Читать книгу Blind Eye - Stuart MacBride - Страница 18

The phone sounded like an aluminium hedgehog trapped in a tumble-drier. Logan groaned, rolled over onto his side and checked the alarm clock – nearly half past nine. He flopped an arm across his eyes and waited for the answering machine to kick in.

Blessed silence.

And then his mobile got in on the act – the ‘Danse Macabre’ warbling out from somewhere on the other side of the room.

‘Bloody hell…’ He struggled out of bed, padded across the bare floorboards, and rummaged through the pile of clothes dumped on the chair in the corner. His suit jacket was at the very bottom, all crumpled and wrinkly. He pulled his phone out of the pocket, checked the display, and swore. It was DI Steel.

‘Hello?’

‘Aye, Laz, where the hell are you?’

He pulled the bedroom curtains back, blinking out at the sparkling granite buildings and the perfect sapphire sky. ‘It’s Saturday morning…’ He yawned, and sank down on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m knackered. Watching CCTV tapes till God knows when o’clock this morning.’

‘Get your arse in gear. They’re discharging me, I need a lift.’

He groaned, fell back on the rumpled duvet, and stared at the freshly painted ceiling. He’d missed a bit. ‘Get Susan to do it.’

‘Susan has a … she has a thing this morning.’ Steel’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, ‘And the nurses are acting all weird, like I’m a serial killer or something.’

‘But it’s—’

‘You can pick up my car from the station. Keys are in my desk.’

Logan rubbed his eyes with the ball of one hand, enjoying a fleeting fantasy of feeding the inspector through a wood-chipper. ‘OK,’ he said at last, ‘twenty minutes.’

The ward was nearly empty, just a grey-haired old woman in the corner, babbling on about Aberdeen Royal Infirmary being a front for the IRA. And people with bird heads trying to steal her biscuits.

The inspector was stuffing yesterday’s clothes into a little pink suitcase, muttering away to herself.

Logan called out from halfway across the ward, ‘Madame, your carriage awaits.’

She scowled up at him. ‘You’re late.’

‘You’re not even packed yet.’

‘Can’t find my bloody wedding ring.’ Then she started stripping the bed. ‘Got to be here somewhere…’

She was still at it five minutes later, when a young woman appeared with a trolley laden with tea and coffee. The lady in the corner got fussed over for a bit, but Steel was totally ignored, the trolley making a pointed detour around where the inspector scrabbled on the floor beneath the bed.

Logan pulled on his best smile and asked if there was any chance of a cuppa.

The trolley’s guardian looked him up and down, then asked if he was taking that – she pointed at DI Steel’s waggling bum – home?

‘Problem?’

‘She’s been a nightmare: they had to check her every two hours last night, because of the concussion, and everyone got their arse pinched or their breasts groped. And the language!’

‘Ah…’ He watched the inspector as she started to take the little bedside cabinet apart. ‘If it’s any consolation, I get that every day. Well, except for the groping.’

That got him a look of sympathy, a cup of milky tea, and a digestive biscuit.

By quarter past ten, DI Steel was rummaging through the bins.

Logan left her to it, and went for a wander through the hospital, treading the familiar corridors, looking at the familiar paintings, feeling the familiar depression. Drifting towards the small ward where Simon McLeod was being kept under observation.

The big man was slumped back against a mountain of scratchy hospital pillows. White bandages kept a pair of thick gauze pads in place over his eyes… Well, where his eyes used to be.

A woman sat in the chair beside the bed, holding Simon’s hand and sniffling into a handkerchief. Early thirties, blonde, smudged makeup, with bright-red nail varnish and lots of gold jewellery, Hilary Brander – Simon’s bidie-in – was basically a younger version of his mum. Which raised some disturbing questions about their sex life. But would explain why Hilary and Simon’s two kids turned out the way they had.

She wasn’t the only visitor: Simon’s brother was there too, pacing back and forth, mouth working soundlessly. As if he was chewing on something bitter.

Colin McLeod had all of his father’s rough looks, but none of the charm. Five foot four of aggressive muscle, hair cut short to disguise the fact he was going bald. Tattoos twisted up and down his furry arms: skulls, daggers, thistles, ‘MOTHER’, ‘FREEDOM’, and ‘KYLIE’.

Logan stopped at the bottom of the bed. ‘How is he?’

Colin McLeod glowered at him. ‘Fuck is it to you?’

‘Hey, I was just—’

‘Someone cut his eyes out, how the fuck you think he is?’

Hilary looked up from her bedside vigil, her Essex accent wobbling. ‘Why can’t you leave us alone?’

Logan held up his hands. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude: just wanted to make sure he was OK. We’re going to do everything we can to catch the men who did this.’

Colin McLeod stormed across the room, only just stopping at the last moment, inches from Logan; teeth gritted, neck muscles standing out like guy-ropes, a thick vein throbbing on his forehead. ‘You fucking leave this to me, understand?’ He poked Logan in the chest with a finger, the word ‘HATE’ tattooed across the knuckles. ‘This is none of your fucking business.’

‘You know we can’t do that, Colin.’

The finger made another poke. ‘Get in my way and you’ll be fucking sorry. Understand? He’s my brother.’

Logan took a step back. ‘Don’t do anything daft, OK?’

Simon groaned, shifting painfully in his hospital bed. Hilary squeezed his hand, a fat tear rolling down her cheek, taking the last sliver of mascara with it. She wiped it away. ‘Please, just leave us alone.’

Outside in the corridor, Logan bumped into the nurse from yesterday. She had heavy black bags under her eyes, and a bedpan in her hands. ‘Watch out!’ she said, trying not to spill the contents. ‘Charging about like an… Oh, it’s you.’ She straightened the cover on whatever was slopping about in there. ‘You don’t hang about, do you? I only phoned five minutes ago.’

‘Phoned?’

‘That woman who got shot: she woke up.’

The blinds in the small ward were down, shutting out the sunshine and the outside world. A young couple were sitting by one of the other beds, the woman crying, the man looking as if he didn’t really know where he was. The small child hooked up to the ventilator didn’t move.

Only one other bed was occupied – the shooting victim. She didn’t look that much better than she had five days ago, still connected to a bank of machinery that pinged and gurgled. Her eyes were shut, but they flickered open as Logan dragged a chair over. He pulled the curtains around the bed, giving the young couple some privacy.

‘How are you feeling?’

She looked at him for a while in silence.

Logan tried again, going for the simplest Polish phrase he knew. ‘Dzień dobry?’

‘Thirsty…’ it was barely a croak.

He poured a small glass of water from the jug by her bedside. ‘Here. Take small sips.’

‘Dziękuję.’

Logan smiled. ‘I can’t remember what’s Polish for “you’re welcome”.’ She emptied the glass and Logan gave her a little more. ‘Too much at once and you’ll be sick. Trust me, the last thing you want to do is throw up when you’ve got stitches in your stomach. Hurts like hell.’

‘Please not to deport me…’ Her English was a damn sight better than Logan’s Polish, but he had to strain to hear the words.

‘Why would we do that?’

‘The … the man who make me do films, he say he tell police I am prostitute they send me to prison. Deport me. I am sorry…’ Her lips trembled, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘Please…’ She clutched onto Logan’s hand – her fingers were cold and pale.

‘Trust me, no one’s going to deport…’ Frown. ‘What films?’

‘Please, I will being good!’ The heart monitor was starting to beep faster and faster.

‘Calm down, shh… It’s OK, no one’s going to deport you. What films?’

‘Dirty films. Horrible. I have to make … with men … is…’ She was sobbing now, great heaving sobs.

The heart monitor sounded as if it was about to explode.

Logan grabbed the nurse call button and stabbed it repeatedly with his thumb. ‘Come on, come on.’

He could hear the ward door slam open, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum, then the curtains were flung open and a nurse stormed up to the bed. ‘I told you not to upset her!’

The bleeping was getting erratic.

Logan stood. ‘I didn’t, I was just—’

‘Out! Now!’ She ran a hand across the woman’s forehead. ‘Shhhhh, it’s OK. You’re all right. He’s not going to hurt you.’

Logan stumbled out into the corridor, lurching out of the way as a doctor hurried into the ward. Then the door closed and Logan was alone.

Brilliant job. First class. Way to go. His one chance to find out if she knew anything about who blinded Simon McLeod and he blew it. When Finnie found out…

He groaned and let his head thunk gently into the wall. A woman was lying in there, seriously ill, and here he was worrying about bloody Finnie.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Excuse please?’

Logan turned to find a small, round woman standing behind him, dressed like a retired schoolteacher.

‘She is to be OK, yes? Krystka?’

Oh … crap. ‘You know her? The young Polish woman?’

‘My siostrzenica. How you say this? Brother’s daughter?’

‘Niece.’

‘Niece? Yes, niece. She come over here to get better job. Stay with me and Fryderyk. Send money home to her family. Now look…’ She sniffed.

Logan tried to sound reassuring. ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine. The doctors here are very good.’ They’d better be: he didn’t need any more guilt.

‘I see her in newspaper as unknown person: my brother’s daughter is unknown person. I am so ashamed.’

At least Finnie’s appeal for information had been good for something.

‘Do you know who she was working for?’

The little woman shrugged. ‘She never want to speak about it. Back home she is model for clothes. Very beautiful. Look …’ The woman went rummaging in a handbag the size of a small country, and produced an envelope with ‘PHOTOGRAPHS DO NOT BEND’ printed on it. She pulled out a glossy eight-by-ten of a young woman posing in a studio somewhere, wearing nothing but her underwear and a smile. She was stunning. Hard to believe it was the same person lying in the hospital bed.

‘Wow.’

‘She was most beautiful girl in Włoszczowski… Look what they have done to her.’

Logan turned the photo over, there was something scrawled on the back: ‘KRYSTKA GORZAŁKOWSKA’ and a mobile phone number. ‘Can I keep this?’ Adding a hasty, ‘I’m a police officer,’ just in case she thought he was a pervert.

The little woman looked him up and down. ‘You can keep.’

‘And you’re sure you don’t know who she worked for?’

‘All she say is she work for crocodile man.’

‘Crocodile…’ Logan closed his eyes and swore.

Steel was waiting for him back in the ward. The old lady in the corner bed had fallen asleep – lying starfish-spread under the covers, snoring.

‘Where the hell you been?’

‘Find your ring?’

The inspector held up her hand and there it was. ‘Must’ve been off my head last night. Found it stuffed inside a tub of anti-wrinkle cream.’

From the look of things, it wasn’t working.

Logan hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Got a small detour to make on the way home.’

‘Oh, you’re kidding me! First you bugger off for half an hour, and now you want to—’

‘Got to see a man about a porn film.’

And with that, Steel’s face blossomed into a smile. ‘Well why didn’t you say so?’ She hurried past, pulling her Barbie-pink suitcase behind her. ‘There’s always time for pornography!’