotted claw, never taking his eyes off Logan, 'I want to hear what Logan has to say. I read that your psycho doesn't like Polish people. Which is a pity; personally I think they're marvellous. I've got one of them retiling my bathroom right now.'

  'Why would Oedipus attack Simon McLeod? He's not Polish, he's one of Aberdeen's biggest-'

  'Entrepreneurs,' said Finnie. 'Biggest entrepreneurs.'

  Wee Hamish laughed. 'Oh don't be so sensitive, Chief Inspector. We all know what Simon is.' Then the old man turned his glittering grey eyes back towards Logan. 'Go on.'

  'I think this was business related.'

  This time the silence went on for an uncomfortably long time, and then Finnie broke it with, 'I want to apologize on behalf of-'

  Wee Hamish ignored him. 'So, you think this was someone trying to muscle in on the McLeods' territory?'

  'Yes.'

  'Maybe someone who saw what happened to those poor Polish people, and decided this was a perfect opportunity to take care of a rival?'

  'Wouldn't you?'

  There was another uncomfortable silence.

  Then Wee Hamish flashed his dentures again. 'You've got balls, Logan, I like that.' He drained his glass and stood. 'Now, if you'll excuse me gentlemen, I have some business to attend to.' Out in the sunshine Reuben was leaning against the garage wall smoking a roll-up. A pimply youth with green hair appeared at his shoulder, handed him a mug of tea, then they both stared at Logan and Finnie until they were off the premises.

  Logan looked back over his shoulder at the small office block with its row of dark windows. 'What did he mean, he'd heard all about me?'

  Finnie didn't reply, just marched straight-backed across the grassy patch to the pool car. He waited for Logan to unlock the doors, then climbed into the passenger se
at.

  'OK…' Logan got behind the wheel and started the engine. 'Where to?'

  'Exactly what part of "keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking" did you have difficulty with, Sergeant?'

  'I was-'

  'What the hell did you think you were doing?' Finnie turned in his seat, face pinched, jowls trembling. 'Accusing Wee Hamish of blinding Simon McLeod? Did you really think that was a good idea? Or were you dropped on your head as a child?'

  'But he-'

  'Let's get something perfectly straight here, Sergeant: Hamish Mowat isn't like Simon McLeod, or any of the other two-bit crooks you deal with. Wee Hamish Mowat will chew you up and spit out your bones!'

  'It was a legitimate question. He-'

  'That lovely little story about pigs isn't a metaphor, Sergeant. Mowat's got pig farms all over the North East. If he wanted rid of Simon McLeod, Simon McLeod would disappear.' He dragged his seat belt out and rammed it into the buckle. 'You do not mess with that man, understand?'

  Logan started the car. 'OK, so he can make people disappear, but maybe he didn't want that? Maybe he left Simon McLeod alive as proof of what happens when you get in his way.'

  'Don't be ridiculous.'

  'Really?' He pulled away from the kerb, heading back towards the centre of town. 'You said it yourself: Simon McLeod's terrified. Simon McLeod. Who else is he going to be scared of?'

  'One,' said Finnie, holding up a finger, 'if Wee Hamish wanted to teach the McLeods a lesson we'd never find their bodies. Two: the McLeods and the Mowats go back two generations. Wee Hamish lets the boys operate in peace because he had a soft spot for their mum.'

  A third finger joined the other two. 'Three: YOU'RE AN IDIOT!' He dropped the hand. 'You're lucky he likes you.'

  Somehow Logan didn't feel all that lucky.

  27

  'Well?' Finnie looked up from his newspaper as Logan climbed back into the car.

  'Cheese and pickle, or egg mayonnaise?' At half twelve in the afternoon Victoria Road was more like a slice of southern France than a street in Torry. The warm granite glowed in the sunshine, a pleasant breeze off the North Sea keeping it from getting uncomfortably hot.