Читать книгу Blind Eye - Stuart MacBride - Страница 24

Torry sat just south of the River Dee, its whorl of old granite tenements and concrete council housing making a three-quarter-mile-long fingerprint in shades of grey. The scene was a two-bedroom flat halfway along Victoria Road, with views out across the fish factories and storage sheds to the harbour. Sun sparkled off the mud and fuel storage tanks in the middle distance, a collection of huge, neon-orange supply boats lolling in the blue-grey water beyond. It was almost pretty.

A pair of white gulls circled in the clear blue sky, squawking obscenities at each other.

FLASH – and the small bedroom lit up. Green patterned wallpaper. Brown carpet. Double bed. MFI wardrobe. Dead body.

FLASH.

Three figures in breathing masks and white SOC coveralls. A cloud of bluebottles frozen mid-flight.

FLASH.

‘And one more for luck…’ The Identification Bureau photographer hunkered down for a close-up.

FLASH.

‘Right, that’s me. You can shift the body if you like.’

Logan shook his head. ‘Better leave it till Doc Fraser gets here.’

‘Okey-doke.’ The photographer dug in the pocket of his white paper oversuit, pulled out a business card and handed it to Logan. ‘Listen, if you know anyone getting married, I’m doing homers, OK? Wedding albums, family gatherings, that kind of thing.’

Logan looked down at the body oozing out into the carpet and said he’d think about it.

Lubosław Frankowski lay on his front, head turned to face the open door. He was swollen: bloated with internal gasses fermented over the week and a half he’d lain there undisturbed. His skin was mottled purple and black with flecks of white mould. Crawling with fat, black flies.

The whole room stank – the sickly sour-sweet odour of rotting meat.

‘Bloody hell!’

Logan looked up to see DCI Finnie standing in the doorway, one hand clamped over his nose and mouth.

‘Morning, sir.’

Finnie gagged. ‘Open a window!’

Logan did as he was told, but it didn’t make any difference to the smell.

The Chief Inspector stared down at the corpse. ‘Is it him?’

‘Far as we can tell.’ Logan pulled a photo from the folder he’d dumped on the bed earlier: Lubosław Frankowski sitting up in a hospital bed, the bandages removed from his ravaged face. Not a pretty sight, but the way he looked now was a damn sight worse. ‘We’ll take fingerprints soon as Doc Fraser’s been.’

‘You taking my name in vain again?’

The elderly pathologist was peering around the door frame. He was swamped by his SOC oversuit, the crinkly white paper covering everything except the tired circle of his face – large nose, lined cheeks, watery eyes. Eyebrows like elderly toothbrushes, their bristles pointing in random directions. ‘Come on then – everybody out, give a man some space to work.’

They did as they were asked, Finnie grabbing the excuse to get away from the smell. But he was nice enough to tell Logan to stay behind and help.

Doc Fraser levered himself slowly down beside the body. ‘Death been declared?’

Logan nodded. ‘Any idea what killed him?’

‘Give us a chance. Only just got here.’ He ran his fingers over the body’s head. ‘No sign of blunt trauma, no blood on the clothes… Help us turn him over, eh?’

Logan grabbed the man’s stained sweatshirt and heaved. The body came away from the carpet with a sticky sound and a fresh eruption of flies – buzzing into the air like a pall of smoke. Logan let go and the body flopped down on his back with a wet belch of escaping gas. ‘Ah … God’s sake!’

Doc Fraser waved a hand in front of his face. ‘At least it wasn’t me this time.’ More prodding. And then the pathologist stood and snapped off his gloves. ‘Right, no obvious signs of external trauma—’

‘Except for the eyes.’

‘—but we’ll have to get him on the slab to tell for sure. Can’t rule out foul play yet, but as a wild guess,’ the Doc pointed at an empty litre bottle of supermarket whisky lying on the floor by the bed, ‘it was drink related.’

‘Oh…’ Logan stared at that bloated face again. ‘Any chance you could take a look at the eyes, you know, while you’re here?’

‘I’ve taken off my gloves.’

‘Quick look. Two minutes tops. We haven’t got a clue what he’s using to gouge their eyes out. Or burn them. We need to know what we’re looking for.’

Doc Fraser furrowed his hairy eyebrows. ‘I’m not a detective or anything, but I would have thought the obvious answer would be to ask the victims who’re still alive.’

‘They won’t talk to us. Terrified of reprisals.’

He shifted from foot to foot. ‘All right,’ he said at last, ‘two minutes.’ Doc Fraser pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and went back to the body again. He peered at the flesh around the eyes. ‘Skin’s been cut away and stitched back … most of the upper and lower lids missing … presumably that was the hospital getting rid of any burnt tissue. Can’t see inside.’

He stuck his finger in one of the eye sockets and started flicking out little wiggly things. ‘Off you go…’ More followed. Then Fraser pulled out a pen-sized torch, shone it in the hole, and hummed and hawed for a bit. ‘No,’ he said at last, ‘this is totally pointless. Any evidence was erased by the surgical team. The whole site’s been cleaned and sterilized.’

He tried to stand, but didn’t manage. ‘Little help please?’

Logan hauled him to his feet.

‘Thanks.’ Fraser clicked off his torch and slid it back into the pocket of his SOC oversuit. ‘If you had a fresh victim, I mean before they wheeched him off to A&E, I might be able to tell you something…’ Shrug. ‘Get this one back to the mortuary, post mortem will be half twelve, one-ish? Depends what’s for lunch.’

Logan watched the IB roll the bloated, stinking remains of Lubosław Frankowski into a body-bag. Somehow lunch had lost its appeal.

His appetite still hadn’t returned by the time he made it back to Force Headquarters. Half eleven and the canteen was gearing up for service; the smell of sausage, beans and chips wafting through the building just made him feel even more queasy.

Steel was sitting in her office, rummaging through a stack of printouts.

Logan slumped back against the wall. ‘You seen Finnie?’

The inspector didn’t look up. ‘If I had I’d be bankrupt by now. That flipping swear box is costing me a fortune.’

‘Did you just say, “flipping”?’

‘Oh shut up.’ She stuffed the printouts back in her in-tray. ‘What do you want that … Finnie for?’

‘We found one of the old Oedipus victims dead this morning. Doc Fraser thinks he probably drank himself to death.’

‘Can’t say I blame him. If some bast… If someone gouged your eyes out, would you no’ want a wee bit of alcoholic oblivion?’

‘Poor sod was face-down on the carpet for a week and a half before anyone found him.’

‘In this heat?’ She stared at Logan, then at his clothes. ‘Thought I smelled something rank, but I was too polite to mention it. Might have been your new aftershave.’ She sniffed. ‘What is it with you and mouldy corpses?’