Blind Eye

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘If you’ve—’

  ‘Just wanted to have a quick word about Ricky Gilchrist.’

  ‘You…’ Logan trailed off. Not what he’d been expecting. ‘Ricky Gilchrist?’

  ‘Yeah: thought I’d keep you up to date, as we’ve not talked since you went off to Poland.’ Diplomatically ignoring the fact that they’d just spoken thirty seconds ago. ‘I’ve been working with Gilchrist since his arrest – made some very real progress. Fascinating character.’

  Logan pulled the Post-it notes out of their pattern, stacking them back into a block as the psychologist droned on.

  ‘This morning he remembered a story his dad used to tell about how Ricky’s great grandmother abandoned three kids and ran off with a Polish airman during World War Two. Isn’t it strange how something all those years ago can echo through people? Generations of bitterness, all distilled into Ricky Gilchrist. Can you imagine being spoon-fed that your whole life?’

  ‘And that’s why he did it?’

  ‘Well, there’s going to be more to it than that, but it’s a great start, don’t you think?’

  ‘You helped Gilchrist, so you can help me. That supposed to be the idea?’ Logan mashed his eyes with the palm of his free hand. ‘You keep leaving messages.’

  ‘Of course, we’ve had another Oedipus victim since he was arrested, so it’s all got a bit complicated. Gilchrist now claims he’s got thirteen disciples, and they’re the ones carrying on His Holy Work.’

  Logan took one last drag, then ground the stub out on the bonnet. ‘I want you to leave me alone. I don’t need any help.’

  ‘It’s possible he’s been working with an accomplice, but I doubt it: Gilchrist’s not the type. He’s a fantasist, I think he’s just been taking the credit.’

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  Pause. ‘It’s called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Let me guess: you’ve got problems sleeping? Nightmares? A heightened feeling of anxiety? You’re irritable, have difficulty concentrating, feel numb? It’s perfectly natural. And I know you don’t want to hear it right now, but you don’t have to feel this way. Talking about it will help.’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about. I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t have to decide right now. Just think about it. I’m free tomorrow – well, I’ll be working on the revised Oedipus profile, but I’d appreciate your help?’

  Logan hung up on him again.

  52

  Logan parked on the street outside DI Steel’s house, and sat there, waiting for the inspector to turn up in her little sports car. Sunshine danced across the road and pavement, filtering through the leaves of ancient beech trees.

  A voice from the Fiat’s boot: ‘OK, my turn. I spy with my little eye, something beginning with S.T.’

  ‘Spare Tyre. Again.’

  There was a gurgling roar and Steel pulled up on the street in front of him. She had the roof down on her car, her hair whipped up into an asymmetric shambles. She hopped out, dug a tatty carrier bag out of the passenger-side footwell, then marched over to the garage and hauled open the heavy red door.

  Logan reversed his manky Fiat up the drive and into the gloomy interior.

  It was a glory hole of cardboard boxes, random tools and half-empty tins of paint encrusted with emulsion tears.

  Steel hauled the garage door down, flicked on the overhead light, then marched round and opened the Fiat’s boot. A little flurry of rusty snowflakes fell on the curled up figure of Rory Simpson, hands still cuffed behind his back.

  ‘Hokey Cokey time, Rory.’ She held up a tatty carrier bag. ‘Stick your left leg out.’

  ‘Give me a minute … Ow … Ooh … Eee…’

  ‘We haven’t got all sodding day!’ Steel grabbed Rory’s right ankle and pulled.

  ‘AAAAAGH!’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Pins and needles.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a Jessie.’ She yanked down Rory’s sock, then dug an electronic tag out from the plastic bag, wrapped it around his ankle, and Logan fastened it with the special pliers, making sure it was on nice and tight. Steel gave the thing a good tug, just in case.

  ‘Ow! Not so rough.’ Rory rolled to the lip of the boot and struggled there until Logan grabbed a double handful of brown corduroy jacket and hauled him out. He limped a couple of paces, then stopped. ‘Still don’t see why this is necessary.’

  ‘Then you’re dafter than you look.’ Steel slammed the hatchback shut and more rust escaped. ‘Only way that tag’s coming off is if your foot goes with it. You go more than twenty yards from this house and a wee man with a big computer will tell me exactly where you are. And after I’ve beaten the living crap out of you, I’ll drag you down to the station by your one remaining bollock.’

  ‘But…’ Rory looked down at his crotch, then back up at Steel. ‘I’ve got two testicles.’

  ‘No’ when I’ve finished with you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Steel shoved him towards the plain wooden door in the side wall. ‘And if you do anything to upset my wife, if you so much as think about wee kiddies, or fucking sneeze out of place, I’ll do for you. Understand?’

  The dishwasher gurgled in one corner of the kitchen, cleaning up after a microwaved lunch of leftover macaroni cheese and oven chips. Then they had a pot of tea on the breakfast bar, with a plate of chocolate digestives. All very civilized.

  They drank in silence, Rory dipping his chocolate biscuits in his tea before methodically licking all the topping off with a yellowy slug-like tongue.

  Steel wrinkled her nose, then turned to Logan. ‘So come on, Sherlock, how did you find him?’

  ‘You said he was a creature of habit, so he was bound to turn up at that primary school sooner or later. All I had to do was wait.’

  ‘Really?’ Rory sagged. ‘Didn’t think I was so predictable.’

  Steel took the plate of digestives away from him. ‘You smell like a hoor’s armpit too.’

  ‘Been living rough – sleeping in people’s sheds, public toilets … that kind of thing. Can’t say it’s a lifestyle I’d recommend.’ He raised an arm and sniffed his own armpit. ‘Is it really that bad?’

  ‘Worse. There’s a guest bathroom upstairs; take a shower before we all suffocate.’

  ‘But I don’t have any clean—’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She gave him an evil smile. ‘I’ll find you something to wear.’

  Rory looked at himself in the mirror. Frowned. Then pulled at the lemon-yellow sweatshirt DI Steel had given him. ‘Are you sure you don’t have anything else?’

  Logan smiled. ‘I think it suits you.’

  ‘But…’ He pulled at the sweatshirt again. A big pink triangle sat in the middle of the chest, with the words, ‘OUT, LOUD, GAY AND PROUD!’ reversed out of it. A pair of pastel-pink jogging bottoms finished off the ensemble, one leg ruffled up over the electronic tag attached to his ankle. ‘But I’m not gay. What if people think I’m gay?’

  Steel smacked him over the back of the head. ‘You’re a sodding paedophile! World would be a happier place if you’d been born gay. And what’s with the face?’

  Rory was bright red, double chins wobbling in time with his bottom lip. ‘I don’t like the “P” word, it’s … it’s horrible.’

  ‘If you don’t like it, you shouldn’t interfere with little girls, should you?’ She took a handful of yellow sweatshirt and frogmarched him to the door. ‘Come on, Gaylord. Time to sing for your supper.’

  ‘God,’ said Steel, lying on the couch, grey-socked feet dangling over the arm, ‘why’s it taking so long?’

  They’d decamped to the living room, Logan and Rory working at the coffee table while the inspector slumped about like a badly designed cat. ‘They built the sodding pyramids quicker than this!’

  Rory licked his lips. ‘Well, maybe if I had a little smackerel of something wet it would help? Like a brandy…?’

  ‘When you’re finish
ed.’ She lifted her head and scowled at him. ‘Now get back to work, or you’ll get a swift snifter of my boot up your backside.’

  Logan went through every combination of nose, eyebrows, ears, mouth and chin the e-fit software had, until they finally came up with two faces. One was angular, with a broad forehead, the hair receding at the front and shoulder-length at the back. The other had hard eyes, a nose that listed to the left, and short grey hair.

  ‘You’re sure?’ said Logan, mouse hovering over the ‘SAVE’ button.

  ‘Hmm… Well … maybe… No. This one had a scar or something, on his chin. About…’ he leant forward and tapped the screen, ‘there.’

  Logan selected a scar from the menu and moved it into place. ‘Like that?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Rory hopped down from his chair, and struck an I’m-A-Little-Teapot pose in his lemon and pink ensemble. ‘And now, His Royal Gay-For-A-Dayness demands a brandy!’

  Steel peeled herself off the couch. ‘We’ll see if you deserve one first.’ She loomed over Logan’s shoulder and squinted at the e-fits. ‘Recognize them?’

  He closed the laptop with a small click. ‘I think we’re all going to need a drink.’

  ‘You took your sodding time!’ Steel scowled at Detective Constable Rennie as he hobbled into the kitchen, bent under the weight of a massive, lumpy holdall.

  He dumped it on the floor. ‘Any chance of a cuppa? I’m parched.’

  ‘Do I look like a sodding char lady?’ She hoiked a thumb at the kettle. ‘You know where it is.’

  Logan nudged the holdall with his foot. It rattled. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Videos and DVDs. And for your information, I got here as soon as I could.’ Rennie filled the kettle from the tap. ‘You only called half an hour ago. Takes that long to find a sodding parking space.’

  The inspector peered at the bag. ‘Videos, eh? Better no’ be porn… Is it porn? If it’s porn you can leave it here.’

  ‘It’s not porn, it’s CCTV footage and you’re welcome to it.’ He stuck a teabag in a clean mug. ‘Anyone else want one?’

  Steel stood. ‘Who knows you’re here?’

  ‘No one: Secret Squirrel all the way. They think I’m off questioning security guards about the Sperminator case. Mind you, Beattie isn’t happy about it. Bastard thinks I’ve got nothing better to do than run about after his beardy arse all day. Rennie, do this; Rennie, do that; like I’m his bloody sidekick!’

  ‘Boo hoo.’ She grabbed her car keys from a pegboard by the fridge, then shouted, ‘RORY!’

  A muffled voice came from somewhere upstairs: ‘I’m in the toilet.’

  ‘A NICE CONSTABLE’S HERE TO LOOK AFTER YOU. DON’T SOD HIM ABOUT!’

  The sound of flushing. ‘OK.’

  ‘AND PUT THE BLOODY SEAT DOWN THIS TIME!’

  Clunk.

  Rennie went for another rummage in the cupboards. ‘If you’re going back to the ranch, Finnie’s looking for you.’ He emerged with a packet of Jaffa Cakes. ‘Tell you, ever since that bloody drugs bust on Friday he’s been insufferable.’

  ‘OK, first off,’ said Logan, ‘since when did you start using words like, “Insufferable”?’

  ‘Emma says I need to improve my vocabulary if—’

  ‘And second: what drug bust?’

  ‘Big consignment of heroin from Leeds. Couple of old farts in a motor home packed with the stuff. Been dropping off consignments for dealers every couple-hundred miles. Finnie caught them making a delivery to our friendly neighbourhood Triads.’

  Logan frowned. ‘He did?’

  ‘Aye, Metropolitan Police and SOCA are going mental: been trying to crack that supply chain for three years. Finnie’s so full of himself it’s not real!’

  Steel grabbed Logan and dragged him towards the door. ‘All right, that’s enough of the Frog-Face Appreciation Society. We’ve got work to do.’

  ‘And you’re sure about this, are you?’ Detective Chief Superintendent Bain sat back against the windowsill in his office, arms crossed.

  Logan nodded and laid the e-fits side by side on the DCS’s desk. ‘Positive.’ He poked the picture with the receding mullet. ‘That’s the man who shot at us in Torry.’

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘I can’t be a hundred per cent, but I think it’s the man we were warned about in Poland. Just before the… Well…’ He coughed. Tried not to fidget. One leg starting to tremble. ‘The … em … The only photo I saw was about forty years old. But…’ Shrug. ‘Maybe. The eyes are right.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Vadim Mikhailovitch Kravchenko. Worked for the Secret Police in Krakow and Nowa Huta under the Communists: torturing dissidents. Word is he’s freelancing for Warsaw gangsters now.’

  ‘Hmm…’ Bain ran a thoughtful hand over his shiny head. ‘Inspector?’

  ‘Makes sense. Been hearing rumours of Eastern Europeans trying to muscle their way in for ages. Simon McLeod won’t play nice, so they carve his eyes out and burn the holes. Same crap they’ve been pulling back home since the seventies. It’s no’ revenge, it’s a warning to everyone else.’

  ‘Right.’ The DCS picked up his phone and started to dial. ‘Let’s get Finnie in here and—’

  Logan stabbed his finger down on the cut-off button. ‘Actually, sir, it might be better to keep this low-key.’

  Bain stared at him. ‘Sergeant McRae, I understand you’ve been through a lot recently, but DCI Finnie needs to be here.’

  ‘You can’t—’

  ‘One: he’s in charge of the Oedipus investigation. And Two: until DI McPherson gets back from sick leave, Finnie’s looking into that caravan full of guns.’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with—’

  ‘They finished processing all the prints from our weapons cache. The fingerprint recovered from that empty shell casing at the Krakow General Store matches latents on weapons and the caravan. If you’ve got an ID, he needs to know.’ Bain looked down at the phone, then up at Logan again. ‘Now move your finger.’

  ‘We…’ Logan licked his lips. ‘I think Finnie’s dirty.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous—’

  ‘I saw him taking a brown envelope from one of Wee Hamish’s goons. I-C-One male: green hair, spots, late teens, early twenties.’

  Steel whistled. ‘Johnny Urquhart? Thought he was still in borstal?’

  Bain put the phone down. ‘Are you seriously accusing Detective Chief Inspector Finnie of taking bribes from Hamish Mowat?’

  Silence.

  ‘I know what I saw.’

  ‘Finnie’s got the highest rate of drug busts in the force, he’s like a sniffer dog. Last week: three-quarters of a million in heroin from that motor home case. If he’s on the take, why does he arrest so many people?’

  ‘I don’t know … maybe he’s overcompensating?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Steel, ‘and how comes he drives that crappy Mondeo? It’s an estate, for God’s sake.’

  DCS Bain shook his head. ‘I don’t see it.’

  ‘Well … what about Rory Simpson? He said he heard a police officer talking to Kravchenko when they wrecked his flat, and—’

  ‘Sergeant McRae, I will not let Polish gangsters run amok in my city, just because a wanted paedophile is feeling a little paranoid. Now I gave you considerable leeway in allowing you to keep Rory Simpson at DI Steel’s house, but enough is enough. If we don’t nip this in the bud, we’re looking at all-out gang warfare. With machine guns!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I said no, Sergeant.’

  ‘This is stupid!’ Logan’s voice was getting louder and louder. ‘You have to—’

  ‘No I don’t!’ Bain was on his feet, leaning on the desk. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if you’re really ready to come back to work.’

  Logan opened his mouth, but Steel slapped a hand down on his arm before he could speak.

  ‘Tell you what, Laz,’ she said, ‘why don’t you go get
us all a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘I don’t want a—’

  ‘Cup of coffee then. Rowie with jam. Photo of Gloria Hunniford with her boobs hanging out. I don’t care, just sod off for ten minutes.’

  ‘Fine.’ Logan stood and stomped out. Slamming the door behind him.

  He kept up the strop all they way out to the rear podium car park, then sparked up a cigarette in the last remaining square of early evening sunlight. Five to five and people were heading back to the station. Beat officers wandering up the steps from street level, patrol cars and CID Vauxhalls competing for Aberdeen’s daily ‘Who Can Park The Worst’ award.

  Logan smoked his cigarette right down to the stub, grunting and nodding hellos at the people he knew. Ignoring those he didn’t. Brooding the whole time about DI Steel and DCS Bain. Probably up there working out how to get him permanently signed off on the sick.

  Indefinite leave, a sorry-to-see-you-go handshake, and a partial pension.

  He ground what was left of his cigarette into the tarmac with the toe of his shoe.

  Maybe it’d be for the best anyway. Sodding police force. Wasn’t as if it was a dream career was it? Getting shouted at, spat at, threatened … and that was just the senior officers, the bloody public were even worse.

  Screw the lot of them.

  He checked his watch. It’d been eleven minutes since he’d been banished. Time to go back upstairs and face the music.

  53

  He didn’t bother to knock, just pushed straight into Bain’s office. The head of CID was sitting behind his desk, scowling, mouth clenched like an angry chicken’s bum.

  But Steel smiled as Logan entered. ‘Ah, about time.’ She stood. ‘We’ll be off then. Don’t worry, Bill, you’ve made the right decision.’

  And as they left, Logan could have sworn he could hear the man grinding his teeth from the other side of the room.

  Steel led the way down to her own office, waiting until the door was closed before deflating like a week-old party balloon. ‘Dear God…’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You got any more fags on you?’ She waved her hands at him. ‘Come on, faster, faster.’