Blind Eye lm-5

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan scowled. 'And the next thing you know we're getting our arses shot off.'

  'I am sorry. I should never have taken you with me to Nowa Huta. It was irresponsible.'

  Logan reached for his whisky, the liquid sloshing in the trembling glass. 'Did they find his body? The man I shot?'

  'I should have called for backup…'

  'Did they check the hospitals? Doctors? Maybe he's not dead.'

  'Do you know how many departments are after Gorzkiewicz? All of them. I had him at the end of my gun and I let him go.'

  'Wiktorja!'

  She looked up. 'What?'

  'Did they find the man I shot?'

  'There was a lot of blood near the Trabant, but…' She shrugged. 'Hospitals must report anyone admitted with gunshot wounds, so Ehrlichmann has his own doctors. He does not want the policja involved.'

  'You're sure it was Ehrlichmann?'

  'I am sure.'

  'And your handler?'

  'Disappeared.'

  Logan sagged in his chair and took a mouthful of whisky, not really tasting anything but cordite and concrete dust. 'Every night. I dream about that bloody apartment and that bloody explosion every bloody night.'

  She reached across the table and took his hand. 'I know.' The clock on the cooker was broken or something: wouldn't stay in focus for more than a couple of seconds. Logan squinted one eye shut and tried again. Seven o'clock and they'd just about killed the bottle of Highland Park. He lurched back out into the garden with a couple of packets of things. You know: crunchy things. Salt and vinegar, stuff like that.

  He bumped into the table and let the packets fall from his hands. 'Help yourself.'

  Wiktorja did, fumbling with a yellow bag, and then there were prawn cocktail Skips all over the place. 'Oops.' She levered herself up and wobbled back and forth a bit.

  Probably a bit drunk. She'd had quite a lot to drink.

  Logan took one step forward, and leant on the garden wall, only the damn thing wasn't where it was supposed to be, and he sort of staggered a little.

  Wiktorja laughed at him. 'You are pijany.'

  'No I'm not.'

  'Yes you are. You are pijany. Drunk.'

  'I'm not pijany, you're pijany.'

  Wiktorja held up her good arm, posing like the Statue of Liberty. 'OK, I am pijany.' She picked up one of the little shell-like disks and stuck it on the end of her tongue. Then stepped in close. 'We are both pijany.'

  Logan grinned. 'I'm not pijany, I'm an idiot.'

  'No, you are not an idiot.' Her face softened. And then she was kissing him; prawn cocktail tongues on a sun-soaked Thursday evening.

  Upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms they struggled out of their clothes, Logan helping Wiktorja with the buttons and zippers she couldn't get at because of her arm being in a sling. They collapsed onto the bed, wrapped around each other. Kissing, groping, fondling. She'd been telling the truth — not a real blonde after all…

  And then it all went wrong.

  Logan let go and rolled over onto his back. 'I can't do this.'

  She lurched up until she was looming over him, breasts brushing the scars on his torso. 'You do not like me any more?'

  'I do. I just… I can't do this.' He let out a little grunt as she grabbed him somewhere private.

  'This bit says you can.'

  Dead puppies. Warts. DI Steel in a thong. The last image had the desired effect, and Wiktorja said, 'Oh… Not any more.'

  'I like you, I really do, but we're pijany. And I'm seeing someone.'

  'You are? Cholera.' She sat back on her haunches. 'Is she prettier than me?' Then she punched him in the thigh. 'How can you be seeing someone?'

  'It's complicated and-'

  The long, sonorous biiiiiing-bonnnng of the doorbell saved him. Logan scrambled out of bed and into his trousers, in too much of a hurry to bother about socks or pants. 'I'd better get that.'

  'Wait, but we have not-'

  He shut the bedroom door behind him, pulling on his shirt as he thumped down the stairs, barefoot.

  Biiiiiing-bonnnng…

  'Coming.' He was all buttoned up and tucking his shirt into his trousers as he reached the front door.

  Biiiiiing-bonnnng…

  'I said I'm coming! God's sake…' Logan could see the distorted shape of whoever it was through the rippled glass on one side of the door. He unlatched the chain — having to concentrate to make his drunken fingers work — then undid the deadbolt.

  The door opened.

  A mountain of muscle stood on the top step: six foot tall and almost as wide, arms like tree trunks, angular features, receding mullet. Kravchenko's right-hand man.

  Logan got as far as, 'Oh f-' before the fist slammed into his stomach. He crumpled, all the breath rushing out of him in one painful wheeze, and then his legs gave way and he crashed onto the black-and-white tiles.

  Mr Mullet stepped inside, grabbed Logan by the ankles and dragged him further back into the hall. Then went back and closed the door.

  Logan tried to roll over, tried to get up, but he could barely move.

  Shout. Warn Wiktorja. DO SOMETHING!

  Mr Mullet flicked the deadbolt into place.

  Logan dragged in a rattling breath. Oh GOD that hurt.

  The huge Polish man squatted down over Logan's chest. Grabbed a handful of hair, drew back a massive fist. 'Dobranoc policyjna suko.'

  Darkness.

  62

  Sharp stabbing pain. Logan groaned, coughed, opened his eyes. Then really wished he hadn't.

  He was in some sort of warehouse. Golden sunlight streamed through a series of small windows twenty feet above his head, a row of partially dismantled metal shelves casting shadows across the dirty concrete floor.

  He was lying on his side, arms behind his back, shoulders aching along with everything else. Handcuffs, or cable-ties around his wrists, the same around his ankles.

  Fuck. Not good. Not good at all.

  His stomach ached, and his head felt as if something was trying to claw its way free. A rabid hangover fighting with a punch in the face. His mouth tasted of blood, and one of his teeth was loose.

  Sodding hell.

  Logan coughed again, the movement sending another wave of fire through his scarred stomach. He hissed in pain…

  'Ah, you are awake. This is good.' Foreign accent, heavily laced with Eastern Europe. 'Turn him around, Grigor.'

  Mr Mullet appeared, grabbed Logan by the collar, hauled him around through ninety degrees, then dropped him back to the floor again. And there he was: Vadim Mikhailovitch Kravchenko, looking almost exactly as he had in Rory Simpson's e-fit.

  Only this time he was smiling. 'So glad you can join us, Detective Sergeant. I begin to worry Grigor hit you too hard. He is still have grudge from when you pepper-spray him.' He looked up for a second. 'Grigor, please to fetch our other guests.'

  Another grunt and Grigor marched into view, then out through a side door. There was a sudden flash of blue sky and green weeds before the door swung shut again.

  'Now,' said Kravchenko, squatting down in front of Logan, 'Detective Sergeant, you are man of honour, yes?'

  Logan coughed again, then spat out a mouthful of blood — aiming for the old bastard, but getting nowhere near.

  The Russian smiled. 'A man of fire as well. I like that.' He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, rolling the fabric up to his elbows. 'You know who I am, yes?'

  'You won't get away with it.'

  Laughter. 'Do people really say this? Like in bad movie, is big cliche.' He pulled something from his pocket. It was a Swiss Army knife. 'I have business proposition for you.' He put the knife on the dusty concrete between them. 'I want Aberdeen. I want her drugs and her prostitutes. You want long, happy life. Is fair swap, yes?'

  'I'm a police officer. If you kill me-'

  'No, no, is not worry. I not kill you.' He produced a small tin of lighter fluid and placed it next to the knife.

  Oh dear Jesus.


  The side door banged open and Rory Simpson staggered in, hands tied together, his nose at a jaunty angle to his bloody face. Grigor was next, with a half-dressed, struggling woman thrown over his shoulder. Wiktorja — wearing a pair of jeans and a bra, bound hand and foot. She was screaming something behind a gag of duct tape.

  Kravchenko pointed. 'Thank you, Grigor: over there.'

  The big man put a hand on the small of Rory's back and shoved, sending him tumbling to the floor. Then Wiktorja was unceremoniously dumped next to him.

  Logan thrashed against the concrete. 'Let them go!'

  'I am think not.' Kravchenko picked up the knife. 'You will work for me. You will be my… how is called: eyes and ears? Yes?'

  'Thought you already had a bent copper in your pocket.'

  Kravchenko frowned. 'What is "bent copper"?'

  'A policeman. You've already got some bastard working for you, why do you need me?'

  'Ah, I see… sorry, my English is not so good sometimes.' He unfolded a curved blade from the knife. 'A businessman never have too much staff. So: you will work for me, yes?'

  Logan closed his eyes. Screwing them tight, as if that would make them stab-proof. 'Yes. Yes, I'll work for you. Just let everyone go.'

  'Good. This is good.'

  Logan felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched.

  'Now, just in case you are lying… Grigor, bring the fat one.'

  Rory screamed.

  Logan opened his eyes. Grigor was dragging Rory across the floor, the little man kicking and struggling all the way, tears streaming down his face. 'DON'T LET THEM HURT ME! PLEASE! PLEASE DON'T LET THEM HURT ME!'

  Logan looked up at Kravchenko. 'You've made your point. I'm not lying — I'll do whatever you want. Let him go.'

  Kravchenko shook his head. 'First we must take care of Mr Simpson. Grigor?'

  'YOU PROMISED! YOU SAID YOU'D… ulk-'

  The burly man wrapped one arm around Rory's throat, pulling his head up, the other arm clamped over the top to keep it in place. Now when Rory screamed all that came out was a muffled squeak.

  Kravchenko pinched Rory's bottom eyelid between his finger and thumb, pulling it down. 'How can you be eye witness with no eyes?'

  Logan: 'You don't have to do this! I said I'd work for you!'

  The curved blade shone in the cavernous warehouse. And then it went in, between the lid and the eyeball. A twist of the wrist and blood poured down Rory's face, soaking into Grigor's sleeve. Another muffled scream. And then a bloody eye sailed through the air, bouncing in the dust at Logan's feet.

  'Oh Jesus…'

  More screaming.

  He was going to be sick.

  The second eye joined it a minute later, rolling to a halt, its surface speckled with bits of grit and spots of blood.

  Blue. They were both blue. Lying there, staring at Logan.

  The screaming stopped. Rory slumped, and Grigor let him slide to the floor.

  Kravchenko picked up the lighter fluid. 'You must to be very careful with the burning. Too much and they die. To little…' Shrug. 'There is no point burning them at all, yes?'

  He flipped up the little red cap and Grigor nudged Rory over onto his back. The little man's eyes were just two ragged slits, surrounded by glistening red. Logan couldn't look.

  The smell of burning meat.

  The sound of crackling skin.

  63

  The car door opened and Logan fell. With both hands still tied behind his back, he couldn't do anything but slam into the hard ground, then lie there, groaning in claustrophobic darkness. No idea where he was.

  'Clunk' Then the crunch of feet on dry earth, getting closer — someone walking around the vehicle towards him. Rough hands on his shoulders, dragging him backwards until he was completely out of the car. And then the darkness lifted as Kravchenko pulled the bag off Logan's head. The change from pitch black to bright sunshine was sudden and painful.

  They were in a lay-by surrounded by trees. A grass verge full of yellow dandelions and tangled brambles. An abandoned armchair, the fabric stained and fraying. A ripped open bin-bag with its contents strewn across the undergrowth.

  Kravchenko smiled down at him. 'Please to remember, Detective Sergeant, you do what you are told. And everything is happy.'

  'Let her go.'

  'I am sorry, Senior Constable Jaroszewicz is stay with me until I trust you.' Kravchenko put his foot against Logan's shoulder and pushed him over onto his back. 'You have been ask questions about Krystka Gorzalkowska, yes? Very pretty girl, is good, but she not like to make film with men, want go to policja, but Grigor is play with her. Very rough.' The smile vanished. He hooked a thumb at his driver. 'If I can not trust you, Senior Constable Jarosewicz is blinded. Only I let Grigor play with her first. And when he is finished with her, I let him play with you.'

  Leaning back against the black BMW, Grigor grinned.

  'And please to remember I have, as you say, the "copper who bends", and if you try fuck me, I will know.' Kravchenko pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and placed it on the ground by Logan's head. 'If I need you, I call, yes?'

  Logan squinted up at the clear blue sky, trying to gauge how much time had passed since they'd left the warehouse. Half an hour? Forty minutes? 'You have to get Rory to a hospital.'

  'Why do you care? He is children rapist, yes?' The old man opened his arms wide. 'But you are alive, you have still both eyes. This is happy day for you.'

  Logan struggled on the ground for a moment, tugging against his bonds.

  'You want perhaps I should untie you, yes?' Kravchenko's smile was back. 'But you are resourceful man. You can manage I am thinking.' And then he climbed back into the car. 'I will to be in touch. Grigor?'

  The car door slammed, and the engine roared, wheels spinning on the dry earth, sending grit and pebbles flying as the BMW shot out onto the road. Logan waited for it to dis appear from view, then rolled over and threw up. He limped and hobbled along the side of the road in his bare feet. He'd tried walking on the verge, but the grass was full of sharp stones and broken bottles. And Logan really didn't need another serious laceration.

  He sucked at the heel of his left hand. Probably going to need a tetanus shot. That's what happened when you had to saw through a set of cable-ties with the rusty lid from a tin of baked beans.

  Lucky he didn't lose a finger.

  He dug out the mobile phone Kravchenko had given him, and fiddled with the buttons again, like he'd done a dozen times since getting himself free. Still no luck. Somehow they'd managed to lock the handset so it would only accept incoming calls. Kravchenko could call in, but Logan couldn't call out.

  He kept on walking.

  It was a quiet road, somewhere north of the city, judging by the helicopters that occasionally droned by, far overhead, going to and from the offshore oil platforms.

  And then there was a new noise: a car's engine, getting closer. About time too. He limped into the middle of the road and started waving his arms.

  A red hatchback roared around the corner, doing at least sixty. No intention of stopping. Logan jumped back onto the verge as it flew past, the driver leaning on the horn. 'Brrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeep!'

  Logan gave it the two-finger farewell. 'Bastard!'

  Five minutes later a tractor rumbled up the road, huge heavy tyres churning up the grass on one side of the road, the farmer too busy blethering away on his mobile phone to notice Logan standing there waving at him. He looked up at the last moment and his eyes went wide.

  The tractor lurched to a halt in a squeal of air-brakes and foul language.

  Logan marched up to the cab, hands up in the universal sign for stop. 'I need you to-'

  'You bloody idiot!' The farmer yanked his door open and shouted down at Logan, 'Trying to get yourself killed?'

  'Police — give me your phone.'

  'What? Do you lot have nothing better to do than harass innocent motorists?'

  Logan stuck out his hand. 'Phone. Now.'
/>   'I was only listening to my messages!'

  'I don't care if you're having phone sex with the Duke of sodding Edinburgh, give me your bloody mobile!'

  The farmer scowled. 'Bunch of bastards. If it was up to me-'

  'You want let off with a warning, or locked up?'

  He shut his mouth. Shifted in his seat. 'Sorry, Officer.' He tossed the phone out of the cab and Logan grabbed it before it hit the dirt, then dialled DI Steel's number from memory.

  She picked up on the second ring. 'Who's this?'

  'I need you to-'

  'YOU!'

  Logan flinched, holding the phone away from his ear as the inspector shouted and swore.

  'What did you do to my bloody house? I leave you in charge for five bloody minutes and it looks like a bloody bomb went off! That TV cost thousands, you-'

  'They've got Wiktorja. Kravchenko and his sidekick… they gouged Rory's eyes out.'

  There was a pause.

  'Inspector?'

  More swearing. 'You sure they did Rory? We've no' had a phone call or anything, so maybe he's just-'

  'I was there: I watched them do it.'

  'You WHAT?'

  'It's not like I had any choice, is it? I was tied up. The point is they've got Wiktorja.'

  'Where are you?'

  'Are you listening to me?'

  'Just answer the bloody question.'

  'Oh for God's sake…' Logan did a slow turn, but he still couldn't recognize anything. 'Hold on.' He walked back to the tractor and shouted up at the driver, 'Where's the nearest town?'

  The man pointed out of the cab. 'Whitecairns is about two miles that way.' Then he harrumphed. 'This phone call… not long distance is it? I've only got five quid credit left and-'

  Logan turned his back on him and limped down the road a bit. 'They dumped me north of the city. You need to get the tracking thing on Rory Simpson's ankle bracelet turned on. Wiktorja might still be with him.'

  'Sodding hell, Bain's going to do his nut when he finds out… Why did I let you talk me into this?'

  'It's not my fault! They broke in and-'

  'I don't care: get your arse back here, ASAP.'