Blind Eye

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan ducked down again. ‘Haven’t seen him since I got here. I’ll go look—’

  ‘No! You stay where you are, you hear me? I’ll get a firearms team out there.’

  ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘No, no ideas!’

  Logan snuck back into the shadows, pulled his Airwave handset out of his pocket and clicked it on. The upper floor was almost symmetrical around the stairwell, blank offices on either side. He picked one at random – full of scaffolding poles, bags of cement, boxes of nails – and stuck the handset in the far corner, behind a stack of wooden two-by-fours.

  ‘Are you listening to me?’

  Logan crept out of the room and into the one opposite, pausing to grab a chunk of wood on the way. ‘Right,’ he said, flattening himself against the wall by the door, ‘call me on my Airwave thing.’

  ‘No chance. You want to get yourself killed? I’m no’ helping.’

  ‘Just call the bloody thing.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll get Rennie to do it.’

  There was a pause and some swearing, and then, ‘OK, OK. But you better get Susan pregnant for this…’

  Through in the other room, Logan’s Airwave handset started ringing: a high-pitched electronic warble, volume turned up full. He peered around the door frame. Come on, come on … Bingo. Grigor was charging up the stairs.

  Logan ducked back, listening to the big man’s footsteps on the concrete floor, then Grigor marched into the other office.

  Trying not to make any sound at all, Logan inched his way out into the corridor, clutching the length of wood like a baseball bat.

  Grigor was stalking across to the far corner, gun out, pointing at the sound of the ringing. When he got to the stack of two-by-fours he stopped, stood there for a moment, then peered into the corner.

  Logan waited for him to reach for the handset, then tried to take the bastard’s head off with the length of wood. It crashed into Grigor’s skull, just above his left ear and the big man went sprawling. The gun flew out of his hand, clanging into a neat pile of scaffolding poles.

  That should hold him…

  Oh God, he was getting up again.

  Grigor fought his way to his knees, and then to his feet. Logan smacked him in the head a second time, but he just staggered around, blood streaming from a three-inch gash in his forehead. ‘Moje jaja! Pierdolona sukinsyn…’

  ‘What the hell are you made of?’

  His face was all twisted up, teeth bared, hissing out obscenities in Polish as he scanned the floor for the gun. And then the big man lunged, going for the pile of poles.

  Logan swung the two-by-four again: missed. Grigor wasn’t just big, he was fast too. He was bent double throwing scaffolding poles left and right, hunting for the gun, his backside sticking up in the air. So Logan dropped the chunk of wood, took a run up, and did his best to kick the bastard’s testicles into orbit. It wasn’t quite as effective from the back, but it produced a high pitched squeal. If in doubt – go for the balls.

  Grigor collapsed face-first into the metal poles, one hand clutching his groin, the other still feeling for the gun.

  Logan picked up a scaffolding coupler from the pile – like a pair of heavy-duty handcuffs held together with swivelling bolts – about the same weight as a bag of sugar. ‘Hey, ugly!’

  ‘Kurwa mac …’ Grigor gave up on the gun and grabbed a length of scaffolding pole instead. He threw himself onto his back, swinging the pole hard and fast. It whistled past, a couple of inches from the end of Logan’s nose, clanged against the breeze block wall and bounced out of Grigor’s hand.

  Logan jumped on him, grabbed him by the throat, and smashed the scaffolding coupler off his forehead. THUNK. The skin broke, and a fine spray of blood misted out into the sunny afternoon.

  ‘You—’ Logan hit him again, ‘—are—’ And again, ‘—under —’ One last time for luck, ‘—arrest!’

  Logan sat back, breathing hard, the coupler heavy in his hand. Grigor wasn’t moving anymore. The big man’s head looked like a ruptured sausage, but at least he was still breathing.

  Logan rolled him into the recovery position, then handcuffed his hands behind his back. And then lurched off into the corner to throw up.

  68

  ‘You still alive? Hello? What the hell’s going on?’ DI Steel’s tinny voice rattled out of the phone as Logan slumped against the wall, breathing heavily. ‘Hello? Are you dead?’

  ‘No.’ He took out a fresh pair of latex gloves – struggled to pull them on over his trembling, blood-stained fingers – then bent down and picked up the gun. It was almost as heavy as the scaffolding coupler, but looked lot more dangerous. Black, scuffed and functional. Logan pressed the release button and slid the magazine out of the handle. Eighteen slugs of dull metal with shiny brass casings. He slapped the magazine back in place and hauled the slide back to cock it. Then made sure the safety was on. Three settings: one white dot, one red dot, and three red dots. Logan went for the white dot, hoping that meant the thing wasn’t going to suddenly go off at random and take some portion of his anatomy with it.

  Just in case, he wasn’t sticking it in the waistband of his trousers.

  ‘Right, I’m going to find Pirie and Wiktorja.’

  ‘Firearms team is on its way. Don’t do anything stupid, OK?’ He could hear her puffing and panting as she spoke, as if she was running or something.

  Logan took the stairs back down to the ground floor.

  ‘Thanks. Your confidence in me is really reassuring.’

  ‘Hey, I’m no’ the one let that bloody Polish tart into my house.’

  Logan scowled at the phone. ‘That “bloody Polish tart”, is a missing police officer!’

  ‘No she’s not. You said you knew—’

  ‘Wiktorja told me all about it, OK? They suspended her because of what happened when I was there. It wasn’t her fault.’

  The office unit had a single door at the back that opened out onto the warehouse structure. No more surprises. Logan snicked the safety catch from one white dot to one red dot. Then nudged the door open.

  ‘Don’t be a divvy.’ There was the sound of a car engine starting on the other end of the phone, swiftly followed by the wail of a police siren. ‘She wasn’t suspended, she was fired. Two years ago, for taking backhanders from some German crime lord called Ehrlichmann.’

  Logan froze. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard: she’s bent. And no’ in the good way.’

  ‘How can she be… But… No, she was there – Ehrlichmann’s goons shot her!’

  ‘I’m just telling you what her sergeant told me. She sabotaged a bunch of high-profile drug busts. Nearly went to prison for it.’

  ‘But they shot her…’

  A voice sounded behind him: ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  Logan spun around, the gun snapping up till it was inches away from DS Pirie’s nose. ‘What—’

  ‘Ah, Jesus!’ Pirie danced backwards, tripped over a drum of electrical cable and went crashing down onto his backside.

  ‘You moron.’ Logan lowered the gun. ‘I could’ve killed you!’

  ‘Fuck… Think I’ve just shat myself.’ The detective sergeant stuck out a hand and Logan pulled him to his feet. Pirie’s nose wrinkled. ‘What smells of puke?’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘What’s going on? Hello?’

  ‘It’s Pirie, he’s not dead.’

  ‘Tell him no’ to let you do anything stupid! He—’ Logan hung up on her. Then switched the phone off so she couldn’t call him back.

  Pirie brushed cement dust from his backside. ‘Where did you get the gun?’

  ‘Big Polish bloke called Grigor, works for Kravchenko. I bashed his head in with a scaffolding coupler.’

  Pirie’s face went even paler than normal. ‘Is he dead?’

  Logan put a hand on the door. ‘There’s a firearms team on its
way. You can stay here and wait for it, or you can come with me.’ He pushed through into the warehouse.

  The place was cavernous, just a big empty space with a freshly laid concrete floor. Piles of building equipment made little islands in the huge room, bathed in the sunlight that streamed in through a set of open roller doors.

  ‘Ah, Detective Sergeant, what take you so long?’ Kravchenko stepped out from behind a stack of dark orange I-beams, each one marked-up with chalk hieroglyphics. He was wearing a baggy linen suit and a white shirt. Even had a tie on. ‘Did you get lost, yes?’

  Logan pointed the gun right between the old man’s eyes. ‘Vadim Mikhailovitch Kravchenko, I am arresting you for the attempted murder of one Rory Simpson.’

  ‘I see…’ He smiled. ‘You have gun. OTs-33 Pernach: Russian, sturdy, like machine gun. Is good choice, but not so accurate I am thinking.’

  Logan took three steps forward. ‘Face-down on the ground, hands behind your head, now!’

  ‘You are forgetting something, yes?’ He dragged Senior Constable Wiktorja Jaroszewicz out from behind the stack of I-beams. Her hands were tied behind her back, a livid bruise spreading a purple, green and yellow stain across her cheek. She was groaning and swearing behind a gag made of duct tape.

  ‘I said, on the ground!’

  Kravchenko frowned. ‘You are not wanting to see her alive?’ He pulled out a silvered automatic pistol, the kind they used in gangsta rap videos and pressed it against her stomach. ‘Now we have the Mexican standoff. Put down your gun, or I will shoot her.’

  Logan shrugged. ‘And?’

  Pirie tapped him on the shoulder: whispering, ‘I really don’t think this is a good idea.’

  ‘Shut up, Pirie.’

  ‘But I am serious, yes? I will shoot your woman.’

  ‘Logan, I really think we should bugger off and wait for that backup!’

  Logan marched further into the room, gun never leaving the dead centre of Kravchenko’s face. ‘She’s not my woman, she’s yours.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Go on, shoot her.’

  ‘Logan, what the hell are you playing at?’

  Kravchenko frowned, head tilted to one side. ‘This is the reverse psychology, yes? You pretend to want I shoot Senior Constable Jaroszewicz?’

  ‘She’s not a senior anything – they fired her two years ago, for taking bribes from a bunch of German mobsters.’

  ‘I am not understand…’

  ‘The pair of you played me for a right bloody idiot. Oh yeah, Wiktorja was looking for Gorzkiewicz, but not for the Polish police. And guess who found him for you – me, like an idiot. It wasn’t your handler who tipped off Ehrlichmann, was it, Wiktorja? It was you.’ He glared at her. ‘What did you do, text them when you were in confession? That it? “Bless me Father, for I have sinned, oh and by the way, I’m selling out the stupid police officer from Aberdeen to my murdering bastard of a boss”?’

  She shook her head, lank blonde hair whipping back and forth. Mumbling behind the gag.

  ‘Bet you didn’t expect to get shot. What, did they find out you were screwing Ehrlichmann over too? You weren’t undercover, you were working for this … prick!’

  ‘Logan, I really think we shouldn’t be—’

  ‘Shut up, Pirie.’ Back to Kravchenko. ‘She was the one told you how to find Rory Simpson, wasn’t she? Where I was hiding him. All this bloody time, using me! So you know what, I’m calling your bluff.’

  Pirie grabbed his sleeve. ‘What the hell are you playing at? Don’t—’

  ‘Go ahead: shoot her.’

  The old man shrugged. ‘OK.’

  And that’s just what he did.

  69

  The gunshot echoed around the cavernous warehouse. Wiktorja stared down at the dot of black in the middle of her T-shirt as it spread out into a dark red stain. And then her legs gave way.

  Kravchenko let go and she fell to the concrete floor, screaming behind the gag. Then he pointed his shiny gun at Logan. ‘This is better?’

  Pirie was swearing. ‘Oh Jesus, oh fucking Jesus…’

  Logan’s mouth seemed to have stopped working. ‘But … she … you…’

  ‘Now we can get to business, yes?’

  ‘You shot her!’ Pirie pointed a shaky finger at the woman slowly bleeding out on the floor. ‘SHE’S A POLICE OFFICER!’

  ‘No. Detective Sergeant is right – she is not policja any more. She is interfering kurwa. She work for Ehrlichmann, try to find me for him.’ Kravchenko smiled. ‘But I find her first, no?’

  The DS ran a hand through his ginger hair. ‘You never said anything about killing her!’

  Logan stared at Pirie. ‘WHAT?’

  ‘Why now you have conscience? You remember Luboslaw Frankowski?’

  Pirie fidgeted. ‘That was an accident. Didn’t know the silly sod would take all the whisky and pills at once, did I?’ He turned to Logan. ‘I swear to God, I was only trying to keep him quiet – buy him a heap of booze, keep his mind off stuff. He was going to call the station and tell them everything … I didn’t have any choice.’

  Logan stared at him. ‘You’re in on it? Are you insane?’

  ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen, OK? It was just meant to be a chat, see if you were on the team or not. Nobody was meant to get hurt, it—’

  ‘Hurt? He’s been blinding people, you moron! Setting up a drugs war! Not some piddling little turf dispute – HE’S GOT FUCKING MACHINE GUNS!’

  ‘What was I supposed to do? He’s paying thousands. Thousands. Bloody city’s rolling in oil money, why shouldn’t we get a slice, eh? Why shouldn’t we—’

  ‘You knew about this from the start, didn’t you? You knew

  – you could have stopped it!’ ‘It’s not like—’ Logan jabbed the gun into Pirie’s ear. ‘I GOT BLOWN UP BECAUSE OF YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!’

  Pirie backed away, hands up. ‘I was just… It wasn’t…’ And then he turned and ran for it, bursting through the door and out into the office unit.

  Kravchenko watched him go. ‘Do not make worry, Grigor will catch him.’

  Logan turned back. Wiktorja was lying on her side, knees curled up to her chest, dark red blood oozing out onto the concrete floor. She was shivering, moaning behind her gag. And it was all Logan’s fault. ‘She … wasn’t working for you?’

  Kravchenko leant back against the stack of I-beams, legs crossed at the ankle. ‘This Pirie is weak man. Never have jajca to stand on own feet. Take money and do what is told. Man who can be bought is weak – I buy him from your Hamish Mowat, maybe someone will buy him from me too? But man like you…’ Kravchenko clicked his fingers. ‘What is word for “idealistyczny”? … Ah: idealistic.’

  Logan couldn’t take his eyes off the expanding pool of blood. Feeling sick. ‘We need to get her an ambulance.’

  ‘Why you care? She is liar, yes? Make you into fool.’

  Logan could barely hold the gun still. ‘Get your arse on the floor, or I will shoot you.’

  ‘You think I am too rough with her?’ He nudged Wiktorja with his toe and she groaned. Her face was unbelievably pale, the bags under her eyes standing out dark purple. Kravchenko reached down and tore the duct tape gag from her mouth.

  ‘Aaghh, Jesus…’ Her lips were turning blue. ‘Kill him…’ She gritted her teeth. ‘Kill him … please…’

  ‘Why would Detective Sergeant kill me? I am his friend, but you … You use him to find me, I am thinking he does not like this.’ He smiled at Logan. ‘She pay man in Warsaw Police to tell her if anyone ask question about me. Is clever, yes?’

  ‘You … you blinded … my father. You carved out his eyes!’

  Kravchenko shrugged. ‘I make blind many men. Maybe I make you blind too, before you die?’

  She recoiled, trying to squirm away from him, hands still tied behind her back, but every motion made her cry out in pain.

  Logan tightened his gri
p on the trigger. ‘Get away from her. Now!’

  Kravchenko reached into his pocket and pulled out the Swiss Army knife. ‘When I am finish.’ The little tin of lighter fluid was next.

  ‘I’m not telling you again!’

  Wiktorja stared at the knife’s curving blade. ‘Please no … Please! Proszę! Proszę, nie zabijaj mnie!’

  Kravchenko grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her face up. She screamed. Logan braced himself, aimed – and the door behind him flew open.

  Something went BOOM and the old man ducked. Then the delicate pitter-patter of shot rained down on the concrete floor. ‘Next one,’ said a voice from the doorway, ‘doesn’t go into the ceiling.’

  Thank God – the cavalry was here…

  Only when Logan looked around, the guy standing in the doorway wasn’t one of DI Steel’s firearms team. He was massive, at least twenty stone, his face twisted with scar tissue – last seen working on an old Jaguar at Wee Hamish Mowat’s place: Reuben. He’d ditched the overalls for a straining pink polo shirt, a pair of jumbo-sized jeans, and a sawn-off shotgun. Reuben lumbered into the room, forehead glistening with sweat. And right behind him came a spotty youth with green hair, dragging a blood-smeared DS Pirie into the room.

  Green-Hair dumped Pirie in the middle of the floor, then pulled out an old-fashioned revolver.

  Pirie looked as if his nose had exploded, leaving a flattened, bloody flap above a swollen mouth. Voice slurred and lisping, ‘Please don’t kill me!’

  Green-Hair kicked him. ‘Shut up.’

  Reuben looked Logan up and down. ‘We’re here for the Polish guy.’

  Kravchenko picked himself up from the floor. Wiktorja’s blood had stained one knee of his linen trousers, turning the cream material a dark raspberry. ‘I am not Polish. I am from Ukraine.’ He pointed his gun at them. ‘And I am going nowhere.’

  The kid with the green hair grabbed Pirie by the back of the collar and hauled him to his knees. Then ground the revolver into the side of the Detective Sergeant’s head. ‘Put your fuckin’ gun down or I kill the pig!’

  Kravchenko sighed. ‘We have already done the “who is make a bluff” talk.’ The silvered automatic barked once. A small plume of blood burst from Pirie’s stomach, a much bigger one spraying out of his back as the bullet tore straight through.