Blind Eye

by Stuart MacBride

Only one other bed was occupied – the shooting victim. She didn’t look that much better than she had five days ago, still connected to a bank of machinery that pinged and gurgled. Her eyes were shut, but they flickered open as Logan dragged a chair over. He pulled the curtains around the bed, giving the young couple some privacy.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  She looked at him for a while in silence.

  Logan tried again, going for the simplest Polish phrase he knew. ‘Dzień dobry?’

  ‘Thirsty…’ it was barely a croak.

  He poured a small glass of water from the jug by her bedside. ‘Here. Take small sips.’

  ‘Dziękuję.’

  Logan smiled. ‘I can’t remember what’s Polish for “you’re welcome”.’ She emptied the glass and Logan gave her a little more. ‘Too much at once and you’ll be sick. Trust me, the last thing you want to do is throw up when you’ve got stitches in your stomach. Hurts like hell.’

  ‘Please not to deport me…’ Her English was a damn sight better than Logan’s Polish, but he had to strain to hear the words.

  ‘Why would we do that?’

  ‘The … the man who make me do films, he say he tell police I am prostitute they send me to prison. Deport me. I am sorry…’ Her lips trembled, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘Please…’ She clutched onto Logan’s hand – her fingers were cold and pale.

  ‘Trust me, no one’s going to deport…’ Frown. ‘What films?’

  ‘Please, I will being good!’ The heart monitor was starting to beep faster and faster.

  ‘Calm down, shh… It’s OK, no one’s going to deport you. What films?’

  ‘Dirty films. Horrible. I have to make … with men … is…’ She was sobbing now, great heaving sobs.

  The heart monitor sounded as if it was about to explode.

  Logan grabbed the nurse call button and stabbed it repeatedly with his thumb. ‘Come on, come on.’

  He could hear the ward door slam open, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum, then the curtains were flung open and a nurse stormed up to the bed. ‘I told you not to upset her!’

  The bleeping was getting erratic.

  Logan stood. ‘I didn’t, I was just—’

  ‘Out! Now!’ She ran a hand across the woman’s forehead. ‘Shhhhh, it’s OK. You’re all right. He’s not going to hurt you.’

  Logan stumbled out into the corridor, lurching out of the way as a doctor hurried into the ward. Then the door closed and Logan was alone.

  Brilliant job. First class. Way to go. His one chance to find out if she knew anything about who blinded Simon McLeod and he blew it. When Finnie found out…

  He groaned and let his head thunk gently into the wall. A woman was lying in there, seriously ill, and here he was worrying about bloody Finnie.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Excuse please?’

  Logan turned to find a small, round woman standing behind him, dressed like a retired schoolteacher.

  ‘She is to be OK, yes? Krystka?’

  Oh … crap. ‘You know her? The young Polish woman?’

  ‘My siostrzenica. How you say this? Brother’s daughter?’

  ‘Niece.’

  ‘Niece? Yes, niece. She come over here to get better job. Stay with me and Fryderyk. Send money home to her family. Now look…’ She sniffed.

  Logan tried to sound reassuring. ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine. The doctors here are very good.’ They’d better be: he didn’t need any more guilt.

  ‘I see her in newspaper as unknown person: my brother’s daughter is unknown person. I am so ashamed.’

  At least Finnie’s appeal for information had been good for something.

  ‘Do you know who she was working for?’

  The little woman shrugged. ‘She never want to speak about it. Back home she is model for clothes. Very beautiful. Look …’ The woman went rummaging in a handbag the size of a small country, and produced an envelope with ‘PHOTOGRAPHS DO NOT BEND’ printed on it. She pulled out a glossy eight-by-ten of a young woman posing in a studio somewhere, wearing nothing but her underwear and a smile. She was stunning. Hard to believe it was the same person lying in the hospital bed.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘She was most beautiful girl in Włoszczowski… Look what they have done to her.’

  Logan turned the photo over, there was something scrawled on the back: ‘KRYSTKA GORZAŁKOWSKA’ and a mobile phone number. ‘Can I keep this?’ Adding a hasty, ‘I’m a police officer,’ just in case she thought he was a pervert.

  The little woman looked him up and down. ‘You can keep.’

  ‘And you’re sure you don’t know who she worked for?’

  ‘All she say is she work for crocodile man.’

  ‘Crocodile…’ Logan closed his eyes and swore.

  Steel was waiting for him back in the ward. The old lady in the corner bed had fallen asleep – lying starfish-spread under the covers, snoring.

  ‘Where the hell you been?’

  ‘Find your ring?’

  The inspector held up her hand and there it was. ‘Must’ve been off my head last night. Found it stuffed inside a tub of anti-wrinkle cream.’

  From the look of things, it wasn’t working.

  Logan hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Got a small detour to make on the way home.’

  ‘Oh, you’re kidding me! First you bugger off for half an hour, and now you want to—’

  ‘Got to see a man about a porn film.’

  And with that, Steel’s face blossomed into a smile. ‘Well why didn’t you say so?’ She hurried past, pulling her Barbie-pink suitcase behind her. ‘There’s always time for pornography!’

  10

  ClarkRig Training Systems Ltd was an industrial unit hidden away down a little alleyway off Hutcheon Street. Logan parked the inspector’s Mazda at the front door, next to a battered Volvo Estate, and Steel climbed out into the sunshine, still clutching Krystka Gorzałkowska’s photograph.

  Logan locked the car. ‘You finished drooling over that yet?’

  ‘I’m no’ drooling, I’m assessing the evidence. And you can talk, had to prise it out of your hands with a bloody crowbar.’ She stopped and stared up at the ClarkRig sign. ‘You sure she was getting forced to make porn films?’

  ‘That’s what she told me. Said they’d get her deported if she refused.’

  The inspector blew a long wet raspberry. ‘Silly cow. She’s Polish – a member of our glorious European Union, how are we going to deport her? We can’t even deport convicted bloody terrorists.’

  ‘Well, obviously she didn’t know that.’

  ‘You know what I think? I think Gorza-le-kowska—’

  ‘“Gorzałkowska”. You pronounce an L with a line through it like a W.’

  ‘Aye, thank you professor. If I want a bloody language lesson I’ll show up to the ones at the station.’ Steel hitched her trousers up. ‘As I was saying: she’s been making porn films and now she’s scared her family’s going to find out. So what does she do – admit she’s in it for the money, or say a bad man made her do it?’

  ‘If she’s telling the truth—’

  ‘I’ll buy you a big sodding T-shirt with “I told you so” printed on it. That make you happy?’ Steel was already heading for the front door. ‘Come on. Less talk, more porn.’

  Reception was an airy room, the walls covered with safety industry awards and framed DVDs. A pair of ancient film projectors sat in the middle of the polished wooden floor, in matching glass cases. Leather couches, steel coffee tables. Everything gleamed and sparkled. No sign of naked flesh anywhere.

  DI Steel marched straight up to the long mahogany reception desk, banged on it with her fist and shouted, ‘SHOP!’

  A round face appeared from one of the doors behind the desk, bringing with it a cheery smile. ‘Can I help you?’ She was in her late sixties with dyed brown hair, arms like sides of ham, and as she
wobbled towards her chair it looked as if her stomach was giving them a Mexican wave.

  Steel stood entranced. ‘Bloody hell, it’s like—’

  Logan took over before the inspector got them thrown out. ‘Is Mr Clark about?’

  ‘Whom shall I say is calling?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant McRae. We met a couple of—’

  ‘Oh aye! I remember you fine!’ She dropped the posh accent and beamed at him. ‘You just go straight through, he’s in the editing suite.’

  Steel raised her eyebrows. ‘No’ a safety film is it?’

  ‘Oh no.’ She winked. ‘It’s one of our special ones.’

  The editing suite was a bank of keyboards, dials, sliders and switches, dominated by a dozen flat-screen monitors. All of them full of naked people inserting things into each other. And for some strange reason, everyone was singing. Every time the cameras moved there was a flash of bright blue or green scenery.

  Steel paused in the doorway, looking up at the wall of flickering flesh. ‘Bleeding heck …’

  ‘Hmmmph?’ The man sitting in the room’s only chair swivelled round. He was huge – tall and fat – with little rectangular glasses, a greying goatee, and a trendy haircut that made him look as if he’d dried it sideways in a wind tunnel. He was drinking soup from a mug, leaving little bits of minestrone sticking to his moustache.

  He took one look at Logan and a huge smile creased his face. ‘Sergeant McRae! It’s so great to see you!’

  Steel stuck her hand out for shaking. ‘Hi, Mr Clark, I don’t know if you remember me, but we met last year and it was, well, you know, and I wasn’t, but then I watched all your films properly and they were, you probably hear this all the time, really brilliant, and I must sound like an absolute idiot, but they’re just so great.’

  He frowned at her. ‘Aren’t you the—’

  ‘Yes, well, sorry about that, I’m a big fan, Mr Clark. Huge.’

  The frown became a smile. ‘Then all is forgiven. And please, call me Zander. With a “Z”. I’m always delighted to meet someone who appreciates—’

  Logan cut straight across him. ‘Mr Clark, do you recognize this woman?’ He pulled out the photograph.

  ‘Of course I do: Krystka Gorzałkowska.’ His pronunciation was perfect. ‘Such a shame, she was gorgeous – terrible actress though. Couldn’t carry a tune in a rucksack.’

  ‘So you don’t deny that she worked for you?’

  ‘More that she didn’t work for me. She just didn’t have that … spark. You know? People don’t have sex in my films, they make love. They have to look happy, joyful, as if this is the best thing that ever happened to them. Poor Krystka always looked like someone just crapped in her borscht.’ He sank back into his chair. ‘Tried her for a couple of scenes, but it just wasn’t working. I had to let her go.’

  ‘She claims she was forced to make porn films.’

  ‘Not by me she wasn’t!’ He spun round and fiddled with some buttons. All the screens went blank, then blue, a single image stretched to fill them all: the Crocodildo Productions logo, and then a caption, ‘SCENE 174B’

  It was Krystka, on her knees on a bright blue floor, marked out with a grid of little white Ping-Pong balls. An identical blue surface acted as a backdrop. She and another pneumatic blonde were ‘entertaining’ a man dressed in a top hat and frock coat. The camera swooped in.

  Zander’s eyes sparkled with reflected flesh. ‘This is going to be my masterpiece. The whole set’s digital; I’ve got a stack of blade servers, a brand-new rendering farm, and half a dozen top geeks. 3D modelling, animation, the whole thing. You should see some of the results we’re getting. Spectacular.’ He took another slurp of soup. ‘I’m going to do for Aberdeen what Peter Jackson did for New Zealand.’

  And then it was time for the money shot. A look of utter horror spread across Krystka Gorzałkowska’s face, just moments after the other stuff.

  ‘Cut!’ Zander appeared on the screen, marching into shot. ‘Krystka, darling, you know I love you, but you can’t keep doing this. It’s only sperm, it’s perfectly natural and it’s not going to hurt you. Kurt’s medicals are all up to date. Aren’t they Kurt?’

  Kurt grimaced. ‘Please tell me we don’t have to go again!’

  Krystka burst into tears and Zander wrapped her up in a big hug, careful not to get any perfectly natural sperm on his jumper. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Napij się herbaty. Would you like that? Nice cup of tea?’ Then he led her out of shot.

  Three beeps and the screen went blank.

  ‘See?’ The director leaned back in his chair. ‘Does that look like I’m forcing anyone to do anything they don’t want to?’ Another slurp. ‘We tried putting a happy face on her with the computers, but to be honest it’s going to be cheaper just reshooting her scenes with someone else.’

  ‘Well…’ Logan put the photo back in his pocket. ‘Maybe she was working for another outfit? Who else makes porn films up here?’

  ‘We’re the only professional studio in the North East, so it’s probably just some gonzo operation. Amateurs. I can ask around if you like?’

  Steel coughed. ‘Can you put the first lot of humping back on again?’

  The director shrugged, hit some buttons, and the screens filled up with pink. ‘I…’ He cleared his throat. ‘I was so sorry to hear about Inspector Insch. It was a terrible shame.’

  And one Logan really didn’t want to talk about. ‘Yes, well…’

  ‘Is he doing OK? My dear old dad had a heart attack and it knocked the stuffing right out of him. Pretty much gave up after that.’

  ‘We need to—’

  ‘Only, I was thinking: if Insch wanted something to keep him busy, I could always use him here?’

  DI Steel shuddered. ‘No’ in a porn film! Jesus, who’d want to see all that blubber humping about?’

  ‘I meant as a production assistant.’ Zander stuck the topmost of his chins in the air, the others stretching out behind it. ‘And some people like larger men, thank you very much!’

  ‘I was only—’

  ‘Actually,’ said Logan, ‘if we could get back to Krystka Gorzałkowska? How did you get hold of her?’

  ‘Kostchey International Holdings Limited, it’s an agency: they specialize in Polish actresses for adult films. Absolute Godsend. Their girls look fabulous, most of them can sing, they remember their lines, and they can act too. I can’t get local girls who look anywhere near as good – all the attractive ones want to be on crap like Big Brother or the X-Factor.’ Sigh. ‘No one wants to be a porn star anymore.’

  DI Steel was disturbingly happy on the drive back to her house, staring at the pair of brand-new DVDs the director had given her as a parting gift: Harriet Potter and the Gobbler of Firemen and Indiana Jane and the Temple of Dildos. The covers were surprisingly classy. ‘Bet these are packed with girl-on-girl actiony goodness.’

  ‘I want to check with the agency, see if they hired Krystka out to another outfit.’

  ‘Supposed to be having the weekend off, remember? Phone the station, tell them to get some idiot to do it. If Rennie’s back, he’ll do.’

  She turned in her seat, staring out at the sunshine as they slogged their way towards the Bridge of Don. ‘Susan couldn’t pick me up today because she’s…’ Steel fidgeted with the DVDs some more. ‘She had an interview with the adoption and fostering people.’

  ‘Thought she liked being an accountant?’

  ‘Not a job interview, you moron. For a kid.’ She cracked her window open and lit a cigarette, blowing a mouthful of smoke at a passing cyclist. ‘Susan wants a kid. She’s always wanted a kid.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘It really matters to her and I’m… Well, I’m no’ exactly Mother of the Year material, am I? Got to go see some social working cock-weasel on Tuesday, convince them I’m the sort of person you’d want to give a wee baby to.’

  Logan followed the queue of traffic across the bridge, lis
tening to the plaintive wail of seagulls in the background. ‘You’re a shoo-in. They’ll love you.’

  ‘I’m no’ good with children! I’m a forty-three-year-old lesbian chain-smoker who swears like a fucking sailor and boozes it up every night.’

  Logan couldn’t believe that. ‘Forty-three?’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’ She spent a couple of minutes smoking and scowling. ‘Any fuckwit under the sun can get his girlfriend knocked up and bang: he’s a dad. Doesn’t matter if he’s a junkie, a wino, or a pervert, as long as he’s got a working dick he gets to make babies. No one from the Social interviews him, do they? How fair is that?’ She smacked her hand on the dashboard, sending an avalanche of ash all over the black plastic. ‘Aw shite…’ She swept the worst of it up and turfed it out of the window, leaving a grey smear behind. ‘No fags, no drink, and no swearing. That sound like me to you?’

  ‘Maybe it won’t be as bad as—’

  ‘You know what? Sod it. If I’ve got to be someone else for the rest of my life, I’m bloody well giving the old me a good send off.’ Steel flicked the last of her cigarette out into the beautiful afternoon, where it ricocheted off the side of an electrician’s van. ‘Call the gang, Laz: seven o’clock tonight we’re getting blootered and hitting a titty bar.’

  Classy.

  But never let it be said that Logan wasn’t a team player.

  11

  The Monday morning briefing had a carnival atmosphere to it, everyone lounging in their chairs, talking about where they were going on holiday. DC Rennie – tanned and smug – handed out a mound of bacon butties, the tinfoil packages releasing their savoury-scented steam into the crowded room. Logan’s stomach growled, then lurched as Rennie stuck one under his nose, saying, ‘Don’t say I’m never good to you.’

  ‘Urgh … get that bloody thing away from me!’

  The constable sank into the next seat. ‘God, you’re not still on that vegetarian nonsense are you? Been seven months: get over it.’

  ‘You know what you can do with your bacon buttie? You can shove it right up your—’

  The door opened and everyone sat up, shut up, and prepared to pay attention. Only it wasn’t DCI Finnie standing in the doorway – hauling his bra up with one hand, and carrying a plastic bag from Tesco in the other – it was DI Steel. She paused and stared at them all. ‘Don’t tell me he’s still no’ here!’