Blind Eye lm-5

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan said he'd see what he could do. The farmer gave him a lift as far as the industrial estate on Denmore Road, Bridge of Don. Then Logan flagged down a taxi. He'd given Steel the number of the anonymous mobile phone Kravchenko had left, and now Logan held it clutched in his hand, unsure if he wanted the thing to ring or not.

  Outside the taxi windows the sky had faded to a pale blue-grey, the sunset already gone from a fiery pink to a faint yellow haze on the horizon, soon lost behind the dark hulks of buildings and tower blocks. They were most of the way down King Street before the sinister mobile started making irritating bleeping noises.

  He checked the display — DI Steel.

  '… look like a sodding mind reader? Get your finger out and-'

  'Hello?'

  '-hold on a minute. Laz? Where are you?'

  'Almost at the station: two minutes tops.'

  'Change of plan. We got a location for Rory's — I don't care. Do I look like I sodding care? Just do it! — Hello?'

  'Hello?'

  'Playing fields, other side of the river from Duthie Park. And when you get here you can tell me how the sodding hell I'm supposed to organize a search party without telling anyone!'

  The grass was cool beneath Logan's bare feet as he picked his way down the slope from Abbotswell Road, trying not to step in anything nasty in the growing gloom. A high, chain-link fence ran down the right-hand edge of the park, the skeletal frame of a building behind it just visible against the darkening sky.

  A couple of people were walking dogs on the other side of the park. They didn't seem to notice the small clump of flashlights working their way through the scrub and bushes at the water's edge.

  Logan hobbled on.

  DI Steel was standing with her hands in her pockets twenty feet from the river bank, cigarette dangling from the corner of her downturned mouth, staring out at the water. 'They wrecked my house.'

  A car horn blared from the road above.

  Logan glanced back. 'Can someone lend me a twenty? I've got to pay the taxi and-'

  'How could you let them blind him?'

  'I didn't let-'

  'He was a sodding prisoner in your sodding care!'

  'They broke in! I didn't have a-'

  She poked Logan in the chest. 'If he's dead I'm no' taking the blame, understand?'

  Logan looked up at the sky, then back down at the inspector. 'What was I supposed to do? I was tied up, dumped miles out of town.' He held up his palm, showing off the jagged dark red line where the can lid had sliced into the skin. 'I nearly cut my bloody hand off getting free!'

  'You should have…' Silence.

  'What? What should I have done? Please: tell me, because I can't think of a fucking thing!' He was shouting now. 'WHAT SHOULD I HAVE FUCKING DONE?'

  She sighed, took the cigarette from her mouth, and pointed with the glowing tip at the little circle of torches, still at it down by the river. 'I've got four people looking for him. Four. That was all I could get without Bain or Finnie finding out we lost Rory. Because soon as they do, you and me are well and truly screwed.'

  'I didn't have any choice.'

  The taxi horn sounded again and this time Logan shouted back, 'AND YOU CAN FUCK OFF AS WELL!'

  He slumped to the ground, sitting with his knees against his chest. Trembling.

  'You OK?'

  'They've got Wiktorja.'

  'I know.' Steel put a hand on his shoulder. 'We'll find her. Bain's setting up a big press conference, the whole three-ring circus. And don't look at me like that, I had to tell him, OK? We'll keep Rory a secret for as long as we can, but — oh sodding hell…' The Airwave handset in her pocket was ringing. She dragged it out and went, 'Uh-huh, is he…?… Aye.'

  Down by the water, someone was waving their torch back and forth, trying to attract their attention.

  They'd found Rory Simpson.

  64

  What he really wanted to do was to climb inside a bottle of ice-cold vodka and stay there. Instead he was sitting on his own in his ratty brown Fiat; parked on Commercial Quay in the shadows with the lights off, listening to the buzz and chatter of a typical Aberdeen nightshift.

  'Aye, this is Alpha One Niner, we've been roon the Trinity Centre and there's naybiddy here. Must've been a hoax…' — 'Just picked up three teenagers drunk and disorderly on Holburn Street…' — 'Roger that Control, on our way tae Seafield Road noo…' — '… can I get a PNC check on a blue Renault Clio, registration number Sierra Wilko Zero Seven…'

  You had to hand it to the head of CID, the only people who knew about Operation Creel were the officers involved — all handpicked by Bain. Complete radio silence as they waited for the Buckie Ballad to chug into port.

  ETA 01:50.

  Aberdeen Harbour was huge: two man-made inlets of greasy water and a chunk of the River Dee, all lined with warehouses and massive tanks of chemicals and fuel. Commercial Quay was right in the middle and this section of it, down by the fish market, was almost empty — just a handful of parked cars and a vast pile of lumber bound for Finland.

  The small grey Royal Navy training craft was the only thing tied up here tonight, the nearest ship a vast offshore supply vessel on the opposite side of Albert Basin.

  Nice and quiet. Nice and dark. Nice and secluded.

  Logan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, caught the edge of his bandaged hand and winced. Four stitches, a tetanus shot, and a small packet of low-grade painkillers. Little more than paracetamol, as if that was going to do any good.

  Quarter to one — an hour and a bit to go.

  He wiped his good hand across his eyes.

  What the hell was he going to do? When Kravchenko found out his boatload of weapons had been seized, he'd blind Wiktorja. If she wasn't already dead. Raped, strangled, and dumped in a lay-by. All because Logan screwed everything up.

  'Control from Alpha Three Niner, we've got a fatal RTA on South Anderson Drive…' — '… can you attend a domestic in Hazlehead?' — '… peeing in a shop doorway…' — '… fight outside that new nightclub on Windmill Brae…'

  The passenger door opened and DI Steel groaned her way into the seat. 'Bain's going mental.'

  Logan kept his eyes on the windscreen. 'How's Rory?'

  'Fucked. And don't tell me that's fifty pence I owe the swear tin, because I don't care. There's nothing they can do, just keep him sedated and doped to the eyeballs… Well… you know what I mean. Poor sod crawled sixty feet, through a hole in the fence and out onto the river bank. Lucky he passed out before he fell in and drowned.' Sigh. 'Course, maybe that was the idea?' She wriggled in her seat. 'Got any fags on you?'

  There were only three left in the packet; he gave Steel one and she lit up, blowing a cloud of smoke out of the open door and into the night. Logan joined her.

  'Apparently,' she said, 'we're going to be the subject of a "rigorous Professional Standards investigation". And you know what that means.'

  She puffed away in silence for a minute. 'What's the time?'

  Logan told her and she groaned.

  'Tell you, this better no' be a wash-out tonight. We don't come up with a boatload of guns, we're screwed.'

  'I'm going to stretch my legs, you want anything?'

  'Tea, bacon buttie, and a sodding miracle.' He found a little bakers on Market Street that was still open, flogging artery-clogging delights to the harbour night shift. Logan bought two cheese and onion pasties for himself and a buttie for Steel, then headed back across the road to the harbour, clutching a warm carrier bag and a pair of polystyrene cups. He was almost back to the car when something in his pocket started ringing.

  Probably Steel wanting to know where her tea was. He stuck the carrier bag on the ground and dragged the phone out. 'I'm coming, OK? Give us a bloody chance.'

  'Detective Sergeant, you are not still tied up, I am thinking.' Not Steel: Kravchenko.

  Logan nearly dropped the polystyrene cups.

  'You are still there, yes?'

  'Yes
.'

  'Is good. Detective Sergeant, I have the delivery of something come to Aberdeen, and I want to make sure is safe. Policja can be so… suspicious. Is right word? "Suspicious"?'

  'I want to talk to Wiktorja.'

  'She is safe. Grigor is not touch her yet.'

  'I — want — to — talk — to — her.'

  There was a pause, then a discussion in rapid Polish, and then a woman's voice came on the line. 'Logan?'

  Thank God. 'Are you all right?'

  'Logan, prosze: please, I am scared. I am so scared.'

  'It's OK, it's going to be OK. I'm going to take care of everything…' How the hell was he going to do that? 'They're not going to hurt you, it's-'

  'No?' Kravchenko was back again, he sounded dis appointed. 'If you think this, what is incentive for you? Grigor: break something.'

  A muffled scream came from the other end of the phone.

  'There. Now you have incentive, yes?'

  Logan stared at the phone, he could hear Wiktorja moaning in the background. 'What did you do?'

  'Is my delivery to be safe, Detective Sergeant?'

  'WHAT DID YOU DO?'

  'Senior Constable Jaroszewicz has two arms. Do you like to hear the other one?'

  Logan closed his eyes and listened to her crying.

  What was he supposed to do: let them get away with flooding Aberdeen with automatic weapons? Then it wouldn't just be Wiktorja getting hurt, it'd be God knew how many people. Indiscriminate drug war. Machine guns in Mastrick. Handguns on Holburn Street. Bullets in Bon Accord Square.

  'Grigor, perhaps you break the other-'

  'No! It's not safe. They know about the boat: the Buckie Ballad. There's a team waiting for it.'

  There was some Polish swearing, and then the sound of a muffled conversation.

  'Hello?'

  Logan checked his watch — 01:03 — they were probably trying to contact the fishing boat, get it to turn around and sod off back out to the middle of the North Sea until they could find somewhere safe to land the guns.

  'Are you still there?'

  Silence.

  'Hello?'

  The Airwave handset in Logan's pocket crackled then a disembodied voice said, 'Harbour Authority say they've got the Buckie Ballad on the radio…' There was a pause, and then: 'Aye, they're cancelling their berth. Not going to be back till Wednesday at the earliest'

  Steel: 'That's no' sodding funny!'

  'Skipper says he got a tip about some haddock sixty miles off Peterhead: he's had a crap trip, so they're going to give it a go.'

  'Get the bastard back here!'

  'How are we meant to do that?'

  Kravchenko was back. 'Well done, Detective Sergeant. You are good man. But Grigor, he is disappointed, yes?'

  Logan watched DI Steel clamber out of the Fiat and hammer a fist down on the thing's rusty roof. 'I don't know, do I? Call the sodding coastguard: do something!'

  He turned down the volume on the Airwave handset, so he wouldn't have to listen to her rant. 'I've proved you can trust me. Now let Wiktorja go.'

  'You only cooperate because Grigor hurt her, I am thinking. So I keep hold of Senior Constable Jaroszewicz for moment.'

  'I did what you wanted!' And now Logan was responsible for a boatload of automatic weapons getting away. They'd bring it in somewhere else, up or down the coast and when people started dying it would be all his fault. He was going to be sick again…

  'Next time we see if you can cooperate without her have bones broken, yes? Perhaps then there is trust.'

  'But-'

  'I will speak later.' And then Logan was listening to the dialling tone: Kravchenko had hung up.

  Logan closed his eyes, swore, and stuck the mobile back in his pocket. He stood for a moment, taking deep breaths, hands on his knees, trying to settle his roiling stomach. Finally it passed and he straightened up. It was time to go back to the car and suffer the consequences. 'Well I don't sodding know, do I?' DI steel slumped back in one of DCS Bain's visitor's chairs and scrubbed at her face, pulling the wrinkles about in a strange, moving topographical map. 'Someone must've leaked the info, told the Polish gitbag we were waiting on him.'

  Behind the desk, Bain looked as if he'd been dragged into work at two in the morning to shout at people. Baggy, tired, and angry. 'I hand-picked the operational team myself.'

  'Aye, well you screwed up on one of them then, didn't you?'

  Standing at the back of the room, Logan tried not to look as guilty as he felt.

  'You…' Bain pointed across the desk at Steel. 'You're in enough trouble as it is, Inspector: you promised me you could look after Rory Simpson-'

  'Oh don't give me that, Bill, we've been over this.'

  '-and he turns up with both eyes gouged out! I had to stand up at that press conference and tell the world a Polish police officer's been kidnapped, and the key witness in the Oedipus case has been blinded when he was supposed to be under your protection! Do you have any idea what kind of lawsuits we're looking at? The Media are having a field day!'

  Logan stepped forward. 'It wasn't her fault — it was mine. I was the one in charge when they broke into the inspector's house. DI Steel-'

  'Aye, and they wrecked the sodding place and all!'

  'DI Steel isn't responsible for what happened to Rory Simpson, I am.'

  Bain scowled at him. 'Shut up. And sit down.'

  Logan did as he was told.

  'Right now you're both looking at suspension.'

  Steel bristled. 'That's no' bloody fair!'

  'If you'd actually managed to get something out of this Buckie Ballad nonsense it might have been different, but you didn't. There's only so much I can cover for, and you passed that point the minute Rory Simpson was attacked and blinded.'

  The inspector looked as if she was about to say something else, but Bain slammed his hand on the desk, cutting her off. 'You will both report to Professional Standards at oh-seven-hundred hours. You will cooperate fully with their investigation. And then you will hand over all your open investigations to Detective Chief Inspector Finnie.'

  'What?' Logan sat forward in his seat. 'You can't do that, he's-'

  'DCI Finnie has been investigated and cleared of any wrongdoing, Sergeant, which is more than we can say for you. I kept him out of the loop on this operation, on your word, and look what a disaster that turned out to be.'

  'But he-'

  'Enough! No more. Go home. And have a serious think about whether or not you're actually suited to police work.'

  65

  Logan slumped back onto the clammy sheets, slapped both hands over his eyes and swore. He lay there until the shaking stopped, then hauled himself out into the kitchen. The vodka bottle was empty, and so was the litre of Bells his brother had given him for Christmas. All he had left was an inch of OVD rum. He swigged it straight from the bottle.

  It wasn't even enough for a warm fuzzy feeling. So he made a cup of tea, then sat at the kitchen table, trying to figure out when it was that his life had gone down the crapper.

  According to the microwave it was five in the morning. Two hours to go till his bollocking from Professional Standards, and already the sun was up: golden highlights slowly spreading across the old granite buildings outside his kitchen window, pushing the deep blue shadows back into their corners. What was the point of getting fired on a lovely day?

  It should have been pouring with rain. 'Where you been? Going to be late for the morning briefing.' Detective Constable Rennie bounced up and down on his heels, grinning like the happy little idiot he was.

  Logan had one last go at getting the tip of his vibrating cigarette to meet up with the flame from his lighter.

  Success. He pulled in a deep lungful, then coughed it all back out again.

  'Anyway,' said Rennie, 'come on: briefing.'

  Logan settled back against the wall. Ten to seven and the rear podium car park was still in shadow. High up above, the sky was blue, but down here it was miserab
le and grey, like his mood. 'Why the hell are you so cheerful?'

  'Ah… all will be revealed at the morning briefing!'

  'I'm not going.'

  'Eh?' The constable deflated a bit. 'But it's the morning briefing.'

  'Don't care.' Logan took a long draw on his cigarette. At least this time he didn't bring up a lung. 'I'm off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Professional Fucking Standards.'

  'But I've got a thing…'

  'Congratulations.'

  'No, I really have — I caught the Sperminator. The bloke smearing his spunk on the handrails? Arrested him last night. Had to go through seven gazillion hours of CCTV footage, but I finally got him climbing into a car in the Bon Accord Centre car park. Ran the number plate and: Bob's shagging your mother's sister.' He paused, hands out, obviously waiting for applause.

  'I'm actually impressed.' Logan flicked the first flurry of ash from the end of his cigarette. 'Not like you to use your initiative.'

  'Yeah, well, now Beattie's made DI, it means there's a Detective Sergeant's job going begging, doesn't it? Emma thinks I can-'

  'Emma says, Emma thinks. You're like a broken record.' He stuck his fag back in his mouth and made a pair of naked sock-puppets with his hands. 'Blah, blah, blah, blah.'

  Rennie pouted. 'You're getting as bad as Steel, do you know that?'

  Logan blew a stream of smoke at the sky. 'Your arse.'

  Silence.

  'So… you coming to the briefing then?'

  'Are you deaf?' He ground his cigarette out against the wall and turned towards the back door. Then stopped. 'And don't worry about that DS's job, there's going to be another one free by lunchtime.' 'You look like shite.' DI Steel collapsed into the uncomfortable chair next to Logan's, outside Superintendent Napier's lair. 07:00 precisely.

  Logan raised an eyebrow. 'You can talk.' She was wearing a dark grey trouser suit that wouldn't have looked out of place on Worzel Gummidge. Neither would her hair. Scarecrow chic, if you were feeling generous. The bags under her eyes belonged on an airport carousel.

  She punched him in the leg. 'Didn't get any sodding sleep, did I? Susan won't come home, says I'm an "insensitive cow". Says, first I won't give her a baby, and now I'm turning the house into a B &B for perverts.' The inspector pulled out a packet of nicotine gum and popped a couple out of their foil packaging. Stuck them in her mouth and chewed as if they were live wasps. Then offered the pack to Logan.