Blind Eye lm-5

by Stuart MacBride

  A muffled voice came from somewhere upstairs: 'I'm in the toilet.'

  'A NICE CONSTABLE'S HERE TO LOOK AFTER YOU. DON'T SOD HIM ABOUT!'

  The sound of flushing. 'OK.'

  'AND PUT THE BLOODY SEAT DOWN THIS TIME!'

  Clunk.

  Rennie went for another rummage in the cupboards. 'If you're going back to the ranch, Finnie's looking for you.' He emerged with a packet of Jaffa Cakes. 'Tell you, ever since that bloody drugs bust on Friday he's been insufferable.'

  'OK, first off,' said Logan, 'since when did you start using words like, "Insufferable"?'

  'Emma says I need to improve my vocabulary if-'

  'And second: what drug bust?'

  'Big consignment of heroin from Leeds. Couple of old farts in a motor home packed with the stuff. Been dropping off consignments for dealers every couple-hundred miles. Finnie caught them making a delivery to our friendly neighbourhood Triads.'

  Logan frowned. 'He did?'

  'Aye, Metropolitan Police and SOCA are going mental: been trying to crack that supply chain for three years. Finnie's so full of himself it's not real!'

  Steel grabbed Logan and dragged him towards the door. 'All right, that's enough of the Frog-Face Appreciation Society. We've got work to do.' 'And you're sure about this, are you?' Detective Chief Superintendent Bain sat back against the windowsill in his office, arms crossed.

  Logan nodded and laid the e-fits side by side on the DCS's desk. 'Positive.' He poked the picture with the receding mullet. 'That's the man who shot at us in Torry.'

  'And the other one?'

  'I can't be a hundred per cent, but I think it's the man we were warned about in Poland. Just before the… Well…' He coughed. Tried not to fidget. One leg starting to tremble. 'The… em… The only photo I saw was about forty years old. But…' Shrug. 'Maybe. The eyes are right.'

  'Name?'

  'Vadim Mikhailovitch Kravchenko. Worked for the Secret Police in Krakow and Nowa Huta under the Communists: torturing dissidents. Word is he's freelancing for Warsaw gangsters now.'

  'Hmm…' Bain ran a thoughtful hand over his shiny head. 'Inspector?'

  'Makes sense. Been hearing rumours of Eastern Europeans trying to muscle their way in for ages. Simon McLeod won't play nice, so they carve his eyes out and burn the holes. Same crap they've been pulling back home since the seventies. It's no' revenge, it's a warning to everyone else.'

  'Right.' The DCS picked up his phone and started to dial. 'Let's get Finnie in here and-'

  Logan stabbed his finger down on the cut-off button. 'Actually, sir, it might be better to keep this low-key.'

  Bain stared at him. 'Sergeant McRae, I understand you've been through a lot recently, but DCI Finnie needs to be here.'

  'You can't-'

  'One: he's in charge of the Oedipus investigation. And Two: until DI McPherson gets back from sick leave, Finnie's looking into that caravan full of guns.'

  'That's got nothing to do with-'

  'They finished processing all the prints from our weapons cache. The fingerprint recovered from that empty shell casing at the Krakow General Store matches latents on weapons and the caravan. If you've got an ID, he needs to know.' Bain looked down at the phone, then up at Logan again. 'Now move your finger.'

  'We…' Logan licked his lips. 'I think Finnie's dirty.'

  'Don't be ridiculous-'

  'I saw him taking a brown envelope from one of Wee Hamish's goons. I–C-One male: green hair, spots, late teens, early twenties.'

  Steel whistled. 'Johnny Urquhart? Thought he was still in borstal?'

  Bain put the phone down. 'Are you seriously accusing Detective Chief Inspector Finnie of taking bribes from Hamish Mowat?'

  Silence.

  'I know what I saw.'

  'Finnie's got the highest rate of drug busts in the force, he's like a sniffer dog. Last week: three-quarters of a million in heroin from that motor home case. If he's on the take, why does he arrest so many people?'

  'I don't know… maybe he's overcompensating?'

  'Aye,' said Steel, 'and how comes he drives that crappy Mondeo? It's an estate, for God's sake.'

  DCS Bain shook his head. 'I don't see it.'

  'Well… what about Rory Simpson? He said he heard a police officer talking to Kravchenko when they wrecked his flat, and-'

  'Sergeant McRae, I will not let Polish gangsters run amok in my city, just because a wanted paedophile is feeling a little paranoid. Now I gave you considerable leeway in allowing you to keep Rory Simpson at DI Steel's house, but enough is enough. If we don't nip this in the bud, we're looking at all-out gang warfare. With machine guns!'

  'But-'

  'I said no, Sergeant.'

  'This is stupid!' Logan's voice was getting louder and louder. 'You have to-'

  'No I don't!' Bain was on his feet, leaning on the desk. 'I'm beginning to wonder if you're really ready to come back to work.'

  Logan opened his mouth, but Steel slapped a hand down on his arm before he could speak.

  'Tell you what, Laz,' she said, 'why don't you go get us all a nice cup of tea.'

  'I don't want a-'

  'Cup of coffee then. Rowie with jam. Photo of Gloria Hunniford with her boobs hanging out. I don't care, just sod off for ten minutes.'

  'Fine.' Logan stood and stomped out. Slamming the door behind him.

  He kept up the strop all they way out to the rear podium car park, then sparked up a cigarette in the last remaining square of early evening sunlight. Five to five and people were heading back to the station. Beat officers wandering up the steps from street level, patrol cars and CID Vauxhalls competing for Aberdeen's daily 'Who Can Park The Worst' award.

  Logan smoked his cigarette right down to the stub, grunting and nodding hellos at the people he knew. Ignoring those he didn't. Brooding the whole time about DI Steel and DCS Bain. Probably up there working out how to get him permanently signed off on the sick.

  Indefinite leave, a sorry-to-see-you-go handshake, and a partial pension.

  He ground what was left of his cigarette into the tarmac with the toe of his shoe.

  Maybe it'd be for the best anyway. Sodding police force. Wasn't as if it was a dream career was it? Getting shouted at, spat at, threatened… and that was just the senior officers, the bloody public were even worse.

  Screw the lot of them.

  He checked his watch. It'd been eleven minutes since he'd been banished. Time to go back upstairs and face the music.

  53

  He didn't bother to knock, just pushed straight into Bain's office. The head of CID was sitting behind his desk, scowling, mouth clenched like an angry chicken's bum.

  But Steel smiled as Logan entered. 'Ah, about time.' She stood. 'We'll be off then. Don't worry, Bill, you've made the right decision.'

  And as they left, Logan could have sworn he could hear the man grinding his teeth from the other side of the room.

  Steel led the way down to her own office, waiting until the door was closed before deflating like a week-old party balloon. 'Dear God…'

  'What happened?'

  'You got any more fags on you?' She waved her hands at him. 'Come on, faster, faster.'

  Logan handed one over and she lit it, drawing in a deep lungful before cracking open her window. 'You and me,' she said over the sounds of distant traffic, 'are now running a separate investigation into these Polish gangsters. Finnie knows nothing about it, and no one else gets to either.'

  Logan settled onto the edge of her desk. 'How the hell did you manage that?'

  She shuddered. 'You don't want to know. But you sodding well owe me one, understand? Maybe two.'

  'What did you say to him?

  She took another drag and grimaced. 'Next time you go back on the fags, try a man's brand, eh? These are like smoking my granny's pubes.' She picked a thread of tobacco from her lip. 'You're lucky I didn't let Bain fire you: handing out crap cigarettes like these…'

  It didn't stop her smoking them though
.

  'What next?'

  'Normally I'd get your e-fits done up as big posters, plaster them all over the place, in the papers… maybe on the telly. This time?' She smoked and frowned. 'Never done a low-key manhunt before.'

  They spent the next twenty minutes trying to work out how to run the investigation with no resources, no staff, and no backup, and no one finding out about it. 'It's just no' possible,' said Steel, feet up on her desk as Logan scribbled things on the whiteboard. 'We need at least one uniform. Who's going to make the tea?'

  'We could probably get Rennie? He already knows about Rory anyway.'

  'And,' said Steel, 'it'll really annoy Detective Inspector Beardy Beattie if we take his plaything off him, so it's win-win!'

  Logan scowled and wrote a very rude word on the whiteboard.

  She sighed. 'It's no' like I didn't try, OK? Apart from anything else, I'd've won a fortune if they'd promoted you.'

  'Beattie. They promoted Beattie. He couldn't investigate his own arse with toilet paper!'

  'I argued with Bain till I was blue — aye, and so did that frog-faced tit Finnie — but…' She shrugged.

  'Who caught Gilchrist? Who found Rory Simpson? Who ID'd the guys that blinded Simon McLeod? What about those gonzo porn makers? Who caught them?' Logan slashed the whiteboard with the tip of the pen, underlining the filthy word over and over again. 'What's Beattie ever done? Eh? What's he-'

  'Enough, OK? I get it: Beattie's a complete nipple. I agree. But you…' She looked away. 'All that shite last year with the Flesher, and the seven-month bad patch, and the whole… attitude thing.'

  'But Beattie-'

  'You're a good officer, Laz, you really are, but you've got a high fuck-up to brilliance ratio. And Bain…' She stopped. Frowned. Made a face that looked as if she'd just soiled herself. 'Oh God, what time is it?'

  Logan rammed the cap back on the whiteboard marker. 'Don't change the subject.'

  Steel went scrabbling for her watch. 'Aaaagh!'

  She grabbed her jacket and sprinted for the door, screeched to a halt on the threshold, then grabbed Logan by the sleeve. 'We've got to get back to my place!'

  'What? But-'

  'Rory Simpson: what's Susan going to say when she gets home and there's a bloody paedophile in the living room?' 'It's not my fault they're digging up half of Aberdeen!' Logan followed Steel up the path to her house.

  'Should've stuck on the siren like I told you!'

  High overhead, a plane left a snail-trail of white across the blue sky. From the nearby houses came the sound of lawn-mowers and the smell of freshly cut grass. And from DI Steel came a long stream of muttered obscenities as she rummaged through her pockets for a key.

  'If he's lying on the bathroom floor with his nuts ripped off, you're taking the blame, understand?'

  She unlocked the front door and hurried inside, 'Susan? Susan, I can explain!'

  Through the hall, past the living and dining rooms, past the staircase, past the downstairs bathroom, into the kitchen…

  Rory Simpson was sitting at the breakfast bar, sharing a pot of tea with DI Steel's wife. She was still in her work suit, Rory was still in his yellow and pink ensemble, and still camping it up from the look of things.

  He threw his arms wide and said, 'Inspector, darling, so nice to see you again!'

  Susan smiled. 'Explain what?'

  'I… We…'

  'It's all right,' Rory winked at her, 'I told Susan all about it.'

  'You did?'

  Susan tutted, then filled three mugs from the teapot. 'I don't know why you've got to be so secretive sometimes. It's not like I'm going to tell anyone we've got a key witness in a big London gangland case staying with us, is it?'

  'It… London?'

  'Personally I think Rory's very brave: informing on the people who gunned down his boyfriend must take a lot of courage.'

  Rory simpered for a bit. 'Oh, well, I wouldn't say courage, per se, I just want to make sure my Barry didn't die in vain. We've got to stand up to these people Susan, or what's going to happen to society?'

  Steel plastered on a smile. 'Rory, can I have a word, please. In the hall. Now.'

  The old man hopped down from his stool. 'Certainly. And when I come back, Susan, you just have to give me the recipe for that fabulous carrot cake!'

  The inspector dragged him out of the room, leaving Logan behind.

  'So…' Susan handed him a mug of tea. 'How have you been? We've not seen you since before… well, Poland.' She placed a hand on his arm. 'Are you OK?'

  Logan pointed at his face, the patchwork of scabs and butterfly stitches, the bruises, the heavy purple bags under his eyes, the stubble. 'Looks worse than it is.'

  'You'll stay for dinner?'

  'Thanks, but I can't.'

  'Nonsense: you're staying, and that's final. You look like you haven't eaten in a week. I'm doing fish pie.' She frowned. 'You still eat fish, don't you?'

  'I really-'

  The door flew open and Rory struck a pose. 'Did you miss me?… Hey!'

  Steel shoved past. 'Alright if Laz stays for his tea? Maybe crash here tonight?'

  'What? No, I can't, I-'

  Susan nodded. 'It's already settled.'

  'But I can't-'

  'Aye you can.' Steel's smile wasn't pretty. And as soon as Susan's back was turned, she grabbed Logan and pulled him over to the patio doors, her voice lowered to an angry whisper: 'You're no' buggering off and leaving me with Rory Sodding Simpson all night! Any more of his gay stereotype act, and he's spending the night in the morgue.'

  'Rory's just trying to be funny, you know what he's-'

  'I will kill him.' She stepped back and slapped Logan on the shoulder, raising her voice for, 'We'll make up the other spare room, you can sleep there.'

  'But I've got plans.' Which was true — he was going to go home and sit in the dark drinking vodka until he passed out. Same as he'd done every night since getting back from Poland.

  'I don't care: you're sodding well staying!' Rory shuffled off to bed almost immediately after dinner, and as soon as the kitchen door swung shut, Steel was on her feet. 'OK…' She coughed, licked her lips, fidgeted. Shared a look with Susan. 'How about some vodka?'

  They abandoned the dishes and headed out to the patio to drink shots of neat vodka. The bottle was fresh from the freezer, covered in a thin film of frost, steaming in the evening air as Steel and Logan sank three shots to Susan's one.

  A citronella candle fizzed and crackled as midges and flies committed suicide in the hot wax.

  The inspector filled their glasses up again, proposed a toast, 'To good friends!' then threw it back.

  'Actually,' said Susan, fiddling with her hair, 'we…' She ground to a halt.

  Steel filled Logan's glass. 'They won't let us adopt.'

  Logan froze, vodka halfway to his lips. 'Do we have to-'

  'We can't get IVF on the NHS,' she said, 'and we can't afford to go private.'

  Susan sniffed. 'Well, we could sell the house.'

  'We're no' selling the house!'

  'I'm just saying-'

  'Been in my family for three generations.'

  'Well, there won't be any more generations if we can't get pregnant!'

  There was an awkward silence.

  Steel downed her vodka and poured more for everyone. 'I ever tell you about the Sperminator, Susan? Goes about smearing his spunk on handrails in shopping centres. All you'd have to do is take your knickers off and slide down every banister in Aberdeen — probably get pregnant somewhere between Markies and John Lewis's.' She laughed, trailing off into silence as Susan's face went pink, tears glinting in her eyes.

  'I have to tidy up.' She snatched up the plates, clattering them together, not saying a word, then marched back into the house and slammed the patio doors.

  Logan helped himself to more vodka, then pulled out his cigarettes, the lighter sparking in the fading light.

  Steel slumped back in her chair. Closed her eyes. A
nd swore. 'Great, isn't it? That's what I have to live with.'

  He didn't say anything, just poured them both another glass. Threw it back. Already working on a nice numb haze.

  'You know…' Steel took a sudden interest in the shed over Logan's shoulder. 'We could… ahem… threesome. I mean, it's what all you men fantasize about isn't it?'

  Logan spluttered, vodka exploding from his nostrils, making his eyes water. 'I… With…'

  Steel threw a coaster at him. 'Oh thanks. That's very sodding flattering, that is!'

  'It's just-'

  'It was Susan's idea, OK?' She stood, chair legs grating on the tiles. 'Me? I wouldn't touch you with a fucking cattle-prod!' And then Logan was all alone.

  54

  Fire — blaring through the walls and the floor, curling across the ceiling in violent yellow sheets. Heat. Pain. A sound like the world tearing apart-

  A crash of breaking glass.

  Logan jerked awake. Heart pounding. Eyes wide in the darkness. Everything was soggy. Oh fuck… he'd wet himself.

  No, it was just sweat. He folded his arms across his face and muffled a scream. Then slumped back in his chair and stared up at the dark orange sky, waiting for his heartbeat to go from thrash-metal to slow waltz.

  Every — bloody — night.

  He tried to stand, but his legs weren't working properly. Finally, he managed to haul himself upright, leaning heavily on the table to stay that way, something scrunching beneath his shoes. It was the vodka bottle, spread in glittering shards all over the patio tiles. Good thing it'd been empty.

  He blinked. Swallowed. Peered at his watch until it came into focus. 03:45. Probably still a bit drunk. But not feeling too bad. Thirsty. A bit achy after falling asleep in a wrought-iron garden chair, but other than that he was… he was…

  That's when the nausea kicked in.

  Logan staggered across the garden, in through the patio doors, the kitchen going by in a blur as he lurched out the other side and into the hall.

  He was going to be sick, going to be sick, going to be sick, going to be…

  A thin sliver of light seeped out under the downstairs bathroom door, but Logan didn't care. He wrenched the door open.