‘Well, she’s making little effigies of you out of Blu-Tack and whacking them in the balls with a stapler.’
Logan swigged back the last mouthful of tea, handed the empty mug to Rennie, and made for the garage. ‘Keep an eye on Rory this morning, OK? He’s feeling a bit delicate.’
He hauled the door up and slipped inside.
Rennie followed.
The crappy Fiat looked as if it had aged overnight; it was covered in a thin film of dust, fresh cobwebs stretching from the wing-mirrors to the windows.
‘This yours?’ Rennie wandered around Logan’s car, kicking the tyres. ‘Nice colour: looks like a motorized turd.’
‘It was cheap. And shut up.’ Logan climbed in behind the wheel. The key skittered around the ignition before finally going in. The engine started the long squealing grind into life. Then died.
Rennie leant on the roof and peered in through the driver’s window. ‘Want a push?’
‘Go away.’
‘Just being nice.’ He stood back as the Fiat’s engine finally resurrected itself with a loud backfire and a cloud of black smoke. ‘Jesus, this thing doesn’t need a push, it needs a decent burial.’ He waved a hand in front of his face, coughing. ‘And before I forget: someone’s waiting for you at the station. Woman called Branding?’
‘Branding?’
‘Branding, Branson? Something like that. Blonde, pretty, about this tall, nice boobs. Got a little dog in a stupid-looking coat?’
Wonderful. As if today wasn’t going to be bad enough.
She was pacing up and down in reception, picking the varnish off her scarlet nails. The terrier scurried along in her wake, wagging its tail, and sniffing the passers-by. Today the dog was wearing pastel blue with lime-green diamonds, as if it was heading off for a round of golf later.
All the interview rooms were in use, so Logan steered her through the front doors and out into the sunshine.
She peered up and down the street. ‘Can we not go somewhere private?’
‘Still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.’
‘A whole hour I’ve been waiting!’ She stooped and picked up her Westie, clutching it to her chest. ‘What if someone sees me talking to you?’
‘Hilary: what – do – you – want?’
‘It’s…’ She looked at her dog, a passing car, the strange little shop across the road with its windows jammed full of shoes and boots and jackets and hats. Everywhere but at Logan. ‘You have to let Colin go.’
‘No I don’t.’ He hopped down from the wall and started walking back towards the station. ‘Bye, Hilary.’
‘Wait!’ She grabbed his arm. ‘It wasn’t him; he wasn’t even there. He was … He was with me.’
‘It’s an offence to give a false alibi, you know that don’t you? Attempting to pervert the course of justice: look what happened to your mum-in-law.’
‘It’s not a false anything, we were together, OK?’ A blush raced all the way up from her cleavage to her forehead. ‘Simon was still in hospital and we… It was…’ Silence.
‘Your husband’s in hospital with his eyes gouged out and you’re at home shagging his brother?’
She let go of Logan’s sleeve, turned away. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘How long’s it been going on?’
‘You can’t tell anyone. He’ll kill me if he finds out. And I don’t mean figuratively: I mean he’ll kill me.’
Logan gave her a small round of applause, and she stared at him.
‘Got to hand it to you, Hilary: that was a great performance. “He’ll kill me!” Classic. You should try for tears next time though, give it a bit of realism.’
‘It’s true!’
‘No it’s not. You’re lying to get Colin out of prison. You McLeods are all the bloody same. If he was with you all night, playing hide the sausage, why did he have a hammer in his garage with Harry Jordan’s blood on it?’
‘Because … That was from before, when…’ She went back to staring at the shop across the road. ‘When he did Harry’s knees.’
‘So you’re saying Colin crippled him, but didn’t go back for seconds?’
Hilary laughed, short and bitter. ‘If he had, Harry wouldn’t be a coma, he’d be in a coffin.’
Logan ran a hand across his stubbly chin. ‘I still can’t believe you’re having an affair with Creepy Colin McLeod.’
‘Six years, off and on. It was … Simon’s not the easiest man to live with. People always think gangsters are all violence and virile, but he’s…’ Her eyes sparkled, rimmed in red. ‘Thank God for Viagra, eh?’
‘Well—’
‘He wakes up screaming in the middle of the night now. Ever since…’
Logan put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on, we’ll go inside. You can make a statement and—’
‘No! No statements!’ She clutched her scabby dog even tighter and the thing barked at Logan. ‘I told you: he’ll kill me!’
‘What’s the point of giving Colin an alibi if you won’t do it properly?’
‘Can’t you just … you know: investigate, or something? If it wasn’t Colin it must’ve been someone else. That’s who you should be doing for attempted murder. Not him!’
56
The CID office was empty except for Logan and a single bluebottle. It buzzed and battered against the window, then disappeared up behind the Venetian blind, the plastic amplifying the noise. According to the duty whiteboard by the door, everyone else was off on a job: burglaries, muggings, fire raising, drug dealing, assaults, prostitution. The whole colourful pageant of big city life.
Logan made himself a cup of tea and slumped behind his desk. The paperwork had backed up while he’d been off on the sick, piles of forms, reports, spreadsheets and statistics all needing urgent attention so some government idiot could pretend they were tough on crime…
But really Logan was just hiding from DI Steel.
And besides, how much of an idiot did Hilary Brander think he was? Having an affair with Creepy Colin McLeod? Who was she kidding? Everyone knew the man had a hard-on for junky prostitutes. She wasn’t even a good liar.
Logan took a mouthful of tea, looked at his pile of paperwork, sniffed, then made a start.
Half an hour later he unearthed a padded envelope addressed to ‘DETECTIVE SERGEANT LOGAN MCRAE, GRAMPIAN POLICE, FORCE HEADQUARTERS, QUEEN’S STREET, ABERDEEN, SCOTLAND’ in a child’s painstaking block capitals.
He fought his way through the straightjacket of Sellotape and poured the contents onto his desk: photocopied bits of paper in Polish and Russian. Rafal Gorzkiewicz’s file on the man who blinded him: Vadim Mikhailovitch Kravchenko.
There was even a copy of the army photograph they’d seen at the flat. Rory’s e-fit had been spot on. Kravchenko hadn’t changed much. Obviously he was older and had a few more wrinkles, but other than that he was exactly the same, right down to the scar on his chin.
‘Still alive then?’
‘Hmm?’ Logan swivelled his chair.
DS Pirie was standing in the doorway, running a hand through his curly red hair. ‘Not seen Rennie have you?’
Logan picked a pile of burglary reports from the pile and dumped them on top of the Kravchenko file, burying it from view. ‘No. Well, not since this morning. Think he’s off questioning security guards for DI Steel again. Or something.’
‘Ah… Finnie’s not going to like that. He’s already pissed off she’s got you assigned full time. Says it’s pandering to the sick-note culture: we should all be thrown in at the deep end, not mollycoddled.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘If this was the First World War, he’d probably have you taken outside and shot.’ Pirie settled back against the door frame. ‘Seriously though: you OK?’
‘Why does everyone keep asking that?’
‘Only you look like a pile of shite with a hangover.’
Logan stiffened. ‘I’ve got a cold
!’
The DS snorted. ‘Yeah, good luck with that. Might work better if you eat a pack of Lockets though, menthol might cover the smell of stale booze.’ He pulled himself upright. ‘We all know Beattie’s going to screw up sooner or later. And when he does, they’ll bust his beardy arse back to sergeant, and that DI’s post will be up for grabs again. Twenty quid says I get it.’
‘Make it thirty.’
Pirie nodded. ‘Be a pleasure taking your money, McRae.’ Then he was off, dragging out his mobile phone and shouting at someone on the other end.
Logan listened until Pirie’s voice faded away down the corridor.
Silence.
He unearthed the Kravchenko file again. It was all still gobbledygook, but right at the bottom was a sheet of pale-violet notepaper, covered in the same childish handwriting as the address on the envelope.
‘DEAR MR SERGEANT,
UNCLE RAFAL IS SORRY YOU ARE BLOWNUP. HE SAYS THIS WAS AXIDENT ACCIDENT MEANT FOR BAD MENS WITH GUN WHO TRY KILL UNCLE RAFAL. HE HAPPY YOU STILL ALIVE. I HAPPY YOU STILL ALIVE ALSO. THIS IS COPY OF FILE ON KURWA MAC KRAVCHENKO. IF YOU FIND HIM, PLEASE TO KILL HIM AND SEND ME PHOTOGRAPH. THANK YOU.
LOVE, ZYTKA X
P.S. UNCLE RAFAL SAYS THERE IS BOAT GO TO WHERE YOU LIVE WITH MANY GUN FOR KRAVCHENKO. IT CALLED “BUCKIE BALLAD” AND IT GO ABERDEEN 15 JULY.
P.P.S. PLEASE TO REMEMBER PHOTOGRAPH.’
Logan sat back in his seat and whistled. A boatload of weapons on their way to Aberdeen… Probably replacements for the ones they’d found in that caravan in Stoneywood. Finnie wasn’t going to like that, and neither was his paymaster: Wee Hamish Mowat. An all-out drug war was getting closer, and a lot of innocent people were going to get caught in the crossfire.
But the worst part of all was that Logan would have to go speak to DI Steel. The inspector was in her office, glowering at her computer screen as Logan entered – bearing two cups of coffee and a peace offering from the canteen. ‘Got you a bacon buttie.’
She looked at the tinfoil-wrapped parcel and sniffed. ‘You were a complete shite last night.’
He settled into a visitors’ chair. ‘If you’re not hungry, I can give it to someone else.’
She snatched it up. ‘Didn’t say that, did I?’
He watched her tear into the thing, tomato sauce making a bid for freedom at the side of her mouth, then unwrapped his own mid-morning cholesterol treat. A booby-trap buttie: two fried eggs in a buttered roll, ready to explode yolk all over the place
They ate in silence for a minute, then Logan pulled out his notebook, flipping though it with floury fingers to the correct page. ‘Buckie Ballad. It’s a fishing boat registered out of Peterhead, belongs to one Gerry McKee. It’s been out at sea since last Tuesday, due back early Friday morning.’
Steel washed down a chunk of buttie with a mouthful of coffee. ‘Big deal. This is Aberdeen: fishing boats come and go the whole time.’
‘Not with a hold full of ex-Soviet weaponry they don’t.’
She stopped, halfway into a bite. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’ He dropped a clear evidence pouch onto her desk: Zytka’s note. ‘I spoke to the Harbour Master this morning – the Buckie Ballad always comes into port when there’s nobody about. I got him to go through the surveillance footage of its last visit and he’s got blokes unloading fish boxes in the dead of night, straight into the back of an unmarked Transit Van.’
Steel picked up the note and peered at it. ‘A boat full of guns? Bloody, God-damned, bastarding…’ She frowned, polished off her buttie, then sucked at her teeth for a minute. ‘Number plate on the van?’
‘Image is too grainy.’
‘You’re dripping egg yolk on my desk.’ She swivelled back and forth on her chair, while Logan mopped the wrinkly yellow drops up with his thumb. ‘Right, who else knows about this?’
‘Just you and me. And that’s two quid you owe the swear box.’
‘Oh … bloody hell!’ She was scowling again. ‘I was swearing all day yesterday, how come you didn’t whinge then?’
‘Wasn’t on duty. And it’s two fifty, now: I’ll let you off with the “hell”.’
They spent the next twenty minutes working out Operation Creel on the whiteboard, then Steel got Logan to type up everything and get rid of the evidence while she went to the toilet. He was wiping the board clean by the time she got back. Everything else was done: requisition forms, risk assessment, contingency plan, and warrant application. She shuffled through the lot, then wandered off to look for the head of CID.
Logan didn’t tell her there was nearly a foot of toilet paper sticking out of the back of her trousers.
There was no point just sitting there waiting for her, so he wandered outside for a cigarette. A clump of uniforms had gathered on the rear podium, laughing and drinking tea, so Logan went out the front instead, wandering down Queen Street, listening to the rumble of traffic, and the screech of seagulls.
He pulled out his cigarettes, but his fingers were so twitchy the damn things went everywhere. Half a packet, all over the pavement at his feet. No way he was smoking those now.
Stupid bloody habit anyway. Wasn’t even as if he enjoyed it.
He carefully winkled the last remaining cigarette from the packet and stuck it in his mouth. Then reached into his jacket pocket for his lighter. He scritched the wheel, but nothing happened. Tried again. Gave the lighter a shake. This time sparks burst from the lighter’s tip, tiny explosions, bright and painful, then there was flame.
Logan shivered.
Closed his eyes.
Listened to the thump and swirl of the blood in his veins.
Wrinkled his nose at a sudden, pissy smell.
‘Are you no’ needin’ them then?’
Logan peered out at a dishevelled man: swollen nose, red eyes, bushy black beard; monk-tonsure bald patch; blue parka jacket with half the fur trim missing; trousers that had seen better days and some sort of curry, going by the stains; filthy grey trainers. Robert Danavell, AKA: Dirty Bob.
‘What do you want, Bob?’
Karim’s favourite tramp gave Logan a gap-toothed smile. ‘Yer fags.’ He pointed at the fallen cigarettes with a grimy finger. ‘You no’ needin’ them oany mair?’
‘Knock yourself out.’
‘Ah, cheers min, yer a fine loon.’ Dirty Bob creaked his way down to his knees. ‘No’ like that fat bugger yesterday. Tellin’ me I’m stinkin’ up his reception. Me! Wie ma best pal lyin’ deid in the morgue…’
Logan watched him picking through the gutter. It wasn’t much of a life, but at least Dirty Bob knew what mattered to him: drink, fags and the occasional half-eaten fish supper, or discarded kebab – whatever he could forage from the bins.
No life-or-death decisions. No moral or ethical dilemmas. No screaming heebie jeebies, just because some stupid song comes on the radio.
It probably said something about your life when you started envying people like Dirty Bob.
Bob was sitting on the pavement now, one of the windfall cigarettes clamped between his lips, patting round his pockets until he found a little book of matches. Lighting up with a sad little smile on his face. He looked up at Logan. ‘Kin yeh spare oany money fer an aul mannie tae have a wee drink tae his best mate’s memory?’
‘Aul mannie? You’re forty-two Bob, not seventy.’
Dirty Bob shrugged. ‘Aye, but forty-two’s a lot older in tramp years. Lookit poor Richard.’ He sniffed and wiped a sleeve across his nose, leaving a clean-ish streak. ‘Deid afore his time…’
Half past ten. Some of the pubs down on Regent Quay would have been open for hours, catering for the nightshift crowd and early morning drinkers. Tempting. Logan produced his wallet and dug out a fiver. Then changed his mind and made it a twenty instead. ‘Here.’
Dirty Bob eyed it suspiciously. Then grinned and grabbed the note. ‘Aye, that’ll dae Richard proud.’ He grunted his way upright, threw Logan
a salute, then turned and hobbled away in his filthy trainers.
Twenty quid wouldn’t make a dent in a seasoned alcoholic like Dirty Bob, not in a pub anyway. But it would probably buy a whole load of white spirit.
Logan ran a hand across his chin, feeling the stubble scritch. Maybe Bob had the right idea, burying his troubles in a bottle. Fuck the outside world. Make everything go away…
If nothing else it might get rid of his hangover.
Logan wandered out onto Union Street, across the road, and down Marischal Street towards the docks. The Regents Arms was a dingy little place, the windows covered with a thick layer of black paint, entombing the drinkers in dim, artificial light. After the brightness of a sunny morning it was like stepping into a tomb. A collection of apostrophes hung behind the bar – postcards, photographs, plastic ones stolen from shop signs, all there to make up for the missing one in the pub’s name.
The place was almost empty. Two old men sat in the corner by the cigarette machine, nursing their pints. A haggard woman in a very short black skirt was hunched up on a bar stool, wrapped around an empty glass, a cigarette smouldering away in her hand. Skin pale as milk, blue veins visible in the depths of her cleavage. She looked up as Logan took a seat at the other end of the bar and smiled at him. At least she’d remembered to put her teeth in.
‘Hey, sweetheart, you look lonely.’
‘Not today, Carol.’
She squinted, then dug about in her handbag for a pair of scratched glasses. ‘Aw fuck.’ She raised her voice. ‘It’s the pigs!’ The two old men didn’t seem to care, so she waved her cigarette at Logan, and a flurry of ash fell across the bar. ‘What, you going to arrest me for smoking a fag? Eh? Not got anything better to do?’
He shrugged. ‘Carol, I couldn’t give a fuck if you want to shoot-up right here. Be my guest.’
A pot-bellied barman poked his head out from the back room. ‘What’s all the…’ He looked at Logan, shifted from foot to foot, then turned on the ageing prostitute. ‘You can’t smoke in here, it’s against the law.’
She looked daggers at Logan, then dropped the cigarette into her empty glass, swirling the thing around until it fizzled out in the residue of dying ice cubes. ‘Happy now? Bloody fascists.’
Blind Eye Page 36
