Читать книгу Blind Eye - Stuart MacBride - Страница 12

‘That went well,’ said Steel, sauntering back out into the sunshine. ‘No biscuits though… You’d think a “legitimate businessman” could rustle up a chocolate digestive, wouldn’t you?’

Logan looked back in through the Turf ’n Track’s front door at the dark interior. ‘How the hell did you manage that? I thought he hated the police?’

‘The McLeod brothers like to think they’re old-school gangsters… Well, Simon does, Colin’s just a bloody thug. You ever met their mum? She’d tan their arses if she found out they’d hit a woman.’

‘You remembering what happened to Gabrielle Christie? Broken jaw, cracked ribs, fractured leg—’

‘Aye, but she wasn’t a woman, was she? She was a hoor.’ Out came the inspector’s cigarettes, the smoke spiralling up into the bright blue sky. ‘It’s no’ the same to these people. Prostitutes aren’t women, they’re property. And before you say anything, I know, OK? It’s just the way they think.’

Outside the bookmakers, the pre-pubescent mob had dispersed. Now there was just a single grubby child, watching as Mr Meat Paste for a Nose was loaded into Alpha One Four.

Another two patrol cars had arrived, their white paintwork sparkling in the sunshine. Spotty the Baboon was in the back of one, looking woozy and bruised from all that resisting arrest.

The other officer from Alpha One Four was limping back up the road, his black uniform trousers all torn at the knee. It looked as if Low Budget Porn Star had got away.

‘Two out of six,’ said Steel, leaning on the roof of the empty patrol car, ‘no’ exactly a brilliant arrest rate.’ She smoked in silence for a moment, staring at Spotty and his swollen face. ‘Right,’ she said at last, pinging her fag end away, ‘let’s go see what the Clearasil Kid has to say for himself.’

Logan dragged out his phone. ‘I’ll get them to set up an interview room, we can—’

‘Don’t be so wet. Here,’ the inspector dug into her pocket and pulled out a handful of change, ‘go get some ice-lollies.’

By the time Logan returned from the little grocers, Steel was lounging in the back of Alpha One Six with Spotty. Logan clambered in on the other side, sandwiching him in.

Steel leaned across the prisoner and looked at Logan. ‘What did you get?’

‘Strawberry Mivvi, Orange Maid, and a Chocolate Cornetto.’

She stuck her hand out. ‘Cornetto – gimmie.’ She un-wrapped it and took a happy bite, talking with her mouth full, ‘What about you, Derek? Fancy an orange lolly? Nah, better no’ it’d clash with your ginger hair. Strawberry Mivvi for Derek here, Laz.’

Logan held it out, but Spotty the Baboon, AKA: Derek, didn’t take it. Which wasn’t that surprising, his hands were cuffed behind his back.

‘Give it here,’ said Steel. She took the lolly and held it against Derek’s cheek. ‘There you go, that’ll keep the swelling down a bit.’

Derek’s voice was a high-pitched croak, ‘It’s cold…’

‘Aye, well, that’s what you get for being stupid. When someone yells, “Police”, you either give up like a good boy, or you run like buggery.’ She took a bite out of her Cornetto. ‘Mmmph mmmf mnn mmnnfmmmmph fmmmnnnt?’

‘Think that bloody copper broke my jaw…’

‘Then you wouldn’t be able to talk, you moron. I said, “who were you fighting with?”’

‘I’m in pain!’

‘You’ll be in a lot more if you don’t start talking.’ She tossed the lolly back to Logan. ‘My sergeant here likes to slam people’s hands in car doors. It’s his hobby. You want me to take a wee walk and see if you’ve still got all your fingers when I get back?’

‘It was … a …’ Spotty licked his top lip. ‘They were Rangers supporters; said the Dons were shite. Couldn’t let them get away with that…’

‘Bollocks.’ Steel cracked the door open. ‘Start with his wanking hand, Laz, I’m going for a walk.’

Derek peered at Logan. ‘You can’t—’

‘Can I break his thumbs as well?’

The inspector nodded. ‘Fine by me.’

‘It was just a fight! That’s all. Football. You know what it’s—’

‘Do his toes too.’ Steel levered herself out into the sunshine, licked a runaway dribble of chocolate ice-cream off the back of her hand, and slammed the car door.

Derek flinched.

‘NO, WAIT! I didn’t … I …’ He closed his eyes and shuddered as Steel climbed back into the car.

‘Make it fast, Derek, my Cornetto’s melting.’

‘They was trying to tell us we had to … sell stuff for them. You know … instead of … who we usually sell it for.’

‘Uh-huh, and who would that be?’

‘Don’t remember.’ Derek scowled out of the car window at the man in the back of Alpha One Four: Mr Meat Paste for a Nose. ‘Fucking Polish bastards. Come over here, taking our jobs, screwing our women…’

Logan poked him in the shoulder. ‘Ever sent anonymous letters, Derek? You know, lots of different fonts and exclamation marks?’

‘Eh?’

‘Where were you last night?’

‘Went round Harry Jordan’s and got wasted. Ask him. We had a party with his … we had a party.’

Steel tutted. ‘Hope you wore protection, Derek: you’ll get all sorts of nasty diseases partying with Harry Jordan’s girls.’ She slapped the Strawberry Mivvi back against his cheek. ‘So, you going to come clean about who you’re selling for? Like I couldn’t already guess.’ She pointed at the green-and-yellow Turf ’n Track sign. ‘Come on, Derek, play it smart for once.’

But Derek had no intention of changing the habit of a lifetime.

Mr Meat Paste for a Nose sat on the other side of the interview room table, repeating for the umpteenth time, ‘Nie mówię po angielsku.’

It was all he’d say, over and over again: I don’t speak English.

Lying sod.

Steel yawned, checked her watch, and told Logan to switch off the tapes. ‘Hell with this.’ She stood, then leant on the table, doing her best to loom over the prisoner. ‘Listen up, Sunshine, I know fine well you speak English: I’ve got witnesses who heard you do it. But if you want to play silly buggers we’ll get you an interpreter, and then we’ll bang you up for obstruction. And public disorder. And anything else I can think of. We’ve got a whole pile of unsolved burglaries on the books, fancy getting fitted up for some of them?’

‘Nie mówię po angielsku.’

‘Blah, blah, blah.’ She headed for the door. ‘Chuck him back in his cell, Laz. We’ll have another crack with a translator in the morning. You and me are going to knock off early and go find somewhere with a beer garden.’

It was the best idea Logan had heard all day.

Half past seven Wednesday morning and interview room three was like a sauna – the battered radiator in the corner pinged and clanked away to itself, even though the sun was blazing down outside. Logan and Steel sat at the chipped table, both of them sporting the rosy glow of a mild sunburn from three hours sitting at a picnic table outside Triple Kirks drinking lager and white wine.

The interpreter was slumped on the other side of the table, sweat darkening the armpits of her blouse as she repeated yet another phrase Logan was getting sick of.

‘He says he doesn’t know anything.’

Steel slammed her fist down on the chipped Formica tabletop. ‘Stop sodding about – I want to know who he’s working for!’

The interpreter sighed and tried again, ‘Zapytać: dla kogo pracujesz?’

The thickset man with the flattened nose shrugged and replied in bunged-up Polish. His face was one big bruise today, crisscrossed with sticking plasters. It wasn’t a good look.

‘He’s not working for anyone. He’s in Aberdeen visiting his cousin.’

‘Then why did we catch him brawling outside a known hangout for lowlife scumbags? Why have I got a drug dealer downstairs in the cells telling me Lumpy here tried to recruit him? Who – is – he – working – for?’

‘Which question do you want to ask first?’

‘Oh for God’s sake. We know the bastard can speak English—’

A knock at the door.

DCI Finnie marched into the room without waiting for an invitation. ‘Inspector, a word please.’

The interpreter waited until Steel was out of the room before asking Logan if she was always this bad. ‘Doesn’t she like Polish people?’

‘Not when they lie to her, no.’

‘You’ve got to understand it from their point of view,’ the interpreter nodded at the prisoner. ‘Polish police were a nightmare under the Communists. They were enforcers for the regime, they’d make people disappear. And they weren’t much better after independence: corrupt and lazy. So no one trusts the police anymore, and you can’t really blame them, can you?’

‘I can when they…’ Logan trailed off into silence, listening to the raised voices coming through the door.

The interpreter looked puzzled. ‘What?’

‘Shhhhhhh!’ He held his hand up for silence. It was Steel and DCI Finnie, having a stand-up row in the corridor outside.

Steel: ‘No way! I am not—’

Finnie: ‘That wasn’t a request, Inspector, it was an order.’

Steel: ‘I’m in the middle of—’

Finnie: ‘You’re interfering with an ongoing investigation.’

Steel: ‘I’m doing my bloody job!’

Finnie: ‘Not any more you’re not. And if you’ve got a problem with that you can take it up with the DCS.’

An angry silence.

Steel: ‘Fine. Laughing Boy in there’s all yours.’ She yanked the door open and glowered at Logan. ‘Pack it up. We’ve been pulled off the case.’