Blind Eye

by Stuart MacBride

  She was sitting cross-legged on a dirty orange Kenny-from-South-Park-style parka, gazing up at him with panda eyes. She’d done her best to make them match, but the left eye was all swollen, the bruising barely hidden by a thick layer of pancake makeup and too much eyeliner. Bright-red veins spidered their way across the white of her eye, making the pupil look like an emerald floating in a sea of Tabasco. It was Tracey – the girl who’d fingered Creepy Colin McLeod for battering Harry Jordan’s head in with a hammer.

  She was dressed in a short black skirt and a lacy top that still had the security tag hanging from the side, high-heeled ankle boots, and stockings with more ladders than your average fire station. Someone had broken her nose.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it’s you…’ Tracey stuck out her hand and Logan pulled her to her feet, where she wobbled on four-inch heels. As she bent to grab the parka she’d been sitting on, he caught a flash of skin between her skirt and her top. It was a collage of bruises and welts.

  ‘Been waiting, like, forever.’ She ran a hand through her bleached blonde hair. ‘Haven’t got a fag, have you? I’m gasping.’

  ‘Gave up years ago. What happened to your face?’

  She turned and squinted across Union Street at a small flurry of pigeons fighting over a discarded kebab. ‘I was wrong, you know? About what happened. It … it wasn’t Colin McLeod battered Harry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It wasn’t him. It was someone else. Colin didn’t touch him.’

  ‘You can’t just change your statement—’

  ‘I was wrong, must’ve been off my face or something, you know? Colin was nowhere near the place when Harry got his head caved in.’

  ‘And all of a sudden he’s “Colin”, not “Creepy”? Tell me, Tracey, would this have anything to do with your new black eye?’

  ‘I was wrong, OK? It wasn’t Colin, you gotta let him go!’

  ‘We found a claw hammer in Colin McLeod’s garage with traces of Harry Jordan’s blood on it.’

  ‘It… We…’ She rubbed at her arms. ‘You must’ve planted it. You know? To fit him up, like.’

  ‘You got a visit from Agnes McLeod last night, didn’t you? That or a couple of her son’s associates, and they helped change your mind about what happened.’

  ‘No! I just remember it better now. It wasn’t Colin. It wasn’t…’ She grabbed for Logan’s hand. ‘You’ve got to let him go.’

  ‘We can’t do that, it’s—’

  ‘How about a blowjob? Right now, on the house like? No? I got girlfriends, we could, you know, put on a show for you? Like an orgy or something? You could do whatever you like, we wouldn’t tell no one…’ She licked her chapped lips, leaving a smear of saliva behind. The effect wasn’t exactly erotic. ‘You know you want to…’

  ‘No I bloody well don’t.’

  Logan got a cappuccino and a rowie with butter and jam from the canteen. And as a rowie was, more-or-less, just a croissant that had really let itself go, technically it counted as a continental breakfast. Chewing, he made his way to the morning briefing.

  With any luck all that salt and saturated fat would kill him before he had to tell Finnie that Tracey was changing her story.

  Halfway down the stairs Logan’s phone started ringing. He juggled hot coffee and greasy pastry. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello? Yes?’ A man’s voice. ‘Is this Detective Sergeant Mackie?’

  ‘McRae.’

  ‘Is it? Oh, sorry. This is Father John Burnett, Sacred Heart… Well, Saint Peter’s now I suppose. Erm … I know it’s early, but you left a message asking me to call you back?’

  Two minutes later Logan was hurrying out of the side door, dragging a moaning Constable Karim with him.

  ‘But I’m supposed to be at the briefing; you know what Finnie’s like!’ Karim was dressed in the standard Grampian Police uniform: black T-shirt, black stab-proof vest, black peaked cap, black trousers, black boots, and a fluorescent yellow waistcoat with ‘POLICE’ across the back. Which kind of spoiled the whole ninja ensemble.

  Logan punched the keycode into the gate that lead out onto Lodge Walk. ‘We’re only going to be fifteen minutes.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You can blame me if it makes you feel any better.’

  ‘Damn right I’m blaming you.’ He followed Logan out of the shadowy alleyway and onto Union Street. The sunshine was blinding. ‘Jesus!’ Karim grabbed his hat and pulled it as far down as it would go, hiding in the shade of the brim – making his ears stick out at right angles. ‘Like a sodding microwave out here…’

  They crossed the road and headed into the Castlegate, a wide-open plaza of cobbles and pigeon droppings, with the Mercat Cross sitting in the middle like a dirty granite carousel. A pair of tramps were slouched against the hoarding that surrounded the Salvation Army Citadel, basking in the morning sun and sharing a breakfast of white spirit and cigarettes. They waved and cheered as PC Karim went past.

  Logan waved back. ‘Didn’t know you had family in Aberdeen.’

  ‘Oh ha, ha.’ The constable sniffed. ‘That’s Dirty Bob and his mate Richard. Saved them from a kicking last year. They might stink, but at least they’re grateful, unlike some people. Broke up a fight outside the McDonalds last night: rival hen parties. Matron of honour called me a Paki bastard and tried to take my head off with a plastic tray. Said I should go back where I bloody came from.’

  ‘What: the exotic, sun-soaked shores of Fraserburgh?’

  ‘Makes you proud to be Scottish, doesn’t it?’

  St Peter’s Catholic Church was hidden away at the end of the Castlegate, between a card-shop-come-printers and a defunct hairdressers. A little recess led between the buildings into a tiny courtyard that stank of bleach and disinfectant.

  A pair of big blue doors sat off to one side – beneath a lancet window of unstained-glass – posted with the standard welcome for this part of town: ‘NOTICE ~ THESE PREMISES ARE PROTECTED BY CLOSED CIRCUIT TELEVISION SECURITY SYSTEMS’.

  Karim marched straight past them and up to the battered wooden door of the parochial house. It opened on a clean, but shabby hallway: primrose walls, white ceilings – the paint blistering and cracked, showing the grey plasterwork beneath. The whole place had an air of neglect Logan hadn’t been expecting. It was a long, long way from the opulence of the Vatican. Like a dying relative no one wanted to talk about, let alone visit.

  The constable opened a part-glazed door into the main building, and shouted, ‘Anyone home?’

  A disembodied voice replied, ‘Hello? I’m in the kitchen.’

  Logan followed Karim into a large room dominated by a big wooden table and units that had seen better days. Possibly during the Crimean War.

  There was a man sitting at the table, in front of an open laptop. Early forties; bouffant hair starting to grey at the temples; thin, blue cardigan over a black priest shirt; glasses. ‘Constable! How nice to see you again. Did you manage to catch him?’

  He stuck out his hand, and Karim shook it, smiling.

  ‘Not yet, Father.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a pity… Still, I’m sure you’re all doing your best.’ He half rose from his seat and offered Logan a handshake too. ‘Have we met?’

  ‘DS McRae. Are you Father Burnett?’

  ‘Guilty as charged. Now why don’t you both grab a pew and we can have a chat.’

  Logan and PC Karim sat, listening to the kettle grumbling its way to a boil while Father Burnett went hunting through the fridge.

  ‘Trouble is, we’ve got an open-door policy, and people will insist on leaving the milk out. Ah, excellent…’ The priest emerged with a plastic carton of semi-skimmed. ‘Where was I?’

  Logan pointed at a framed photo on the kitchen wall: it was Father Burnett, in full vestments, standing in front of Sacred Heart, Torry.

  ‘Right, right. Well, it’s been in pretty poor repair for years, but we’ve finally got the money together to have th
e place done up properly. So, while it’s closed for refurbishment, I came down here to lend a hand. Be four months next Friday.’

  Teabags, hot water, milk. He waggled a mug at Logan. ‘That about the right colour for you?’

  ‘Perfect. What about your congregation?’

  ‘Ah, therein lies a tale…’ He brought the teas back to the table, followed by a tin of Marks & Spencer fancy biscuits. ‘Last year we started doing Mass in Polish, twice a week – thought it would make our European friends feel more at home, if they could attend services in their native language. Help them integrate. Trouble is, pretty soon they’d only go to the Polish Masses, so instead of helping them get to know the locals we ended up with a segregated Catholic community that didn’t mix at all.’

  He slurped his tea. ‘Long story short, when we shut Sacred Heart for refurbishment, we thought we’d give it another go. We do the Mass half in English and half in Polish, four times a week.’

  ‘Working?’

  ‘So far. We’re packed to the rafters. Literally. You’d think more people would go to the Cathedral, but … well, their loss is our gain.’ Father Burnett helped himself to a chocolate biscuit. ‘Parishioner of mine brings in a tin every week. Just between you and me, I think they’re the spoils of shoplifting, but she’s in her eighties, so what can you do?’ He offered the tin around again. ‘But I’m guessing you didn’t come here to talk about Polish integration and pilfered biscuits?’

  ‘Actually,’ said Logan, ‘we sort of did. Since the Poles started coming to Mass here, have you noticed anyone who’s stopped turning up? Someone who used to go to Sacred Heart all the time?’

  Frown. ‘Can’t say that I have.’

  ‘Lives with his mother? Father’s dead? Probably used to work in a bar, or a hotel, or on a building site?’

  Father Burnett put his tea down. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘You’ve heard of Oedipus?’

  ‘Greek tragedy: murdered his father and slept with his mum – a bit like Fraserburgh—’

  Karim sat up in his chair. ‘Hey!’

  ‘No offence. Then he gouged his own eyes out with a spoon.’

  Logan pulled out a set of photographs, laying them on the table. Each one showed a victim’s face, the eyes hollow, scar-ringed sockets. ‘I think whoever did this was an active member of Sacred Heart.’

  The priest stared at the pictures, then crossed himself. ‘Dear God…’

  ‘Has anyone said anything. You know, in confession?’

  That got Logan a stern stare. ‘The confession is sacrosanct, Sergeant. I couldn’t tell you, even if I wanted to.’

  Logan picked up a photo at random. ‘Luboslaw Frankowski drank himself to death six weeks after this was taken. His health visitor was off sick for a fortnight. When she got back, Luboslaw had been dead for nine days. Alone in his flat in the middle of June… The smell was unbelievable.’

  Father Burnett winced. Then sighed. ‘I know it’s hard to accept, but I can’t break the confidentiality of the confession.’

  ‘So if someone came in here, told you he’d blinded seven people then set fire to the sockets … you’d give him what: three Hail Marys and absolve him of all blame?’

  ‘Well,’ the priest put the lid back on the biscuits, ‘I’d do my best to convince them to go to the police and hand themselves in. But it’s immaterial, because no one’s confessed to anything like this. And while I couldn’t tell you if they had, I can tell you that they haven’t.’

  A buzzing noise sounded in the hall and Father Burnett glanced up at the CCTV monitor sitting on top of the fridge – a view of the courtyard outside, slowly panning from left to right. ‘We get a lot of people peeing in the courtyard after the pubs shut…’

  The top of a bald head came into view, standing at the front door.

  Father Burnett scraped his chair back and stood. ‘Would you excuse me for a minute?’

  Logan waited until he heard the front door open and the mumble of muffled conversation, then turned to PC Karim. ‘You believe him?’

  ‘Don’t see why not. He’s a nice enough bloke. Last time I was here, it was a break-in. Someone kicked in a connecting door from the choir loft and ransacked the place. Caught the Father in the bath. Poor sod had to talk his way out of it wearing nothing but bubbles and a smile. Anyway, he’s a priest: you can trust him.’

  ‘Thousands of choirboys might beg to differ on that one.’ Logan wandered over to the window and looked out on a walled garden. Rose trees at the bottom, a baptismal font in the middle, and a snowdrift of empty carrier bags in the corner. ‘If Oedipus really was a member of Sacred Heart, why doesn’t Father Burnett recognize the des cription?’

  ‘Too vague?’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ The priest was back, a brown paper bag in his hands. He unloaded a collection of glass jars and stacked them in one of the cupboards. ‘Golabki: stuffed cabbage leaves. I love this stuff – got a taste for it when I worked in Krakow. Mr Wołoskowski brings me some every time his nephew comes to visit.’

  Father Burnett closed the cupboard door. ‘They’re good people, Sergeant. They come over here looking for a better life for their families, they work hard – and yes, I know some of them like to get a bit drunk and rowdy – but deep down… Look if someone’s targeting them I want to help. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  Father Burnett gently shepherded them out into the hall. ‘I’ll put the word out at Mass this evening. See if we can’t rustle up some information for you.’

  He stopped at the threshold and shook both of their hands again. But he held on to Logan’s. ‘I know this probably isn’t my place, but I do actually know who you are. I read about you and the Flesher case last year.’

  Logan opened his mouth to protest, but the priest carried on regardless, ‘And I know you probably don’t want to hear it, and you’re obviously not a Catholic, but if you ever want to talk, please: you have my number.’

  By the time they got back to the station, the briefing room was empty, just a whiff of stale coffee and cheesy feet to show it had been packed with CID and uniform less than fifteen minutes before. Logan abandoned PC Karim at the main desk and headed up to Finnie’s office. Might as well get it over with…

  Pirie was there, scribbling things on a whiteboard already crowded with photos, diagrams, and notes: Operation Oedipus in all its going-nowhere glory.

  Finnie looked up from a report as Logan closed the door.

  ‘Ah,’ he went back to his report, ‘DS McRae, how good of you to join us today. Let me guess: you were too busy interrogating your duvet this morning to bother showing up at my morning briefing?’

  Pirie sniggered. ‘Heh, “Interrogating your duvet”, that’s—’

  Finnie cut him off. ‘If I wanted someone to repeat everything I said, I’d buy a parrot.’

  The tips of Pirie’s ears went bright pink. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Now, DS McRae, care to tell me what was so important?’

  Here we go: ‘Tracey Hamilton wants to retract her statement. Says it wasn’t Colin McLeod who bashed Harry Jordan’s head in after all.’

  He filled them in on the details, but instead of shouting and swearing, Finnie just sat back in his seat, steepled his fingers and said, ‘Excellent.’

  ‘It is?’

  The DCI pointed at Pirie. ‘How long have I been after the McLeods? Five years, six?’

  His sidekick nodded. ‘At least.’

  ‘And now it’s all paying off. Sod the witnesses: we’ve got enough forensics on Creepy Colin to send him down for at least fourteen years. Simon’s out of commission and blind as a bat. And if your pet tart’s been forced to change her story

  – we’ve got a crack at the McLeods’ mum for attempting to pervert the course of justice.’ He played a little drum roll on his desk. ‘This is going to be a good day, gentlemen!’

  ‘Yeah, about that…’ Pirie cleared his throat. ‘Those paramedics
from yesterday made a formal complaint. They say we obstructed—’

  ‘Eggs and omelettes; eggs and omelettes.’ The DCI spun his chair round and stared at the Oedipus board, then round to a smaller board with ‘CARAVAN FULL OF GUNS ~ TERRORISTS? ~ DRUGS? ~ BANK JOB?’ written on it. The word ‘DRUGS’ had been underlined three times.

  ‘Pirie: I want you to get onto your contacts. Yardies, Triads, Northfield Massive, Kincorth Groove Brigade, and anyone else you can think of. I want to know who’s trying to move in on the McLeods’ territory. McRae: we picked up a tosspot from Manchester last night, trying to flog heroin to a hen night. Steve Preston. Get him in an interview room, and we’ll see what he’s got to say for himself.’

  Logan didn’t move. ‘I thought Pirie interviewed him last night.’

  ‘No, I had Pirie drag him into an interview room, so he could accidentally bump into your Kevin Murray. Wasn’t that a nice surprise for everyone involved?’

  ‘You did it on purpose?’

  ‘Our friend Mr Preston has form for drugs and knife crime. You said Murray was being leant on by drug dealers from Manchester who cut his face.’ Finnie held up both palms. ‘Hardly rocket science is it?’

  ‘But they threatened to kill Kevin Murray’s kids!’

  ‘You just get Steve Preston into room three and let me worry about that.’

  ‘Actually, sir,’ said Pirie, ‘I was kinda hoping to sit in on the interview—’

  ‘You’ve got more important things to do.’ The Detective Chief Inspector was on his feet and heading for the door. ‘We’ve got a drugs war on its way and a caravan full of automatic weapons. I will not have a bunch of incomers turning my city into downtown Basra.’

  ‘Don’t play stupid with me,’ Finnie leant on the tabletop and glowered at the prisoner, ‘we know you did it.’

  Logan got the feeling Steve Preston wasn’t playing stupid at all, he was the real deal.