Blind Eye

by Stuart MacBride

  And then stopped dead, staring up at the fortress-like hulk of Sacred Heart.

  Torry’s only Catholic church had a strangely Spanish look to it, even if it was built out of granite and the terracotta pantiles had a thick layer of green and grey moss. Sacred Heart sat on top of a small hill, looming over the surrounding streets like a drunken uncle. Threatening them all with eternal damnation.

  A flimsy outer skin of scaffolding and tarpaulins covered the east side of the building, and the whole place was sealed off by an eight-foot-tall cordon of temporary fencing.

  What was it Goulding had said? ‘All that, “They’re stealing God” stuff means he’s very religious…’ And Oedipus was probably a local boy with an intimate knowledge of Torry.

  Logan crossed the road.

  A laminated sheet of A4 was fixed to the fence, with ‘CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT. OPENING FOR THE LORD’S WORK IN OCTOBER!’ printed on it, and ‘IN CASE OF EMERGENCY CONTACT REV. J BURNETT.’ Then what looked like the same message in Polish. And right at the bottom was an Aberdeen telephone number.

  Logan dialled, let it ring for nearly a minute, then left a message after the beep.

  There was a man in paint-stained overalls sitting on one of the scaffolding boards, twenty foot off the ground, legs hanging over the edge, drinking a can of coke and smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  The man looked down from his vantage point. ‘Hello? I can help you?’ Definitely Polish.

  ‘How long has the church been shut?’

  ‘Three month? Maybe more? I don’t know. Is number on sign to call.’

  ‘I tried: no one’s answering.’

  The man grinned. ‘You want make confession? I have break time.’

  ‘No thanks. I—’

  ‘You go St Peter’s, in Castlegate. Father Burnett there. Good man.’ And then, cigarette finished, he went back to hauling filthy pantiles off the roof.

  ‘Urgh…’ DI Steel made a face, chewing around the words. ‘This is cold.’

  ‘Really?’ Logan threaded the pool car around the roundabout and onto Market Street. ‘It was hot when I bought it.’

  ‘Well it’s cold now.’ The inspector chased her mouthful down with a swig of Irn-Bru. Then ripped another bite out of the bacon buttie. Munching away as she stared out of the passenger window. ‘I failed the adoption interview. They said I’m too old…’

  Logan pulled up at the traffic lights, beside a huge advertising billboard – ‘MCLENNAN HOMES. YOUR PLACE IS OUR PASSION – 400 NEW HOMES FOR NE FAMILIES!’ – and waited for a convoy of eighteen-wheelers to rumble out from the harbour exit.

  ‘Rubbish. I know a couple in their sixties and they’re still fostering kids.’

  ‘Fostering’s no’ the same. Susan wants a baby of her own. She’s…’ Steel sighed. ‘Ah, you know what she’s like.’ The inspector snuck a glance at Logan, then went back to staring at the billboard. ‘Only chance we’ve got is if Susan gets pregnant.’

  ‘Artificial insemination? But I thought—’

  ‘Yeah … something like that.’ She coughed. Fidgeted. Sniffed. ‘You … er… You don’t fancy donating some sperm, do you?’

  Logan almost stalled the car. ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, we’re like family, aren’t we?’ A blush crept up from the neck of her blouse, turning her cheeks from unhealthy grey to embarrassed pink. ‘We could … you know…’ Her eyes never moved from the huge advert and Malcolm McLennan’s crooked, smiling face. ‘Turkey baster.’

  Logan opened his mouth a couple of times, but nothing came out. He tried again, ‘Well… I—’

  The blare of a horn sounded behind them, accompanied by someone shouting, ‘Light’s green, Moron!’

  Back at Force Headquarters, Logan ran for it, blaming a last-minute meeting with Professional Standards. It was a lie, but at least she might leave him alone if she thought he was in for a bollocking.

  He had to find somewhere to lay low until he could sod off home. So Logan made his way down to the Operation Oedipus incident room.

  Steel hated Finnie, this was the last place she’d look for him.

  Finnie almost bowled him over on the way through the door. The DCI was hauling his suit jacket on over a crumpled pink shirt. ‘Where have you been?’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘And what is that smell?’

  ‘You told me to take DI Steel over to Torry for—’

  ‘Never mind. Just got a call from the hospital: they’ve released Simon McLeod. Won’t he be pleased when we pay him a little visit.’

  Logan was about to complain – the dayshift was officially over in two minutes – but there was that DI’s position coming up. And it wouldn’t hurt to have Finnie on his side. ‘What about DS Pirie?’

  Finnie gave an evil grin. ‘Let’s just say that Pirie and the McLeods don’t get along anymore. So chop-chop: pool car.’

  Simon McLeod had done well for himself. His ‘five-bedroom executive villa’ was part of a small development on the very outskirts of Cults, backing onto woodland. Small garden out front, huge one out back. A shiny BMW four-by-four sat on the drive, next to a Porsche Boxster.

  Logan reverse parked onto the driveway, blocking them both in.

  ‘Right,’ said Finnie, rubbing his hands, ‘the McLeods aren’t exactly known for cooperating with the police. So I want you to work the bidie-in while I give Simon a going over. We split them up and maybe he’ll give us something, especially now his wee brother’s looking at attempted murder.’

  The doorbell was answered on the second go by Simon’s common-law wife: Hilary Brander. The expectant look on her face died as soon as she saw Finnie.

  She folded her arms across her chest and blocked the entrance. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I hear the doctors let Simon out today; I need a quick word.’

  ‘After what you did to our Colin?’

  Logan stepped up. ‘It’s important, Ms Brander. We need to catch whoever blinded him.’

  She looked at Logan. ‘What happened to your face?’

  He gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Colin’s elbow.’

  Hilary’s lips twitched up at the edges and she took a step back into the house. ‘Five minutes, no more. His mum’s coming over to help set up the party – you really don’t want to be here when she does. And if you upset Simon I’ll kill you.’

  She led them through to the lounge, where that same daft-looking West Highland Terrier lounged in a tartan bed in front of the gas-effect fire. Today the dog was wearing a lime-green raincoat with sheep on it.

  The lounge walls were speckled with tapestry artworks and holiday snaps: skiing in Aspen; a train trip through Alaska; Simon and Hilary on safari somewhere, posing with an elephant in the background; the Great Pyramid of Cheops.

  Funny, Simon always seemed like more of a Costa del Sol kind of guy.

  He was hunched in a large leather recliner, eyes hidden behind a swathe of white bandages, a half tumbler of whisky clutched in his trembling hands.

  Hilary put a hand on his shoulder and he flinched, nearly spilling the drink.

  ‘Sorry sweetheart, but there’s someone here to see you.’

  Simon scanned the room. ‘Jesus, Hilary, I told you not to let anyone in! What if—’

  ‘It’s OK, it’s OK. Shhhhh…’ She stroked his hair. ‘It’s just the police. They want to know who did this to you.’

  ‘Tell them to fuck off! No, you know what, I’ll do it…’ He struggled to his feet, dropping the glass. ‘FUCK OFF! You hear me?’ Whisky soaked into the oatmeal-coloured carpet.

  In the tartan basket, the Westie in the raincoat started to growl.

  Hilary grabbed hold of Simon’s shirt and dragged him back into the chair. ‘You listen to me, Simon Emerson McLeod, you will sit there and you will calm down!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No! No buts. You do as you’re told.’ Then she turned and glowered at Finnie. ‘Five minutes, not a
second more.’ She marched through into the kitchen, the little dog trotting happily after her.

  Logan waited a beat, then followed the terrier, closing the kitchen door behind him, shutting Simon in with Finnie. ‘You want some tea?’

  ‘What is it with you coppers and tea?’ She turned her back on him. ‘Just walking clichés.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a no then.’ He leant back against the worktop, trying to look casual. ‘We found another victim this morning. Just like Simon…’

  ‘That’s not our problem, all right? We’ve got enough of our own.’

  ‘Hilary, the person who did that to your husband is still out there. What are you going to do if he decides to come back and finish the job?’

  She sank into one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table. ‘He told me he was going into work early. Something about a supplier playing silly sods with a delivery.’

  ‘A delivery?’

  ‘We run burger vans, not that it’s any of your business. Every industrial estate in Aberdeen has one. Sometimes we get invoiced for stuff that doesn’t turn up. Simon said he was going to get it sorted out.’ She reached down and picked up the dog. ‘Says he was in the office when someone starts banging on the back door; he goes to answer it; and the next thing he knows he’s in hospital…’

  ‘Does he know who did it?’

  ‘If he did they’d be dead by now.’

  Probably true.

  ‘What about business rivals? We’ve heard rumours someone’s trying to move in on his turf?’

  ‘He doesn’t have “turf”, he’s a—’

  ‘Legitimate businessman. Yeah, that’s what he told me.’ Logan stared at her in silence for a while, until she started to fidget. ‘We both know that’s not true, Hilary. I think there’s a major turf war brewing in Aberdeen and someone’s made sure Simon can’t fight back.’

  ‘It was that serial nutter: the one in the papers! He—’

  ‘No it wasn’t. Simon doesn’t fit the pattern: he’s not Polish, he wasn’t dumped in Torry, we didn’t even get a phone call. Someone saw all the publicity and thought they could use it to cover their tracks. Now who’s trying to move in on him? Polish mafia? Russians? We know Manchester’s been sniffing around.’

  She went back to stroking the dog. ‘I can’t, OK?’

  ‘You have to.’

  ‘I’ve never seen him so scared before.’

  ‘Hilary, you can’t let them get away with this. You tried it Colin’s way and it didn’t work, did it? Running around hammering people’s knees at random? And after what he did to Harry Jordan—’

  ‘He didn’t!’ She rubbed a hand across her eyes. ‘It wasn’t him. Those bitches are lying.’

  ‘Even without their testimony we’ve got him on the forensics—’

  ‘He wasn’t even there.’ Hilary pulled back the dog’s hood and ruffled the hair between its ears. ‘Poor little Skye has Cushing’s disease, don’t you sweetie? Her fur falls out in big clumps, leaves nasty raw patches, so she has to wear a silly coat.’

  ‘Hilary, this is important.’

  She glanced over her shoulder, back towards the lounge. ‘There’s nothing they can do for him. He’s always going to be blind.’ A fat tear rolled down her cheek, and dripped on the Westie’s head.

  ‘We—’

  ‘He can’t even get glass eyes: they won’t stay in… Someone burnt off his eyelids. What sort of person does that?’

  Logan reached across the kitchen table and took her hand. ‘Then help me catch them.’

  That got him a small, bitter laugh. ‘You want them caught? These bastards? You want them to stop hurting people? Let Colin go.’

  23

  Samantha wasn’t answering her home phone, or her mobile, so instead of heading straight home after signing out, Logan took the lift up to the Identification Bureau’s lab on the third floor. Just in case.

  Considering how much police work relied on forensic science the place was tiny. It wasn’t much bigger than Logan’s living room, and every available surface was piled high with plastic crates full of guns. A single white lab-coated figure was dusting an AK-47 for prints over by the vacuum table, the loud hum of the motor fighting against the radio – Northsound Two turned up full blast. The Chief Constable on the local news:

  ‘… recent upswing in drug-related violence should give us all great cause for concern. Criminals seem to think Aberdeen is a soft target for their hard drugs, but I’m here to tell you that we are anything but. Officers recovered a substantial amount of heroin earlier this week, with a street value of over two hundred thousand pounds…’

  Logan stopped at the central table. ‘Hello?’

  ‘… complacent. So if anyone sees anything suspicious, they can call our dedicated drugs hotline…’

  Try again. ‘HELLO?’

  Samantha turned, pulled off her safety goggles and breathing mask, and shouted back at him, ‘WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU LAST NIGHT THEN?’

  ‘WHAT?’

  Logan turned down the radio as the newsreader came on. ‘And finally, jobs in the North East were given a boost today when McLennan Homes chairman Malcolm McLennan announced plans for yet another luxury golf course…’

  ‘You’re all grubby.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Bloody fingerprint powder gets everywhere…’ Samantha switched off the vacuum table and the motor whined to a halt. ‘You look like someone’s battered you about the head with a sledgehammer.’

  ‘Fancy doing something later?’

  She pointed at the stacks of weapons. ‘I wish. Roz is on holiday, Mark’s got a dose of the squits, Davie’s on a training course, and Tracy’s in Glasgow giving evidence. So I’m on my lonesome.’ She hefted the AK-47 onto a stand for photography. ‘Could do with the overtime, anyway.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Tell you what though…’ She snapped off her blue nitrile gloves. ‘Long as you’re here, you can give us a hand in the store room.’

  Not exactly the way Logan had planned on spending his evening, but it was probably better than going home to paint the lounge ceiling.

  Ten minutes later someone shouted, the store room door flew open, and DI Steel appeared. ‘Where the hell is every…’ She stood there, staring as Logan and Sam straightened their clothes. ‘No wonder the labs are backed up! Bloody IB spends all its time shagging CID.’

  ‘We weren’t shagging.’ Sam’s face went bright red. She grabbed a random bit of equipment from the shelves that lined the walls, ‘I was looking for this and got something in my eye—’

  ‘Got something in your pants, more like.’

  ‘It’s not—’

  ‘Oh, like I care. Just give us the results of that DNA test I sent up yesterday and you can go back to your bonking.’

  ‘We weren’t bonking!’ Sam pushed past Steel back into the lab, marched over to the filing cabinet, and yanked out a drawer.

  ‘And while you’re there,’ said Steel, ‘see if there’s anything on that fire at the Turf ‘n Track.’

  ‘We’ve not had time. We’re up to our ears fingerprinting this lot.’ She pointed at the piles of weapons.

  ‘Too busy bumping uglies with Detective Sergeants, more like.’

  Samantha glared at Logan. He cleared his throat. ‘Erm… Why don’t I chase these up and bring the results down to your office, ma’am?’

  The inspector stood there for a moment, shrugged, then wandered out of the lab with her hands in her pockets, whistling the tune to Lydia the Tattooed Lady.

  As soon as the door closed, Samantha slumped back against the wall and buried her head in her hands. ‘Oh God … it’s going to be all over the station by morning…’

  Logan tried for a reassuring smile. ‘Could be worse?’

  ‘She’s a nightmare. She’s a card-carrying, cold-sweat-in-the-wee-small-hours, bed-wetting nightmare.’

  ‘Don’t let her get to you.’ He stroked the back of Samantha�
�s neck, feeling the soft downy hairs goosebump beneath his fingers. ‘Anyway, so what if everyone knows about us?’

  ‘Easy for you to say, you’re not going to be “the tattooed slut who shags Detective Sergeants in the bloody store room”, are you?’

  ‘I’ll have a word with her. She’s not really as bad as everyone thinks. Besides…’ he looked back at the door and suppressed a shudder. ‘She wants me to do her a favour.’

  They found the remains of the Turf ‘n Track petrol bomb buried under a stack of evidence bags. It only took five minutes to bring up three good clear prints from the broken bottle.

  Samantha took reference shots with the lab’s digital camera, then transferred the prints off with lifting tape to an acetate sheet and handed them to Logan.

  ‘Just promise me,’ she said, filling in the paperwork, ‘you won’t tell anyone I rushed that through for you, OK? If it gets out I do favours for sex there’ll be a line right round the bloody building…’

  24

  The sign on the door said, ‘ABERDEEN BUREAU ~ SCOTTISH FINGERPRINT SERVICE’, which was pretty grandiose, given it was just a couple of rooms at the end of the third-floor corridor. One wall was dominated by a huge rack of pine drawers, each one stuffed with hundreds of old-fashioned fingerprint files, the rest of the space taken up with cubicles and light-boxes.

  Logan found someone in the computer room – little more than an alcove with a scanner, a desktop machine, and a laser printer. The fingerprint technician sagged in his typist’s chair, groaned, rubbed at his eyes, then pulled a sheet of acetate from the scanner, replacing it with another one from the pile.

  He clicked the mouse a couple of times then glanced at Logan. ‘Whatever you want, the answer’s no. I’m swamped.’

  ‘Who says I want anything? Maybe I just popped up to say hello.’

  ‘Yeah? Then how come you’re holding a fingerprint sheet?’

  Logan slipped it onto the top of the pile. ‘Oh, come on, Bill. I only need—’

  ‘No! I’ve got three million prints to run for Finnie as it is. Supposed to be home having a romantic dinner with my wife…’ All the time he was talking, the mouse was moving on the screen, clicking and dragging things.

  Logan perched on the edge of the desk. ‘Can’t believe they left you here on your own to do all this. It’s just not fair, is it?’