Blind Eye

by Stuart MacBride

  Inside, the Turf ‘n Track was shabbier than it looked from the car park. The only natural light oozed in through the door, and even that was too scared to go more than a couple of feet over the threshold. The woodwork was black as a smoker’s lung, coated in the accumulated tar from countless cigarettes. A pair of televisions were bolted to the wall at either end of the counter, flickering away to themselves: a race meeting in Perthshire, with the sound turned off. The door to the back office was open.

  Maybe Simon McLeod had dragged the inspector back there and put her out of everyone’s misery?

  The linoleum floor stuck to Logan’s feet as he hurried round behind the counter and – WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?

  He froze.

  A deep bass growl rumbled up from somewhere to his left. The kind of growl that came with lots of teeth and ripping and tearing and running for your life. Logan turned around slowly, until he was facing an ancient-looking Alsatian, lying in a tartan dog bed. ‘Nice doggy…’ Logan frowned. ‘Wait a minute, is that…?’

  Simon’s voice blared out from the back office, ‘Winchester: fuck’s sake, shut up!’

  Winchester – Jesus, surely the thing was dead by now? It’d been ancient when Desperate Doug MacDuff had owned it. The dog looked in the vague direction of his new master’s voice, eyes white and rheumy. Then Winchester yawned – showing off a lot of big brown teeth – and rested his grey muzzle back down on his paws.

  It wasn’t quite the scene of carnage in the back office that Logan had been expecting. A large desk sat opposite the door, beneath the mounted head of a two-tonne Rottweiler called Killer, the last known resting place of Simon McLeod’s missing half ear. A collection of girly calendars dotted the walls, some going back as far as 1987. DI Steel was flicking through them while Simon McLeod made two mugs of tea.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, peering at Miss March 1996, ‘this one’s got nipples like champagne corks. Could hang your coat on those.’

  Simon handed her a mug. ‘Milk, two sugars.’

  ‘Ooh, ta.’ She took an experimental sip. ‘So, Simon … why are a bunch of drug dealers having a barney outside your shop?’

  ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘No?’ Steel scratched her head. ‘What a strange coincidence. You see, a little birdie told me there was a gang of Eastern Europeans trying to muscle in on your territory.’

  ‘I don’t have a “territory”, I’m a legitimate businessman.’

  ‘Aye, aye, and Miss Stiff Nipples here is a brain surgeon. I’m no’ having a turf war in my city, Simon.’

  ‘You’re not listening, Inspector. I don’t know anything about it.’

  Steel nodded. ‘Well, hypothetically speaking, if you or your brother did know anything about it – say you were both into protection, loan sharking, prostitution, supplying class A drugs … hypothetically speaking, would you tell your Auntie Roberta who these Eastern Europeans were?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Like I said, Inspector, I’m a legitimate businessman. Now if you’ve finished your tea, you can fuck off. I’ve got work to do.’

  4

  ‘That went well,’ said Steel, sauntering back out into the sunshine. ‘No biscuits though… You’d think a “legitimate businessman” could rustle up a chocolate digestive, wouldn’t you?’

  Logan looked back in through the Turf ‘n Track’s front door at the dark interior. ‘How the hell did you manage that? I thought he hated the police?’

  ‘The McLeod brothers like to think they’re old-school gangsters… Well, Simon does, Colin’s just a bloody thug. You ever met their mum? She’d tan their arses if she found out they’d hit a woman.’

  ‘You remembering what happened to Gabrielle Christie? Broken jaw, cracked ribs, fractured leg—’

  ‘Aye, but she wasn’t a woman, was she? She was a hoor.’ Out came the inspector’s cigarettes, the smoke spiralling up into the bright blue sky. ‘It’s no’ the same to these people. Prostitutes aren’t women, they’re property. And before you say anything, I know, OK? It’s just the way they think.’

  Outside the bookmakers, the pre-pubescent mob had dispersed. Now there was just a single grubby child, watching as Mr Meat Paste for a Nose was loaded into Alpha One Four.

  Another two patrol cars had arrived, their white paintwork sparkling in the sunshine. Spotty the Baboon was in the back of one, looking woozy and bruised from all that resisting arrest.

  The other officer from Alpha One Four was limping back up the road, his black uniform trousers all torn at the knee. It looked as if Low Budget Porn Star had got away.

  ‘Two out of six,’ said Steel, leaning on the roof of the empty patrol car, ‘no’ exactly a brilliant arrest rate.’ She smoked in silence for a moment, staring at Spotty and his swollen face. ‘Right,’ she said at last, pinging her fag end away, ‘let’s go see what the Clearasil Kid has to say for himself.’

  Logan dragged out his phone. ‘I’ll get them to set up an interview room, we can—’

  ‘Don’t be so wet. Here,’ the inspector dug into her pocket and pulled out a handful of change, ‘go get some ice-lollies.’

  By the time Logan returned from the little grocers, Steel was lounging in the back of Alpha One Six with Spotty. Logan clambered in on the other side, sandwiching him in.

  Steel leaned across the prisoner and looked at Logan. ‘What did you get?’

  ‘Strawberry Mivvi, Orange Maid, and a Chocolate Cornetto.’

  She stuck her hand out. ‘Cornetto – gimmie.’ She un wrapped it and took a happy bite, talking with her mouth full, ‘What about you, Derek? Fancy an orange lolly? Nah, better no’ it’d clash with your ging-er hair. Strawberry Mivvi for Derek here, Laz.’

  Logan held it out, but Spotty the Baboon, AKA: Derek, didn’t take it. Which wasn’t that surprising, his hands were cuffed behind his back.

  ‘Give it here,’ said Steel. She took the lolly and held it against Derek’s cheek. ‘There you go, that’ll keep the swelling down a bit.’

  Derek’s voice was a high-pitched croak, ‘It’s cold…’

  ‘Aye, well, that’s what you get for being stupid. When someone yells, “Police”, you either give up like a good boy, or you run like buggery.’ She took a bite out of her Cornetto. ‘Mmmph mmmf mnn mmnnfmmmmph fmmmnnnt?’

  ‘Think that bloody copper broke my jaw…’

  ‘Then you wouldn’t be able to talk, you moron. I said, “who were you fighting with?”’

  ‘I’m in pain!’

  ‘You’ll be in a lot more if you don’t start talking.’ She tossed the lolly back to Logan. ‘My sergeant here likes to slam people’s hands in car doors. It’s his hobby. You want me to take a wee walk and see if you’ve still got all your fingers when I get back?’

  ‘It was … a …’ Spotty licked his top lip. ‘They were Rangers supporters; said the Dons were shite. Couldn’t let them get away with that…’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Steel cracked the door open. ‘Start with his wanking hand, Laz, I’m going for a walk.’

  Derek peered at Logan. ‘You can’t—’

  ‘Can I break his thumbs as well?’

  The inspector nodded. ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘It was just a fight! That’s all. Football. You know what it’s—’

  ‘Do his toes too.’ Steel levered herself out into the sunshine, licked a runaway dribble of chocolate ice-cream off the back of her hand, and slammed the car door.

  Derek flinched.

  ‘NO, WAIT! I didn’t … I …’ He closed his eyes and shuddered as Steel climbed back into the car.

  ‘Make it fast, Derek, my Cornetto’s melting.’

  ‘They was trying to tell us we had to … sell stuff for them. You know … instead of … who we usually sell it for.’

  ‘Uh-huh, and who would that be?’

  ‘Don’t remember.’ Derek scowled out of the car window at the man in the back of Alpha One Four: Mr
Meat Paste for a Nose. ‘Fucking Polish bastards. Come over here, taking our jobs, screwing our women…’

  Logan poked him in the shoulder. ‘Ever sent anonymous letters, Derek? You know, lots of different fonts and exclamation marks?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘Went round Harry Jordan’s and got wasted. Ask him. We had a party with his … we had a party.’

  Steel tutted. ‘Hope you wore protection, Derek: you’ll get all sorts of nasty diseases partying with Harry Jordan’s girls.’ She slapped the Strawberry Mivvi back against his cheek. ‘So, you going to come clean about who you’re selling for? Like I couldn’t already guess.’ She pointed at the green-and-yellow Turf ‘n Track sign. ‘Come on, Derek, play it smart for once.’

  But Derek had no intention of changing the habit of a lifetime.

  Mr Meat Paste for a Nose sat on the other side of the interview room table, repeating for the umpteenth time, ‘Nie mówię po angielsku.’

  It was all he’d say, over and over again: I don’t speak English.

  Lying sod.

  Steel yawned, checked her watch, and told Logan to switch off the tapes. ‘Hell with this.’ She stood, then leant on the table, doing her best to loom over the prisoner. ‘Listen up, Sunshine, I know fine well you speak English: I’ve got witnesses who heard you do it. But if you want to play silly buggers we’ll get you an interpreter, and then we’ll bang you up for obstruction. And public disorder. And anything else I can think of. We’ve got a whole pile of unsolved burglaries on the books, fancy getting fitted up for some of them?’

  ‘Nie mówię po angielsku.’

  ‘Blah, blah, blah.’ She headed for the door. ‘Chuck him back in his cell, Laz. We’ll have another crack with a translator in the morning. You and me are going to knock off early and go find somewhere with a beer garden.’

  It was the best idea Logan had heard all day.

  Half past seven Wednesday morning and interview room three was like a sauna – the battered radiator in the corner pinged and clanked away to itself, even though the sun was blazing down outside. Logan and Steel sat at the chipped table, both of them sporting the rosy glow of a mild sunburn from three hours sitting at a picnic table outside Triple Kirks drinking lager and white wine.

  The interpreter was slumped on the other side of the table, sweat darkening the armpits of her blouse as she repeated yet another phrase Logan was getting sick of.

  ‘He says he doesn’t know anything.’

  Steel slammed her fist down on the chipped Formica tabletop. ‘Stop sodding about – I want to know who he’s working for!’

  The interpreter sighed and tried again, ‘Zapytaća: dla kogo pracujesz?’

  The thickset man with the flattened nose shrugged and replied in bunged-up Polish. His face was one big bruise today, crisscrossed with sticking plasters. It wasn’t a good look.

  ‘He’s not working for anyone. He’s in Aberdeen visiting his cousin.’

  ‘Then why did we catch him brawling outside a known hangout for lowlife scumbags? Why have I got a drug dealer downstairs in the cells telling me Lumpy here tried to recruit him? Who – is – he – working – for?’

  ‘Which question do you want to ask first?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake. We know the bastard can speak English—’

  A knock at the door.

  DCI Finnie marched into the room without waiting for an invitation. ‘Inspector, a word please.’

  The interpreter waited until Steel was out of the room before asking Logan if she was always this bad. ‘Doesn’t she like Polish people?’

  ‘Not when they lie to her, no.’

  ‘You’ve got to understand it from their point of view,’ the interpreter nodded at the prisoner. ‘Polish police were a nightmare under the Communists. They were enforcers for the regime, they’d make people disappear. And they weren’t much better after independence: corrupt and lazy. So no one trusts the police anymore, and you can’t really blame them, can you?’

  ‘I can when they…’ Logan trailed off into silence, listening to the raised voices coming through the door.

  The interpreter looked puzzled. ‘What?’

  ‘Shhhhhhh!’ He held his hand up for silence. It was Steel and DCI Finnie, having a stand-up row in the corridor outside.

  Steel: ‘No way! I am not—’

  Finnie: ‘That wasn’t a request, Inspector, it was an order.’

  Steel: ‘I’m in the middle of—’

  Finnie: ‘You’re interfering with an ongoing investigation.’

  Steel: ‘I’m doing my bloody job!’

  Finnie: ‘Not any more you’re not. And if you’ve got a problem with that you can take it up with the DCS.’

  An angry silence.

  Steel: ‘Fine. Laughing Boy in there’s all yours.’ She yanked the door open and glowered at Logan. ‘Pack it up. We’ve been pulled off the case.’

  Three Days Later

  5

  Logan shifted in the driver’s seat, ruffled his copy of the Aberdeen Examiner, and said, ‘Four across: “Forbid forever, like.” “B”, something, something, “I”, something, something.’

  Steel looked up from an in-depth analysis of her own cleavage. ‘You know what,’ she said, flicking a tiny avalanche of cigarette ash out of the passenger window, ‘I think I’ve finally found one of these damn things that fits.’ She tugged at her bra strap, making the contents jiggle.

  Logan went back to his paper – there was no way he was getting drawn into another conversation about the Detective Inspector’s underwear. Five minutes to eleven on a Friday morning and the sun was dappling its way through the trees, sending little flecks of light dancing across the speed-bumps outside Sunnybank Primary School. ‘How long do we have to keep doing this?’

  ‘Till we catch the bastard.’ Steel gave up on her boobs and lounged back in her seat. ‘Anyway, what you whinging about? Three days sitting on your arse in the sunshine, reading the paper and eating ice-lollies. You rather be running around after DCI Frog-Face?’

  She had a point.

  ‘No, we lounge about here till four, sod off home for the weekend and back again on Monday for another glorious week of doing bugger all.’ The inspector took a long drag on her cigarette and blew, fogging the windscreen with secondhand smoke. ‘Not like we got anything better to do, is it? Bloody Finnie…’

  Here we go again.

  ‘I mean, who the hell does he think he is? “Stop interviewing that prisoner,”’ she said, doing a less than flattering impersonation of the Detective Chief Inspector, ‘“You’re interfering with an ongoing investigation.” Ongoing investigation my sharny arse. Bastard just wants all the sodding glory for himself.’

  She snorted. ‘And can you believe he let Derek McSpotty walk with a caution? We caught the wee bastard red-handed kicking the crap out of someone, resisting arrest, and being a lying junky tosspot. “You have to see the bigger picture, Inspector.”’ She smoked furiously for a moment. ‘I’ll show Finnie the bigger picture with the toe of my bloody boot.’

  ‘What do you want to do for lunch today? We could grab a sandwich, or—’

  ‘Kebab.’ The inspector finished her cigarette and dumped the stub into an open can of Pepsi, swirling it around in the warm, flat liquid. ‘That place in Sandilands. And while we’re there we can accidentally nip next door to the Turf ‘n Track. Have another wee chat with Simon McLeod.’

  ‘But Finnie—’

  ‘Finnie can pucker up and kiss my perky bumhole. Since that wee riot on Tuesday we’ve had five Polish blokes in A&E with their kneecaps smashed. Someone took a claw hammer to them.’ She struck a pose, tapping the side of her forehead. ‘Now who do we know with form for battering people with a claw hammer? Think, think, think…’

  ‘OK, OK, I get it: Colin McLeod. But Finnie—’

  ‘What is he, your boyfriend or something?’

 
‘Why do you have to make everything—’

  The school bell jangled through the warm, lazy air – eleven o’clock on the dot. Time for morning break.

  ‘We’re on.’

  Screams and shouts echoed out of the school, then a stampede of five-to-seven-year-olds dressed in the standard grey-and-blue primary uniform burst out into the sunshine, hell bent on cramming as much fun as possible into their fifteen minutes of freedom.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Steel.

  Logan checked the street. ‘Nope. Looks like… wait a minute… Blue Toyota Yaris: there, just pulling up. You see it?’

  The inspector shuffled forward in her seat, peering through the windscreen at the little mud-spattered car. The driver got out and wandered over to the playground fence. Beige cardigan, grey hair, feral moustache.

  ‘About sodding time.’ Steel clambered her way into the warm morning, and sauntered down the road with her hands in her pockets.

  Logan locked up and followed her, nipping across the road at the last minute so he could come round on the guy’s blind side.

  Not that the man in the beige cardigan would have noticed, he was far too busy smiling at a little girl through the railings. Blonde hair, pigtails, big blue eyes.

  ‘You know,’ said the man, hands rummaging in his trouser pockets, ‘my doggie’s very sick and can’t look after her puppies. Isn’t that sad?’

  The little girl nodded.

  ‘Would you like to see them? Maybe you could take one home? Would you like that?’ And all the time the trouser rummaging was getting faster. Sweat beaded on his forehead. ‘Would you like to see my… oh God… puppies?’

  ‘Jesus, Rory,’ said Steel, slouching back against the man’s car, ‘could you be any more of a cliché?’

  Rory stood up fast, and hurled a handful of little paper wrappers over the playground fence. ‘I never did anything! You can’t prove I did anything, I—’

  Logan placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Rory Simpson, I’m arresting you under section five point one of the Criminal Justice Scotland Act—’

  ‘No – I didn’t do anything! I was just— mmmph!’

  Steel had clamped a hand over his mouth. ‘Wee kiddies, Rory: let’s no’ corrupt their innocent little ears with your filthy lies. Now, you want to go quietly this time, or kicking and screaming like a girl?’