Blind Eye

by Stuart MacBride

  The beach was a good twenty foot lower than the road, down a steep grass embankment, across a wide tarmac path, and down another embankment made of big sloping concrete blocks. DI Steel was easy enough to spot. She’d commandeered a bench two hundred yards along the path, and sat there wobbling a bit, swigging from a bottle of eighteen-year-old Macallan.

  Logan picked his way down the grass and sat next to her. ‘Finnie’s looking for you. He’s throwing a strop about some progress report.’

  She turned and squinted at him. ‘Lazar … Laza … Logan! How’s my favourite…’ she paused for a hiccup. ‘Lovely day, eh?’ Swinging an unsteady arm around at the scenery. ‘Sposed to rain later. How crap is tha … is that?’

  Logan picked up the bottle of whisky and gave it a little shake, just over a third left. ‘You feeling OK?’

  ‘I’m a bit … a bit drunked.’ An ominous gurgling sound came from her stomach. ‘Uh-ho… Don’ … don’ tell anyone, OK?’

  ‘Are you going to be sick?’

  ‘Car keys, car keys…’ Steel went rummaging through her handbag, scattering the contents all over the bench. She squinted at the collection of receipts, combs, breath mints, lipstick, Airwave handset, loose change, nicotine gum, and fluff, then picked the keys out of the junk and handed them over. ‘Friends don’ let … don’ let friends drive drunked.’

  She hiccupped again. ‘Is … how you find me?’

  ‘Your Airwave handset. I got the control room to check the GPS on it.’

  ‘Pfffffffffffffff… Can’t even … even disssspear no more. No’ like old days… You wanna chip?’ The inspector looked around her, frowned, then pointed at three fat seagulls squabbling over a discarded paper bag from Burger King. ‘Oh… Have to fight for them.’

  ‘You’re absolutely blootered, aren’t you?’

  ‘I like seagulls. Everyone … everyone hates them. But they’re only … only…’ another hiccup, ‘you know? What they’re supposed to be.’ She threw her arms wide, accidentally belting Logan in the chest. ‘I am a seagull! SQUAAAAAAAAAAK!’

  The three real ones paused in their squabble over the thin ribbons of deep-fried potato and glared at her with beady yellow eyes.

  ‘SQUEEEEAAAAAK!’ She took another swig of whisky, swallowed, and shuddered. ‘You wan’ some?’

  ‘Why don’t I take you home?’

  She giggled and hit him again. ‘No, you … I’m lesbian … but … but if I wasn’t … eh?’ Hiccup. ‘Did I tell you I was a seagull?’

  ‘You might have mentioned it.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Come on, Susan will be worried.’

  When the tears came, they appeared from nowhere, great hacking sobs accompanied by twin shiny streams from her nose.

  Logan took the whisky and popped the cork back in, then hauled the inspector to her feet. He helped her stagger back up the embankment and over to the pool car, safe in the knowledge that she was probably going to be sick in it.

  The radio blared into life as he manhandled her into the back: Control calling with an update on some fire in Sandilands. Fire engines in attendance, two unit cars, suspicious circumstances. It wasn’t until they mentioned the address that Logan started to pay attention.

  Someone had petrol-bombed the Turf ‘n Track.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ He jumped in behind the wheel. ‘Inspector?’

  No reply.

  He looked in the rear-view mirror. She was fast asleep, head lolling to one side, with the bottle of Macallan clutched to her breast like a little glass baby full of whisky.

  Logan pointed the car in the direction of Sandilands, switched the siren on, and put his foot down. The Tuesday afternoon rush hour parted before them like sluggish custard.

  The Turf ‘n Track was surrounded by fluorescent orange and yellow fire engines, spraying thousands of gallons into the dying blaze. A thick pall of black smoke curdled its way into the bright blue sky, stinking of burning plastic and years of cigarette tar. The shops on either side had been evacuated, the patrons and owners loitering behind the police cordon, watching the betting shop burn.

  An ambulance sat half on the pavement and half on the road, its blue lights spinning lazily as the paramedics fussed over someone in the back.

  Logan abandoned the pool car as close as he could to the scene, checking that DI Steel wasn’t going anywhere before locking her in. The rumble of diesel motors was almost deafening as he picked his way through the rivers and puddles covering the car park, past the fire engines, and over to the ambulance, where two uniformed officers were trying to take statements from the coughing witnesses.

  Logan beckoned a PC over. ‘What’s the situation?’

  The officer pointed at an old man in a soot-stained cardigan and flat cap. ‘They’re a bunch of lying bastards. The guys from the newsagents next door say they saw a man wearing a balaclava chuck a petrol bomb in through the front door. But the people in the bookies say that’s rubbish. It was a faulty radiator.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Logan turned to give the betting shop’s clientele another look. Two old men, and a filthy West Highland Terrier in a bright-pink raincoat with little yellow daises on it. ‘Who was running the shop – Mrs McLeod, or Creepy Colin?’

  ‘The bidie-in, Hilary Brander.’ The officer pointed again at the ambulance and a dishevelled figure sucking on an oxygen mask.

  Up close she reeked of smoke, her clothes, face and hair blackened with a thin layer of burnt betting shop. Green eyes ringed with red.

  Logan leant against the side of the ambulance. ‘So … faulty radiator?’

  Hilary didn’t even look up. ‘I already gave a statement.’

  ‘What happened to Colin and Mrs McLeod?’

  ‘Agnes is looking after the kids. I…’ She coughed, wrinkled her nose, then spat something black into a handkerchief. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to know who firebombed the shop.’

  ‘I already told them: it was a faulty radiator.’ Her Essex accent was getting stronger as she raised her voice. ‘Don’t you people ever listen?’

  Logan turned to look back at the Turf ‘n Track’s smouldering remains. The blaze seemed to have finally died; the firemen were rolling their hoses up and hefting them back to the engines. ‘You know what I think? I think someone’s fed up with Colin running around hammering the hell out of people’s knees.’

  ‘You should be out there catching whoever blinded my Simon, not harassing his family.’

  ‘I’m not harassing anyone, I’m trying to make sure no one else gets hurt!’

  The ridiculous little Westie in the plastic Mac skittered up and started barking at him. Hilary scooped the thing up, called it ‘Mummy’s little angel’, and held it tight. ‘Did the nasty man frighten you?’

  A big bloke in the standard padded, baggy brown fire fighter’s uniform stepped out of the bookies’ front door, carrying something in his gloved hands. One of the uniformed constables pointed him in Logan’s direction.

  ‘You in charge?’ asked the fireman.

  ‘Depends.’

  He held out his hand, revealing the neck and top half of a glass bottle. ‘Smell that. Found it just inside the shop.’

  Logan did as he was told. The familiar sweet-acrid aroma of petrol. He turned to Hilary and the snarling dog. ‘Still say it was a faulty radiator?’

  ‘You calling me a liar?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve got witnesses, we’ve got evidence, and with a bit of luck, we’ll have fingerprints too. So why not give me a break and tell me what happened?’

  She told him to go to hell instead.

  17

  For once luck was on Logan’s side: DI Steel wasn’t actually sick in the pool car. Instead she waited until she was being half-carried, half-dragged up the path to her house before painting the rose bushes in several shades of yuck.

  Logan left her kneeling in front of the spattered red blossoms and rang the doorbell – no answer. The house was a big granite lump
of a place on a leafy side street; bay windows showing off a lounge and a dining room both decorated in pastel shades. Logan cupped his hands to the glass and peered inside: fireplace, leather couches, upright piano, lots of bookshelves. No sign of life.

  He tried the bell again and waited in the sunshine, trying not to listen to the inspector bringing up everything she’d eaten in the last seven years. On and on and on.

  One more go…

  The door rattled open and Steel’s wife, Susan, peered out at him. Short, blonde, pretty in a Doris-Day-after-too-many-pies kind of way, and at least ten years younger than the inspector. Her nose and cheeks were red, her eyes pink and swollen. Freshly-applied mascara all clumpy on her lashes. She sniffed, then pulled her face into a smile. ‘Logan, how nice to see you.’ Which was probably a lie. ‘If you’re looking for Roberta, she won’t be back till…’

  Susan trailed off, staring past Logan to the vomit-sodden lump in the ugly dress, lying curled up on the garden path.

  Logan tried a smile. ‘I think she might’ve killed the roses.’

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ said Susan, watching as Logan arranged Steel into the recovery position on the downstairs bathroom floor.

  ‘Don’t worry about it – if she’s sick again at least the tiles will be easier to clean than the carpet.’

  ‘I mean sorry about … well never mind. You’ve got some on your jacket.’

  ‘Oh, you’re kidding.’ She was right: the outside of his sleeve was covered with vomit.

  ‘Come on, take it off and I’ll rinse it out for you.’

  Susan made him a cup of tea, then sat him at the breakfast bar while she sponged his sleeve with lukewarm water. Standing at the sink, with her back to him.

  Through the kitchen window Logan could see a big fluffy grey cat sprawling on the grass in the back garden. Legs akimbo as it soaked up the sun.

  ‘They…’ Susan cleared her throat and tried again. ‘To be honest, things have been a bit strained lately.’ She pulled the plug and let the foamy, sour-smelling water drain away. ‘They won’t let us have IVF.’

  The cat rolled over onto its front as a white butterfly bobbed and weaved a drunken trail above a clump of yellow buttercups. The cat stared at it for a moment, then pounced. And missed.

  Logan watched the cat tear around the garden after the butterfly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Apparently we’re not a priority. There’s nice heterosexual couples out there and they need babies much more than we do.’ She twisted the taps back on again, filling the sink.

  Susan dropped her head and sighed, and when she spoke again her voice was brittle with forced cheer: ‘But listen to me, moaning away. Forgot to ask how you were… Ever think about hooking up with that Rachael woman from the Procurator Fiscal’s office again?’

  ‘Not really – think she’s engaged now.’ He actually blushed, even though Susan hadn’t turned around the whole time. ‘Don’t tell Her Nibs, but I’ve … em … started seeing someone from work.’

  ‘Good. Good for you. Yes. Very good. You deserve someone nice. Settle down, get married, start a family. Why not? After all you’re not gay, why shouldn’t you have bloody babies?’ She hurled the sponge into the sink, and water splashed up the inside of the window. ‘It’s so bloody unfair!’

  Logan couldn’t argue with that.

  Back home it was colder inside the flat than out, so Logan opened the lounge windows wide, letting in the noise of Aberdeen harbour: the drone of ship engines, the clang and clatter of loading and unloading, someone singing along to a crackling radio.

  Sunlight bathed the buildings opposite, turning them from grey to gold as Logan cracked open a bottle of Belhaven beer. Maybe he should give Samantha a call? Tell her he’d had a nice time last night. Only that would sound desperate, wouldn’t it? Much better to play it cool. Maybe bump into her at work tomorrow – accidentally on purpose…

  The phone rang. He ignored it, letting the answering machine pick it up. Logan took another swig of beer and listened to his own voice telling whoever it was on the other end they could leave a message.

  ‘Hi, Logan, it’s me: Sam. Look, I wanted to say—’

  Logan scrabbled through the lounge and grabbed the phone. ‘Hello?’

  Pause. ‘Look, I was thinking about playing it cool, but you know what, I’m a grown up and you’re a grown up and I had fun last night, so what’s the point of playing daft games?’

  He stabbed the off button on the answering machine. ‘I was just thinking the same thing.’ Liar. ‘You eaten yet?’

  ‘Nope. Was hoping a certain Detective Sergeant would turn up unannounced with a takeaway.’ And then she gave him the address of a static caravan on Mugiemoss Road.

  ‘A caravan?’

  ‘Yes, a caravan. I live in a caravan, OK? And you make one joke about trailer trash and you’re not getting any, understand?’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

  Not long after eight, Logan pulled into a small knot of static caravans on the south bank of the River Don, opposite a steeply banked graveyard, and a hundred yards downwind of the Grampian Country Chickens processing factory. A bank of trees screened the caravan park from the sewage plant on the opposite river bank, but it wasn’t thick enough to keep out the glare of the huge Tesco on the other side of the bridge.

  Samantha’s caravan was a big rectangular box of a thing – more like a Portakabin than something designed to grind traffic to a standstill on a bank holiday weekend – surrounded by trellis fencing plastered with climbing roses. At least no one had been sick on these ones. She was waiting at the door for him, watching as he unloaded the carryout from DI Steel’s car.

  ‘You took your time.’

  ‘Meal deal.’ Logan held up two white plastic bags and a big square cardboard box. ‘Pizza, garlic bread, a litre of Coke and a tub of Mackies vanilla.’

  ‘Oh aye…’ She waited for him to lock up. ‘Didn’t think you were the sports car type.’

  ‘Just looking after it while Steel’s … not feeling well.’ It was cheaper than getting a taxi, and it wasn’t as if the inspector was going to be sober enough to drive anywhere for a while, was it? And she had given him her keys.

  Inside, the static caravan wasn’t that much smaller than Logan’s flat. Sam gave him the quick tour: bedroom, lounge, kitchen, and bathroom, all decorated in various shades of dark red and purple. Every surface was jammed full of books, dragons, pewter skulls, goblets, and crystals. The whole place was festooned with flickering candles. Like a morbid Santa’s grotto.

  Logan stood in the middle of the lounge. ‘It’s very … Gothic.’ The only thing that didn’t seem to fit was an ancient-looking orange teddy bear, given pride of place on a throne of Stephen King novels.

  ‘You were expecting little pink unicorns and Laura Ashley prints?’

  ‘Do I get brownie points if I say it goes with your hair?’

  ‘Make with the pizza, Sergeant, and we’ll see what you get.’

  They squeezed together on the couch, fumbling their way inside each other’s clothes. Undoing buttons, zippers, pulling off shirts, T-shirts, trousers, underwear. Logan ran his tongue along the curves of her body, tracing the outline of that huge tribal spider tattoo. The skin was marked by little ridges, like stretch marks, on the inside of her thigh, buried beneath the blank ink. Logan kissed them and she arched her back, moaned … then swore as his mobile phone went into an epileptic fit of bleeps and whistles.

  They lay in the candlelight, listening to the thing warble its asymmetric tune.

  ‘Go on then,’ she said, ‘answer it.’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘But it might be work.’

  ‘I know.’ Logan found his place again, kissing his way higher with every word. ‘That’s – why – I’m not – answering it.’

  ‘Oh yes…’ The phone went silent. ‘Oh yes… Mmmm, oh God…’ Then the ringing started again. ‘Oh bloody hell!’<
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  ‘One second.’ Logan opened the lounge door, threw his jacket into the hall, then closed the door again. ‘Now where were we?’

  They lay in a heap on the caravan floor, listening to the first drops of rain pattering on the thin roof. The clock on the DVD player glowed ‘21:15’ as Samantha ran her fingertips lightly over the paths of scar-tissue on Logan’s stomach. Playing ‘join the dots’ with his knife wounds in the candle light.

  It was a disconcerting feeling, but in the post-coital glow he was willing to put up with it.

  Outside in the hall, the exiled mobile phone started ringing yet again.

  Samantha stretched like a cat, showing off her tattoos to disturbing advantage. ‘You’re going to have to answer it eventually.’

  Logan grunted.

  She poked him in the ribs. ‘Come on. You go do that, I’ll get us a couple of beers, then we can crack open the ice cream.’ She stood and disappeared into the hall. ‘Think there’s some garlic bread left too…’

  Logan dragged himself up and through to where his jacket lay, just in time for it to go through to voicemail. Blessed silence. He dragged the thing out of his inside pocket. According to the readout he had twenty-two messages.

  But before he could check them the phone blared into life one more time.

  He flipped it open. Didn’t recognize the number. Pressed the button. ‘McRae?’

  Silence.

  ‘If you’re not going to say anything, stop bloody calling! I’m—’

  ‘Is this the…’ Pause. ‘Are you that policeman, Detective Sergeant McRae?’ It was a woman’s voice, sounding young. Scared.

  Logan wandered back into the lounge, where his clothes were strewn all over the carpet, stifling a yawn as he sank down, naked, on the sofa. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You was round here yesterday. Harry Jordan’s gaff? You said I could call…?’

  He’d forgotten all about it. Yawn. ‘Did Sheila turn up? The doctor?’

  ‘Something’s happened, you know? It’s…’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You gotta come over. You gotta come right now, before it’s—’