Blind Eye

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan looked around, but there was no sign of Hoodie Number One. ‘Please tell me you didn’t let him get away.’

  ‘I didn’t … I didn’t let anyone … anything…’

  ‘How could you let him get away?’

  ‘He … he was … he was wearing trainers…’

  ‘Oh you’re…’ Logan closed his eyes and swore. ‘Trainers? That’s it? He was wearing trainers?’

  The firearms officer slapped his bullet-proof vest, jiggled his Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. ‘You got any … any idea … how much this … crap … weighs?’ Wheeze, cough. He waved his helmet in Logan’s face. ‘And it’s all black! I’m … sodding melting here…’

  ‘Oh … bloody hell.’ Logan grabbed a bottle of Polish mineral water from the upturned chiller cabinet and handed it to the sweaty officer. ‘Here.’

  The man unscrewed the top and drank deep.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘The little sod disappeared on Abbey Place – tried to follow him, but there was no sign. Must be miles away by now.’

  Logan glanced back at Finnie; the DCI was still on the phone, moaning about how long it was going to take the Identification Bureau to get its grubby Transit Van up here. Then he snapped his mobile shut, and Logan gave him the bad news.

  Finnie kicked a packet of washing powder. ‘Why am I surrounded by morons? Did I tick the wrong bloody box for room service? I wanted scrambled eggs on toast, but they delivered a family-sized bag of idiots!’

  The firearms officer threw his empty plastic bottle on the floor. ‘It wasn’t my fault! He was—’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you just shoot him?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Do you think we give you lot guns for a laugh? And you,’ Finnie jabbed a finger in Logan’s direction, ‘why did I hear automatic fire from your team?’

  Logan nodded at the officer who’d accompanied him on the chase. ‘Ask Rambo here.’

  ‘Yeah?’ The constable stuck out his chest. ‘At least I managed to get a shot off. Unlike some people.’

  ‘My gun was jammed!’

  ‘Your head was jammed. Jammed right up your arse!’

  Finnie threw his hands in the air. ‘ENOUGH!’

  Silence.

  ‘And what exactly do we have to show for this afternoon’s little fiasco? Two officers in hospital; one shopkeeper with a knife in his belly; two hoodies I can’t question because they’ve got concussion; and you…’ Finnie’s whole face twitched. ‘You useless bunch of pricks let everyone else get away!’

  No one would look him in the eye.

  The DCI pointed at the shop door. ‘Get out of my sight.’ But when Logan made a move Finnie grabbed him. ‘I’m not finished with you yet.’

  The two firearms officers sloped out of the shop, across the road, and back to their unmarked Transit Van. A seagull had decorated the windscreen. So Finnie wasn’t the only one shitting on them from a great height.

  As the van pulled away, the Chief Inspector sank back against the counter and folded his arms. ‘I expected better of you, McRae.’

  ‘And what exactly was I supposed to do?’

  ‘Shoot the bad guys! Why is that concept so difficult to understand?’

  ‘There was a kid in the line of fire. Can you imagine what the press would do to us if he’d got hit by accident?’

  Finnie opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. ‘Fair point.’ He scuffed the toe of his shoe through a small drift of washing powder. ‘Going to be bad enough as it is…’ A look of hope flickered across his face. ‘Don’t suppose you’re still friends with that journalist scumbag?’

  Logan shook his head. ‘They’re on holiday: three weeks in the Maldives. I’m watering the plants.’

  The hopeful look vanished. ‘Then we’re buggered.’

  30

  Back at the station things didn’t get any better. Half an hour after returning from the crime scene, Logan was summoned by Professional Standards. He sat outside Superintendent Napier’s office on a squeaky orange plastic seat, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Wondering how on earth he could put a positive spin on events.

  At least no one got shot this time. Maybe he could—

  His phone went into a fit of electronic apoplexy and he dragged it out. Frowned at the number. Then answered it. ‘McRae?’

  ‘Hello? Yes, right: you said I should call if anything came up?’

  Logan frowned. ‘I did?’

  ‘Father John Burnett? Used to be at Sacred Heart, now helping out at Saint Peter’s in the Castlegate? I’ve been worrying about your eternal soul.’

  Oh God.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Father, but I really don’t—’

  ‘I think you should come to confession.’

  ‘But I’m not a Catholic, I—’

  ‘Now would be a really good time, Sergeant. Trust me…’

  Logan loitered in the day chapel, examining a stained-glass interpretation of Aberdeen’s patron saints – most of whom now had a shopping centre named after them – while he waited for the handful of people to filter out from Thursday evening Mass. His mobile had gone off twice already, Inspector Napier’s depressingly familiar number appearing on the screen. Probably wanting to know why Logan wasn’t sitting outside the Professional Standards office, waiting to be shouted at.

  Logan switched the thing off and dropped it in his pocket.

  One wall of the day chapel was panelled in dark wood to about waist height, with lancet windows of clear glass above, and from here he could see straight into the main body of the church. An altar sat at the far end, in front of an ornately carved structure of gold-encrusted mahogany, spotlit against the plain white walls.

  The three banks of pews might sit four hundred but right now they were mostly empty. A grey-haired man sat in the centre row, head bowed in prayer, while Father Burnett and a little old lady sat off to one side. She was dressed in a thick winter jacket and woolly hat, even though it had to be at least twenty degrees outside, her hands working their way around a string of prayer beads.

  Finally the priest rose and made a religious-looking hand gesture. He was wearing a white robe, with what looked like a big inverted CND symbol on the front in red. Very fancy. He helped the little old lady to her feet. She patted his arm, then crabbed her way along the pews, bent nearly double under the weight of a Punch-and-Judy hump.

  Logan stepped through the door and into the body of the church.

  He passed the little old lady as she reached the aisle and started to shuffle towards the exit. She had the sour smell that came with clothes left in the washing machine for too long.

  Father Burnett stuck out his hand and Logan wasn’t sure if he was supposed to shake it or kiss it. He went for the former. ‘Thought you said they were packed to the rafters?’

  The priest shrugged. ‘Come back tomorrow. Today’s Mass is always in English, so we don’t get many Poles. Just the regulars, like Gladys.’ He pointed at the old lady lumbering slowly down the apse. ‘Poor old dear…’ He sniffed.

  ‘So … why the sudden interest in my soul?’

  Father Burnett pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, polished them on the hem of his vestments, then popped them on. ‘I want you to meet someone.’ He led Logan across to the centre bank of pews, then stood there until the man with the grey hair looked up. ‘Sorry to disturb your devotions, Marek, but this is Detective Sergeant Logan McRae.’

  The man stood, a crooked-teeth smile just visible through his thick grey moustache. ‘Please to meet you, Sergeant.’

  Logan looked at the priest, then back at the old man. ‘Er, likewise. I mean, dzień dobry.’

  ‘I was asking Marek here if anyone had complained of being attacked, or abused recently.’

  Marek nodded. ‘Tak: yes, there is man, tall with red hair and…’ He frowned at Father Burnett. ‘What is “pieg”?’

  ‘Freckle.’

 
‘Yes, is red hair and freckle. He wait outside after Mass sometimes, follow people home. I know one man who chase him away. Punched him on nose. He has not been back since this.’

  Logan got him to give a full description, copying it down into his notebook. ‘OK, well, I’ll need you to come down to the station and we’ll do an e-fit, so—’

  ‘And there is other man, who is sing in pub on machine?’ The old man checked with the priest again. ‘What is word?’

  ‘Karaoke.’

  ‘Oh … is same in Polish. Anyway, Karaoke man like to cause fight. Many, many people. Very drunk.’

  Logan made another note. ‘So he’s—’

  ‘Then is woman who work in shop for coffee. We know she spit in our drinks. We complain but no one does anything.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure she’s actually—’

  ‘Then is taxi driver who will not take Polish people. Says we are filthy. We drink too much and make sick in his car.’ Marek pulled a sheet of paper from his inside pocket. ‘There are others. I make list.’

  ‘Ah, right…’ Logan took it. ‘Thanks.’

  Marek shrugged. ‘If I can help, is good.’

  The priest gave the old man’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Thank you Marek, you’ve been a great help.’ And then the two of them shared an exchange in Polish, ending with what sounded like a dirty joke.

  The priest stood and watched the old man leave, still chuckling. Logan scanned the list of locals who didn’t like Polish people. There was a depressingly large number of them.

  ‘This is going to take forever.’

  ‘Not exactly welcoming is it?’ Father Burnett wandered over to a small door in the apse of the church. It opened on a little room with a threadbare burgundy carpet, a safe, an old kitchen table, and a rickety wardrobe. The priest pulled his vestments over his head and hung them up. ‘You asked if anyone had stopped coming to Mass. Well, I couldn’t think of anyone off the top of my head. It wasn’t until I spoke to Marek that I remembered.’

  He closed the wardrobe door. ‘Once upon a time, about twenty years ago, there was a man called Daniel Gilchrist. Daniel worked in the fish. He wasn’t a particularly nice man: he drank too much, and was occasionally a bit free with his affections and his fists, but he came to church every Sunday with his wife and son.’

  ‘This isn’t going to be one of those stories where you say it reminds you a bit of Jesus, is it?’

  ‘Daniel got cancer and had to stop working on the boats. By the time he died there was nothing left but bitterness, and tumours. I administered the last rites.’

  Logan leant against the wall. ‘Then I think we can safely eliminate him from our enquiries.’

  ‘His son kept up the family tradition. Every Sunday he’d be there at Sacred Heart with his mother.’ Father Burnett picked up a big spiky gold and silver thing – like a sunburst topped with a cross – from the table and wrapped it in a silk cloth. ‘Of course, I went off to Poland for a few years, but when I got back, there he was: still at his mother’s side, every Sunday. Then one day he just stopped coming.’ The priest opened the safe and slid the bundle inside, then locked it. ‘I think his mother fell ill, or something. Haven’t seen her since.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Logan took another run through Marek’s list. Probably best to start with the complaints of actual violence: get a team to identify the individuals and haul them in for questioning. Poke into their backgrounds.

  ‘Daniel’s son has red hair and freckles.’

  Who knew there would be so many racist shitheads in Aberdeen? ‘Can’t really arrest him for that.’

  ‘He’s the one who was following people home after Mass.’

  And now Father Burnett had Logan’s undivided attention. ‘When did he stop coming to church?’

  ‘Six months ago. Not long before we closed Sacred Heart for refurbishment.’

  Right about the time the Oedipus letters started.

  31

  Logan listened to Finnie’s mobile bleeping over to voicemail. He left a message as he marched across the Castlegate, making for FHQ. He tried the DCI’s office phone instead. No luck there either. According to the clock, perched high on the Town House tower, it was nearly half past six. By now the dayshift had been over for almost ninety minutes, and given the afternoon’s fiasco at the Krakow General Store, Finnie had probably given up and gone home.

  Or to the nearest pub. He’d been first in with Superintendent Napier and the other trolls from Professional Standards. God knew Logan would have needed a stiff drink after that.

  Maybe he should phone Pirie?

  But that DI’s position was coming up and it might not be a good idea to share the credit with someone after the same promotion. Assuming it wasn’t all just a waste of time. So he gave DI Steel a call. Let it ring three times. Changed his mind and hung up.

  Finnie wanted initiative. Logan could do initiative.

  He hurried back to Force Headquarters.

  Big Gary was on the front desk, chewing on a blue biro as he perused the duty roster. ‘Sodding sod-monkeys of Sod…’ He scribbled something in the book, then looked up to see Logan. ‘Oh no: tell me you’re just back because you forgot to sign out!’

  ‘I need a couple of uniform, got anyone spare?’

  The huge sergeant rolled his eyes. ‘You got any idea what you’re doing to my overtime calculations? I’m supposed to be—’

  ‘Rennie’ll do if he’s about.’

  ‘No. You can’t have anyone. We’re throwing a surprise party for some Yardies later, I need everyone making paper streamers and blowing up balloons.’

  ‘Come on, Gary. Just one. Don’t care who it is, as long as they can walk, talk, and chew gum at the same time.’

  ‘All three at once?’ His eyebrows shot up. ‘Jesus, you’re not asking for much, are you?’

  ‘An hour. Two, tops.’ Logan put on his best lost puppy face. ‘Please?’

  The big man sighed, his huge shoulders rising and falling, making his white shirt creak at the buttons. ‘All right, all right. You can have Guthrie. Just try to bring him back in one piece this time, OK?’

  ‘Cheers.’ Logan gave the reception area a shifty once over. PC Karim’s favourite tramp, Dirty Bob, was slumped in one of the corner seats fast asleep, a line of dribble disappearing into a thick mat of bushy black beard. Other than that they were alone. ‘You heard anything about this DI’s position coming up?’

  Big Gary scribbled something down in the roster. ‘Think you’re in with a chance, do you?’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘With your reputation?’

  ‘Oh ha, ha. Come on, what’ve you heard?’

  The sergeant leant across the desk, a roll of stomach annexing one corner of the day book. ‘Pirie’s odds on favourite, if you fancy a flutter? Or I can give you two to one on Beattie?’

  Logan wasn’t about to throw his money away. DS Beattie had more chance of being elected Miss World than making Detective Inspector. ‘What about me?’

  ‘Eighteen to one.’

  Logan pushed away from the reception desk. ‘You’re all a bunch of bastards, you know that?’

  ‘We do our best.’

  Guthrie poked his head over the balustrade and peered down at a bicycle chained up at the bottom of the stairwell. ‘How far you think it is?’ he asked. His voice still had a slightly bunged-up edge to it, but at least they’d taken the staple out of his nose. ‘Fifty feet? Sixty?’

  He howched, then spat. Watching the drop dwindle in size.

  Logan told him to stop spitting on other people’s bicycles.

  ‘Was just checking.’

  ‘Well, just don’t.’ Logan made sure they had the right address. A top-floor flat in a little block on Balnagask Road, part of a group of seven identical buildings overlooking off-green playing fields, East Tullos Industrial Estate, and the bracken-covered hill behind it.

  They’d sneaked into the block using
the services button, convincing a pregnant woman with a sticky child that they were there to check the fire extinguishers.

  Guthrie took one more peek over the handrail. ‘You sure we shouldn’t have a warrant? Armed backup? That kind of thing?’

  ‘We’re just going to ask a few questions.’ Logan pressed the bell. Nothing seemed to happen. ‘Besides, all we’re doing is following up a lead.’ And there was no way they’d have given him a firearms team after this afternoon’s disastrous showing at the Krakow General Store.

  Someone downstairs was listening to EastEnders: cockney accents drifting up the stairwell. The window-ledges were covered in drifts of junk mail advertising Stanna Stairlifts, over-fifties’ life insurance, and things to help you get in and out of the bath.

  Logan tried the bell again.

  Still nothing.

  Guthrie said, ‘Maybe he’s not in? We could—’

  ‘Shhhhh!’ Logan held up a finger. He stuck his ear to the door and after a short pause, the constable did the same. There was music playing inside, something with too much bass and not enough melody. The two of them stood like that for about a minute, and then a loud voice behind Logan made him jump.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He scrambled round to see a woman in her mid-fifties, hair dyed a fiery orange, greying at the roots and thinning at the crown. She was weighed down with shopping bags.

  ‘We … tried the bell,’ Logan pointed at it.

  ‘The bell doesn’t work.’ It was almost a shout. She looked them up and down, paying particular attention to PC Guthrie in his black uniform. ‘Are you Jehovah’s Witnesses, then?’

  ‘Er … no. We’re police officers.’

  ‘We’ve not had Jehovah’s Witnesses for ages. I think our Daniel scares them off. Of course, he’s dead now, but he wouldn’t let a little thing like that stop him.’ She rummaged in her handbag and produced a big bunch of keys, working her way through them until she found one that fitted in the front door lock. ‘Here we go.’

  The door opened on a small hallway. A rack full of fleeces and coats, an umbrella stand with three golf clubs in it. A picture of the Virgin Mary. One door led off to a bathroom, drowning in pink, the other through to a small kitchen/living room.