Blind Eye

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘GET OFF ME!’ He kicked out, but it barely moved.

  Winchester shook his head back and forth, and then a miracle happened. Logan’s trouser-leg gave with a loud ripping sound, and the dog fell back into a rosebush. Crackle, whimper, snarl. Logan dragged his leg over and dropped into the neighbour’s garden before the dog could have another go.

  Just in time to see Colin McLeod charging through a wall of dark leylandii on the other side.

  Logan ran after him – through the damp, scratchy hedge, across an anonymous garden. Over a box hedge, through another garden, then a creaky panel fence into what looked like a huge vegetable plot. Yellow streetlight showed a trail of destruction across two dreels of tatties, a row of leeks, and a patch of broccoli. But it was the runner beans that had done for Colin McLeod; he was thrashing in the mud, trying to disentangle himself from a duvet-sized chunk of green plastic netting and bamboo canes.

  Swearing, he dragged himself to his knees and slithered through the mud towards the next fence, but Logan got to him first. They crashed into a greenhouse, plastic glass splintering as the frame buckled. A clatter of tomato plants and pots. A rake, fork, and spade clanged onto the concrete path.

  Light spilled across the garden, as someone threw open the kitchen door and shouted, ‘Get out of it you little buggers! I’ve got a gun! Do you hear me? A gun!’

  Logan opened his mouth to shout, ‘Police!’ but all that came out was a painful grunt as Colin McLeod’s elbow slammed into his face. Blood.

  Another elbow – right in the temple – making the world swim in and out of focus.

  Logan let go, and Colin struggled to his feet, lurching off balance. The sound of police officers crashing through the back gardens was getting louder – shouting and swearing their way through hedges and over fences in the pouring rain.

  Colin turned to face the noise. Then turned back to kick Logan in the head.

  Only he never got that far. There was a soft crack and the big man froze, teeth gritted, eyes open wide. Then he clutched at his buttock and went, ‘Aagh, FUCK!’

  ‘I told you I had a gun, you little bastards! Get out of my garden!’ Then came the sound of an air rifle being broken and racked again.

  Colin turned and limped towards the householder in a barrage of foul language.

  Crack – only this time the shot went wide, bouncing off the crumpled greenhouse.

  The man said, ‘Oh God…’ then jumped back inside and slammed the door.

  Logan scrabbled around in the sudden darkness, grabbing the rain-slicked handle of some fallen piece of garden equipment, then staggered upright. ‘Colin McLeod, I’m arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder—’

  Creepy Colin ignored him, hurpling towards the side gate and the road, one hand clamped to his backside.

  ‘—you do not have to say anything … ah bugger it.’ Logan raised his makeshift truncheon, the yellow streetlight glinting on the flat face of the spade, and swung it at the back of Colin’s head.

  CLUNK.

  The big man went face-down in a patch of muddy strawberries and stayed there.

  Logan dropped the spade and slumped against the fence. Spat out a mouthful of salty blood. And listened as DS Pirie struggled his way out of the last hedge, just as DCI Finnie was rattling through the gate. They both came to a halt, staring down at Colin McLeod’s unconscious body.

  Logan coughed, spat more blood, and probed his swollen lump. His head was pounding from the elbow in the forehead. His trousers were clarted in mud, one leg ripped to the knee. ‘You took your time.’

  Finnie nudged Colin in the ribs with his shoe, then scowled at Logan. Held up a pair of fingers. ‘That’s two.’

  The householder was peering out at them from the safety of the kitchen window. ‘I’ve called the police!’

  ‘I wanted to question him!’

  ‘Yeah, well … he wanted to kill me, so—’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Did I not make myself clear, Sergeant McRae? Were you confused by why we were after Colin McLeod? Or did you think it’d be easier to question him if he was un-bloody-conscious?’

  ‘What? I stopped him, didn’t—’

  ‘Don’t you dare answer back! When I tell you to—’

  ‘No!’ Logan pushed off the fence, lurching forwards till he was nose-to-nose with the DCI. ‘You listen to me: I have had enough of your bloody sarcasm. You asked me to watch the back garden: I watched the back garden. And when Colin did a runner I chased him and I stopped him. If it wasn’t for me, the bastard would’ve got away.’ His voice getting louder and louder till he was shouting in Finnie’s face. ‘So I’ll answer back if I bloody well like!’

  Silence.

  The Detective Chief Inspector took a step back, then held up another finger. ‘That’s three.’ And a smile spread across his rubber-lipped features. ‘About bloody time too!’

  Logan opened his mouth, then shut it again. ‘What?’

  But Finnie had turned to DS Pirie. ‘Was I right? Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Tell him what?’

  No answer. The DCI just sauntered from the garden, ordering Pirie to ‘Escort that back to the station,’ as he passed Colin McLeod. Pirie did as he was told, leaving Logan all alone in the ruined back garden. Soaking up the rain.

  ‘What?’

  20

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Rennie, ‘and I thought Steel looked bad.’ Half past eight on Wednesday morning and the constable was making the first tea round of the day, carting a tray full of dirty mugs around the CID office.

  Logan scowled up from his desk, and instantly regretted it. His face hurt. By the time he’d clocked in for work this morning, the whole left hand side was puffy and swollen, the bruised skin a psychedelic mixture of purple, blue and green.

  ‘No, seriously,’ Rennie collected the mug from Logan’s desk and added it to the collection, ‘you’re like the Elephant Man on a bad day.’

  ‘Didn’t think Steel would be in this morning.’

  ‘Oh aye. Smells like she’s eaten a pickled skunk. Hungover isn’t the word. Tell you, I’ve seen people look healthier after they’ve been post-mortemed.’ He turned as someone slumped in through the door. ‘Oops, speak of the Devil and She will appear.’

  Rennie wasn’t kidding – DI Steel looked dreadful. Her hair lay on top of her head like a ruptured ferret, black bags under her eyes, face a delicate shade of week-old roadkill, bringing with her a miasma of Chanel No 5, extra strong mints, and stale whisky.

  Logan asked how she was feeling, but she just grunted and slouched past, making for the swear box. She picked it up off the little fridge in the corner and frowned. Shook it. Glowered. Opened it. Swore. Her voice was about two octaves lower than usual, marinated in gravel and razorblades. ‘What thieving bastard…?’ She turned the Quality Street tin upside down, but nothing fell out. It was empty.

  Steel threw it to the ground, then kicked it the length of the CID office. ‘I put forty quid in that!’

  Everyone turned to stare at her.

  Rennie winced. ‘Maybe—’

  ‘FORTY QUID!’

  ‘We could—’

  ‘WHAT’S THE POINT OF HAVING POLICE IF YOU BASTARDS JUST STEAL EVERYTHING?’ She ground her eyes with the heels of her hands, then stormed off, muttering obscenities.

  ‘Well, that was—’

  But DC Rennie didn’t get any further, because Steel stuck her head back round the door. ‘McRae, my office, now. You,’ she pointed at Rennie, ‘coffee: milk, two sugars. And get me some bloody cigarettes.’ Then she scowled at DS Beattie. ‘And Beardy Boy, you’re supposed to be a detective. Find out what thieving cock-weasel stole my swear money!’

  And then she was gone.

  Detective Sergeant Beattie brushed the biscuit crumbs from his beard and said, ‘Well, it wasn’t me.’

  Logan sighed, clambered to his feet, and followed her.

  Up c
lose the inspector looked even worse. Her pupils were the size of pinheads, floating in a lake of spider-veined pink. She collapsed into her office chair and ran her hands through her hair. ‘Mouth feels like a badger’s arse…’

  ‘Didn’t think you’d be in this morning.’

  She stared at him. ‘You look like shite.’ Then she rummaged through her in-tray. ‘Where’s Rennie with my sodding fags? And where’s my car?’

  ‘I moved it last night, it’s parked out back. That all you wanted? Because I’ve got—’

  ‘Nice try.’ The rummaging produced a small stack of colour printouts; she tossed them across the desk. ‘E-fits of a bloke who’s been spreading his seed all over the city. Literally. Dirty bugger wipes his spunk on handrails and door handles. Shopping centres are a particular favourite.’

  ‘Sounds like a class act…’ According to the accompanying notes, the electronic identikit pictures were put together by three different witnesses, all women, who’d only noticed something was horribly wrong after it was all over their hands. The suspect had shoulder-length curly brown hair, long face, squint teeth, sunglasses. Late thirties or early forties.

  ‘I don’t see—’

  ‘Get those circulated to the heads of security at every major supermarket in town. And the shopping centres too. The guy’s smearing bucket-loads of DNA all over the place, all we need is someone to match it to. Tell them I want called the moment this skanky tosser shows his ugly face. And chase up that lookout request on Rory Simpson, little child-molesting sod’s got to be somewhere.’

  ‘Going to have to be tomorrow. Finnie wants me—’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, tell the frog-faced git to take a run and jump. He’s—’

  ‘We arrested Colin McLeod last night: attempted murder. He paid a visit to Harry Jordan’s head with a claw hammer.’

  Steel actually smiled. ‘He going to be OK?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Good.’ She coughed, grimaced, then went potholing in her desk again. ‘Why have I no’ got any paracetamol…?’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got to sit in on the interview, and we’ll have to make a formal ID, and—’

  Bang, crash. DC Rennie backed into the room with a mug of coffee in one hand, a packet of biscuits in the other, and a manila folder tucked under his arm. ‘Sorry.’

  Steel scowled at him. ‘Oh aye, that’s right: destroy the bloody place. Where’s my fags?’

  ‘Got you three Silk Cut. Had to rob them off DS Griffiths, so if he goes on the rampage you don’t know anything about it, OK?’

  ‘Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie.’ She held out her hand, and Rennie dropped the cigarettes into it. She lit one, sucking the smoke down, then letting it out in a long, contented sigh. ‘Oh God, that’s better.’

  Logan told Rennie to close the door, while he opened the window. Outside, the city shone: all the dust of a long, hot summer washed away by the overnight rain, leaving everything sparkling clean. Not so much as a puddle of vomit on the pavements. Even the early morning fog had burned away.

  Rennie dumped the manila folder on the inspector’s desk. ‘Got the initial forensics back on the fire.’

  Steel didn’t even look up, just stayed slumped in her chair, smoking at the ceiling. ‘What fire?’

  ‘At the Turf ‘n Track? Arson? You’re SIO?’

  ‘I am?’

  Rennie poked the folder. ‘You were at the scene yesterday. DS McRae put you down as Senior Investigating Officer.’

  And now she did sit up. ‘I was there?’

  ‘Technically.’ Logan picked up the folder and flicked through the contents. The fire brigade were sticking with their first guess: fire started by a petrol bomb thrown in through the front door. ‘Nothing from fingerprints?’

  The constable shook his head. ‘They’re backed up doing all them guns we found. Say they might get round to it tomorrow, maybe Friday.’

  Steel snatched the folder from Logan and grumbled through the contents. ‘I’m SIO, remember? I’ll ask the bloody questions.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Logan stopped on the way to the door. ‘You still want me to give you a hand tomorrow?’

  ‘What do I need you for when I’ve got Defective Constable Rennie here?’ She levered herself to her feet, pinged the last nub of her cigarette out of the open window, then handed the three e-fit printouts to the constable. ‘Did you like Pugwash when you were a kid, Rennie? Coz you’re going looking for Seaman Staines.’

  ‘For the benefit of the tape,’ said DCI Finnie, holding up a clear plastic evidence pouch, ‘I am now showing Mr McLeod Exhibit A: a claw hammer. We found this in your garage, Colin. Want to tell us about it?’

  Colin McLeod scowled back from the other side of the interview room table. Other than a couple of small scratches there wasn’t a mark on him, not even a bruise where Logan had bounced the spade off his head.

  Leaning back against the wall, watching proceedings, Logan didn’t think that was exactly fair. Especially given the mess his own face was in today.

  McLeod barely glanced at the contents of the evidence bag. ‘It’s a hammer. You use it for hammering in nails.’

  ‘Yes, I would use it for nails, but you use it for kneecaps, don’t you?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘And last night you used it on Harry Jordan’s head.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘No, just his head.’ Finnie handed Exhibit A back to DS Pirie. ‘You might want to have a wee think about that one, Colin. You see,’ and at this the DCI leant over the table and put on a theatrical whisper, ‘we have what are known in the trade as witnesses.’

  ‘I…’ The big man shied back. ‘I never touched him.’

  ‘Three witnesses say different, Colin. Or can I call you Creepy?’

  ‘No you fuckin’ can’t!’ McLeod’s face got even uglier. ‘I want my lawyer, and I want him right now.’

  ‘Don’t be such a drama queen; you know how this works. You get a lawyer when I say so, not before.’

  ‘I NEVER TOUCHED HIM!’

  DS Pirie – silent up to this point – leant over and whispered something in Finnie’s ear.

  The DCI nodded. ‘If you never touched him,’ he said, ‘then why did Forensics find traces of Harry Jordan’s blood on your hammer?’

  ‘Told you, it’s not my hammer.’

  ‘Did you?’ Finnie put on a show of frowning and asking the room, ‘Does anyone remember Mr McLeod saying this wasn’t his hammer?’

  ‘It’s not my—’

  Pirie checked his notes. ‘Then why does it have your fingerprints all over it?’

  ‘I… I didn’t fuckin’ kill him!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ the DCI had the kind of smile you only normally saw on grizzly bears. ‘We’ve got forensics, we’ve got witnesses, and thanks to DS McRae,’ he pointed over his shoulder at Logan, ‘we’ve got a threatening phone call from the victim on your answering phone. And we all know Harry Jordan beat the crap out of that tart you’re soft on. Not bad enough he’s renting out the love of your life—’

  A knock at the door.

  ‘Oh for…’ He glanced back, ‘Get that would you, McRae?’

  Logan opened the door to find an out of breath PC Karim standing in the corridor. The constable huffed and puffed for a second, then blurted out his news.

  They’d found another victim with his eyes gouged out in an abandoned building. Oedipus strikes again.

  21

  An ambulance sat in the middle of the narrow strip of tarmac that ran between the rows of Lego-brick homes on Burnbank Place, its engine still running as a paramedic in a green jumpsuit argued with the uniformed PC guarding the property. A skip sat by the front door, full of chunks of plaster, an old sink, and a pee-stained mattress.

  ‘You’ve got to let us in: we need to get him to hospital!’

  ‘I can’t, OK? I’ve—’ and then the constable spotted DCI Finnie, marching up the pavement, dra
gging Logan and DS Pirie in his wake. ‘Chief Inspector! They really want to collect the victim and—’

  Finnie pushed past him. ‘No one in or out till the pathologist gets here.’ And then they were inside.

  It wasn’t a big place, and about as boxy and featureless on the inside as it was on the outside. Like the house in Primrosehill Drive, it was in the process of being refurbished. The walls were stripped back to the bare breezeblocks, the concrete floor covered in dust and bits of plasterboard.

  Another PC, presumably the partner of the one standing guard outside, stopped them at the bedroom door. ‘We can’t just leave the poor bastard here, it’s not—’

  Finnie waved him into silence. ‘Why aren’t you wearing an SOC suit? I said I want this treated as a murder scene.’

  ‘He’s in pain!’

  The DCI stared at him for a moment, then rapped on the top of the PC’s head with his knuckles. ‘Hello? Hello? Is this thing on? Am I speaking too quickly for your little brain? Get – me – some – SOC – suits. I will not have the scene contaminated any further!’

  For a moment, the constable looked as if he was about to introduce his truncheon to a private and internal portion of Finnie’s anatomy. Then he gritted his teeth and forced out a, ‘Yes, sir.’ He was back two minutes later with a small stack of plastic-wrapped suits, a couple of facemasks and a collection of blue plastic overbooties. ‘I still think—’

  ‘When you make Sergeant you can think, till then it’d be nice if you could just do what you’re bloody well told. Now go help your little friend guard the front door. And let me know the minute the pathologist gets here.’

  The bedroom was getting crowded. It wasn’t the biggest of spaces to begin with, but now that Doc Fraser had arrived, it was even smaller. The old man dumped his medical bag by the doorway and hunkered down next to the body.

  ‘Death been declared?’

  Finnie shook his head. ‘You said you wanted to see a live one before the hospital got their hands on him.’

  ‘You mean he’s…’ The pathologist felt for a pulse – and the body on the floor groaned. Doc Fraser stared up at Logan. ‘You’ve got to get those paramedics in here now! This man’s—’