Читать книгу Blind Eye - Stuart MacBride - Страница 14

Logan shifted in the driver’s seat, ruffled his copy of the Aberdeen Examiner, and said, ‘Four across: “Forbid forever, like.” “B”, something, something, “I”, something, something.’

Steel looked up from an in-depth analysis of her own cleavage. ‘You know what,’ she said, flicking a tiny avalanche of cigarette ash out of the passenger window, ‘I think I’ve finally found one of these damn things that fits.’ She tugged at her bra strap, making the contents jiggle.

Logan went back to his paper – there was no way he was getting drawn into another conversation about the Detective Inspector’s underwear. Five minutes to eleven on a Friday morning and the sun was dappling its way through the trees, sending little flecks of light dancing across the speed-bumps outside Sunnybank Primary School. ‘How long do we have to keep doing this?’

‘Till we catch the bastard.’ Steel gave up on her boobs and lounged back in her seat. ‘Anyway, what you whinging about? Three days sitting on your arse in the sunshine, reading the paper and eating ice-lollies. You rather be running around after DCI Frog-Face?’

She had a point.

‘No, we lounge about here till four, sod off home for the weekend and back again on Monday for another glorious week of doing bugger all.’ The inspector took a long drag on her cigarette and blew, fogging the windscreen with second-hand smoke. ‘Not like we got anything better to do, is it? Bloody Finnie…’

Here we go again.

‘I mean, who the hell does he think he is? “Stop interviewing that prisoner,”’ she said, doing a less than flattering impersonation of the Detective Chief Inspector, ‘“You’re interfering with an ongoing investigation.” Ongoing investigation my sharny arse. Bastard just wants all the sodding glory for himself.’

She snorted. ‘And can you believe he let Derek McSpotty walk with a caution? We caught the wee bastard red-handed kicking the crap out of someone, resisting arrest, and being a lying junky tosspot. “You have to see the bigger picture, Inspector.”’ She smoked furiously for a moment. ‘I’ll show Finnie the bigger picture with the toe of my bloody boot.’

‘What do you want to do for lunch today? We could grab a sandwich, or—’

‘Kebab.’ The inspector finished her cigarette and dumped the stub into an open can of Pepsi, swirling it around in the warm, flat liquid. ‘That place in Sandilands. And while we’re there we can accidentally nip next door to the Turf ’n Track. Have another wee chat with Simon McLeod.’

‘But Finnie—’

‘Finnie can pucker up and kiss my perky bumhole. Since that wee riot on Tuesday we’ve had five Polish blokes in A&E with their kneecaps smashed. Someone took a claw hammer to them.’ She struck a pose, tapping the side of her forehead. ‘Now who do we know with form for battering people with a claw hammer? Think, think, think…’

‘OK, OK, I get it: Colin McLeod. But Finnie—’

‘What is he, your boyfriend or something?’

‘Why do you have to make everything—’

The school bell jangled through the warm, lazy air – eleven o’clock on the dot. Time for morning break.

‘We’re on.’

Screams and shouts echoed out of the school, then a stampede of five-to-seven-year-olds dressed in the standard grey-and-blue primary uniform burst out into the sunshine, hell bent on cramming as much fun as possible into their fifteen minutes of freedom.

‘Anything?’ asked Steel.

Logan checked the street. ‘Nope. Looks like… wait a minute… Blue Toyota Yaris: there, just pulling up. You see it?’

The inspector shuffled forward in her seat, peering through the windscreen at the little mud-spattered car. The driver got out and wandered over to the playground fence. Beige cardigan, grey hair, feral moustache.

‘About sodding time.’ Steel clambered her way into the warm morning, and sauntered down the road with her hands in her pockets.

Logan locked up and followed her, nipping across the road at the last minute so he could come round on the guy’s blind side.

Not that the man in the beige cardigan would have noticed, he was far too busy smiling at a little girl through the railings. Blonde hair, pigtails, big blue eyes.

‘You know,’ said the man, hands rummaging in his trouser pockets, ‘my doggie’s very sick and can’t look after her puppies. Isn’t that sad?’

The little girl nodded.

‘Would you like to see them? Maybe you could take one home? Would you like that?’ And all the time the trouser rummaging was getting faster. Sweat beaded on his forehead. ‘Would you like to see my… oh God… puppies?’

‘Jesus, Rory,’ said Steel, slouching back against the man’s car, ‘could you be any more of a cliché?’

Rory stood up fast, and hurled a handful of little paper wrappers over the playground fence. ‘I never did anything! You can’t prove I did anything, I—’

Logan placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Rory Simpson, I’m arresting you under section five point one of the Criminal Justice Scotland Act—’

‘No – I didn’t do anything! I was just—mmmph!’

Steel had clamped a hand over his mouth. ‘Wee kiddies, Rory: let’s no’ corrupt their innocent little ears with your filthy lies. Now, you want to go quietly this time, or kicking and screaming like a girl?’

Rory bit his bottom lip, frowned, then said, ‘I think I’ll go quietly this time.’

‘Good choice, much more dignified.’ The inspector nodded at Logan, ‘Pick up whatever he threw to the lions.’ Then she marched Rory Simpson along the road to the CID pool car.

Ten minutes later, Logan climbed in behind the wheel of the shiny new Vauxhall he’d signed for that morning. Rory and the inspector were sitting in the back, like a pair of elderly relatives waiting to go for a nice Sunday drive.

‘Here,’ Logan passed a clear evidence pouch back between the seats – a small handful of white paper wrappers sat in the bottom, about the size of pound coins, ‘that was all I could find. There’s probably more, but the little buggers weren’t talking.’

DI Steel opened the bag and sniffed the contents. ‘Come on then, Rory, what we going to find when we send this lot to the lab: icing sugar? Washing powder? Crack cocaine?’

Rory shrugged. ‘You know how it is, Inspector, kids these days…’

‘Yeah, yeah: six-year-olds are all Playstations, tattoos, and gang-rape. Spit it out.’

‘It’s not like it was in our day, is it? Then they’d get in your car for a Sherbet Dib-Dab. Now they all want drugs, booze and cash.’ Rory shook his head. ‘They look like butter wouldn’t melt…’ A soft smile flitted across his face.

‘Rory, if you’re thinking about melting butter on wee kiddies, I’m going to have my sergeant here drive us out to the middle of nowhere and kick the shite out of you.’

‘Just an expression… I mean look at that little tease back there,’ he said, pointing at the troupe of uniformed monkeys screeching their way back to class, ‘she knew exactly what she was doing, didn’t she? Wasn’t going to give me anything for free. It’s depressing really.’

A tinny Banff and Buchan accent jangled out of the radio: ‘Alpha Three Sivin, from Control—’

‘Oh buggering hell.’ DI Steel fumbled for the handset. ‘We… with … non … over?’ Then she went into an Oscar-winning hissing noise: ‘Kshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…’

‘Aye, nice try. Incident: Primrosehill Drive. Sounds like a domestic disturbance. I’ve no’ got any patrol cars free and yer closest so—’

Steel grimaced. ‘Sorry, Dougie, but we’re in Altens, miles away, you’ll just have to find someone else.’

‘You do know these new cars have GPS in them, don’t you? I can see you right here on the screen: Sunnybank Road.’

Pause.

‘Bugger.’

‘Aye, so: Primrosehill Drive. And get a shift on – neighbour reported screams coming from the hoose opposite.’

Steel gave it one last try, ‘But I’ve got prisoner in tow—’

‘Some poor sod’s probably getting murdered, and you’re buggering about wasting time!’

Steel took her thumb off the transmit button and indulged in the kind of language that would make a social worker blush. ‘Fine, we’re on our way. You happy now?’

Logan started the car, drowning out the sarcastic response.

Primrosehill Drive was a curving line of large, semidetached houses with big gardens and four-by-fours in the driveways, sweltering beneath the hot sun. Logan killed the siren, and asked Steel for the address again.

She squinted out at the street. ‘There, on the left: that one. Looks like a building site.’

Two storeys of grey granite, almost invisible behind a forest of scaffolding and tarpaulins. The garden was home to a cement mixer, a JCB digger, a pile of rubble, and a bright blue porta-potty. A battered green skip sat on the road outside, orange cones and planks of wood blocking anyone from parking in front of the house. Logan pulled up as close as possible.

‘What now?’

Steel smacked him on the arm. ‘What do you think? We charge in and save the day. Picture in the paper. Medals. Dancing girls.’ She turned in her seat and poked at Rory. ‘You stay here. Don’t move. If I think you’ve so much as farted while we’re gone I’m going to take your goolies off with a potato peeler. Understand?’

She took out a pair of handcuffs and slapped one side on Rory’s right wrist, then dragged him forwards until he was bent double in the foot well.

‘Hey!’

‘Oh don’t be such a whinge.’ She poked the cuffs through the metal struts securing the driver’s seat to the car floor, then fixed Rory’s other wrist in place. He was well and truly stuck.

‘Surely there’s no need for this, Inspector, you know I won’t—’

‘Shut up before I change my mind and lock you in the bloody boot.’

She smacked Logan again. ‘What you waiting for?’

They climbed out into the sunshine.

The only sound was the distant drone and rumble of traffic on Great Northern Road. No screams.

They picked their way through the churned-up dirt, skirting a stack of breezeblocks. The front door was poking out of the skip at the kerb, leaving the hallway a gaping black hole.

Logan pulled out his Airwave handset. ‘DS McRae to Control, I need backup to Primrosehill Drive—’

‘You are such a bloody Jessie…’ Steel took another look at the dark hallway. ‘Come on then,’ she said, pushing Logan ahead of her, ‘you go first.’

Logan swore and pulled out his little canister of pepper-spray. According to Control there still weren’t any patrol cars free. They were on their own.

Steel gave him another shove and he stumbled over the threshold.

Gloom.

The builders had ripped everything back to the bare granite, and started again from scratch. Wooden stud-frames had been fixed in place with enormous masonry screws, lining the walls. Stiff ribbons of grey mains wiring were laced through holes in the joists, stretching out in hanging loops across the ceiling.

The chipboard flooring creaked beneath Logan’s feet as he crept inside.

First left: the living room was empty. A green tarpaulin had been stretched over the glassless window, shrouding everything in mouldy shadows. No sign of anyone. Dining room: empty. Downstairs toilet: empty, just the hole where a WC was supposed to go and a couple of plastic pipes poking out through the floor. The kitchen was little more than a storeroom for piles of wood, boxes of tiles, bags of concrete, thick rolls of Rockwool insulation, and sheets of plasterboard.

Logan worked his way back to the stairs and started to climb. If anything it was even darker up here. It looked as if the builders had started their renovating job on this floor: the granite walls were already clad; doors hung; double glazing in; architrave, windowsills and skirting nailed in place. Logan froze on the top step and whispered, ‘Did you hear that?’

‘What…?’ Steel frowned. ‘Why the hell are we creeping about?’ She took a deep breath, ‘POLICE! Come out with your hands up and no one has to get hurt!’

A voice sounded in one of the bedrooms: ‘Kurwa!’

A figure exploded out of the open bedroom door – large, male, it was difficult to tell much more than that in the dark. He had something in his hand. Something long, that glinted in a rogue sliver of light. Crowbar.

He tried to take Logan’s head off with it, swinging the thing like a broadsword.

Logan ducked and it whistled by close enough to ruffle his hair before embedding itself in the plasterboard. Logan slammed his fist into the man’s stomach.

He didn’t collapse and roll about on the floor in agony, he just grunted and yanked the crowbar out of the wall, taking a puffball of Rockwool with it.

Oh God…

Logan flipped the cap off his pepper-spray and gave him a liberal dose in the eyes.

‘Aaaaghh… Matkojebca!’

It was close quarters. Too close. The jet hit and spattered back off the man’s face, a mist of stinging liquid that coated everything within a three-foot radius. Including Logan.

‘Ah, Jesus!’ It was like being sandpapered with dried chillies, his eyes were on fire, he could barely breathe.

The crowbar smashed into the balustrade, bounced, and went spiralling down the stairwell.

Steel swore.

Clang, crash, bang, wallop.

When Logan peeled his eyes open again, the man at the top of the stairs was just a blurry figure: on his knees, swearing and panting.

God that stuff stung…

Steel shoved past Logan shouting, ‘POLICE! Get your arse—’ She smashed backwards into the balusters with a splintering crack.

Logan staggered against the wall, trying to peer through the pain and tears as a second figure loomed at the top of the stairs. Logan dragged up the canister of pepper-spray. ‘You! Face down on the ground!’

The man stepped forwards, right arm whipping out, grabbing Logan’s spraying hand and twisting it back on itself.

Logan swung a left hook, but the man blocked it, took hold of the sleeve and yanked him off balance.

‘Let go you bas—’

A knee slammed into Logan’s stomach, and his world went from bad to worse. The pepper-spray was painful, but this was agony, tearing across his scarred abdomen. His legs gave way.

A hand wrapped itself into his hair, pulling his face up.

Even through pepper-spray blur the silhouette was unmistakeable: a semiautomatic pistol. The man pressed the barrel against Logan’s forehead, cold metal on hot skin.

At this range the bullet would leave a little burnt halo around the entry wound as superheated gas forced the chunk of copper-jacketed lead out of the barrel and into Logan’s skull. The hole would be about the same size as a garden pea on the way in, bigger than a grapefruit on the way out, spreading grey and pink and red all over the nice new plasterboard walls.

Logan closed his stinging eyes.

And then the Airwave handset in his pocket went off, the voice of Control announcing that backup was on its way.

The man let go of Logan’s hair and patted him on the cheek.

‘You are lucky boy today,’ he said in a heavy Eastern European accent. ‘I let you live. You remember this.’

Then he was gone, dragging his fallen friend with him.