Blind Eye (18 page)

Sunlight bathed the buildings opposite, turning them from grey to gold as Logan cracked open a bottle of Belhaven beer. Maybe he should give Samantha a call? Tell her he'd had a nice time last night. Only that would sound desperate, wouldn't it? Much better to play it cool. Maybe bump into her at work tomorrow - accidentally on purpose...

The phone rang. He ignored it, letting the answering machine pick it up. Logan took another swig of beer and listened to his own voice telling whoever it was on the other end they could leave a message.

'Hi, Logan, it's me: Sam. Look, I wanted to say--'

Logan scrabbled through the lounge and grabbed the phone. 'Hello?'

Pause.
'Look, I was thinking about playing it cool, but you know what, I'm a grown up and you're a grown up and I had fun last night, so what's the point of playing daft games?'

He stabbed the off button on the answering machine. 'I was just thinking the same thing.' Liar. 'You eaten yet?'

'Nope. Was hoping a certain Detective Sergeant would turn up unannounced with a takeaway.'
And then she gave him the address of a static caravan on Mugiemoss Road.

'A caravan?'

'Yes, a caravan. I live in a caravan, OK? And you make one joke about trailer trash and you're not getting any, understand?'

'Wouldn't dream of it.'

Not long after eight, Logan pulled into a small knot of static caravans on the south bank of the River Don, opposite a steeply banked graveyard, and a hundred yards downwind of the Grampian Country Chickens processing factory. A bank of trees screened the caravan park from the sewage plant on the opposite river bank, but it wasn't thick enough to keep out the glare of the huge Tesco on the other side of the bridge.

Samantha's caravan was a big rectangular box of a thing - more like a Portakabin than something designed to grind traffic to a standstill on a bank holiday weekend - surrounded by trellis fencing plastered with climbing roses. At least no one had been sick on these ones. She was waiting at the door for him, watching as he unloaded the carryout from DI Steel's car.

'You took your time.'

'Meal deal.' Logan held up two white plastic bags and a big square cardboard box. 'Pizza, garlic bread, a litre of Coke and a tub of Mackies vanilla.'

'Oh aye...' She waited for him to lock up. 'Didn't think you were the sports car type.'

'Just looking after it while Steel's ... not feeling well.' It was cheaper than getting a taxi, and it wasn't as if the inspector was going to be sober enough to drive anywhere for a while, was it? And she
had
given him her keys.

Inside, the static caravan wasn't that much smaller than Logan's flat. Sam gave him the quick tour: bedroom, lounge, kitchen, and bathroom, all decorated in various shades of dark red and purple. Every surface was jammed full of books, dragons, pewter skulls, goblets, and crystals. The whole place was festooned with flickering candles. Like a morbid Santa's grotto.

Logan stood in the middle of the lounge. 'It's very ... Gothic.' The only thing that didn't seem to fit was an ancient-looking orange teddy bear, given pride of place on a throne of Stephen King novels.

'You were expecting little pink unicorns and Laura Ashley prints?'

'Do I get brownie points if I say it goes with your hair?'

'Make with the pizza, Sergeant, and we'll see what you get.'

They squeezed together on the couch, fumbling their way inside each other's clothes. Undoing buttons, zippers, pulling off shirts, T-shirts, trousers, underwear. Logan ran his tongue along the curves of her body, tracing the outline of that huge tribal spider tattoo. The skin was marked by little ridges, like stretch marks, on the inside of her thigh, buried beneath the blank ink. Logan kissed them and she arched her back, moaned ... then swore as his mobile phone went into an epileptic fit of bleeps and whistles.

They lay in the candlelight, listening to the thing warble its asymmetric tune.

'Go on then,' she said, 'answer it.'

'No chance.'

'But it might be work.'

'I know.' Logan found his place again, kissing his way higher with every word. 'That's - why - I'm not - answering it.'

'Oh yes...' The phone went silent. 'Oh yes... Mmmm, oh God...' Then the ringing started again. 'Oh
bloody hell
!'

'One second.' Logan opened the lounge door, threw his jacket into the hall, then closed the door again. 'Now where were we?'

They lay in a heap on the caravan floor, listening to the first drops of rain pattering on the thin roof. The clock on the DVD player glowed '21:15' as Samantha ran her fingertips lightly over the paths of scar-tissue on Logan's stomach. Playing 'join the dots' with his knife wounds in the candle light.

It was a disconcerting feeling, but in the post-coital glow he was willing to put up with it.

Outside in the hall, the exiled mobile phone started ringing yet again.

Samantha stretched like a cat, showing off her tattoos to disturbing advantage. 'You're going to have to answer it eventually.'

Logan grunted.

She poked him in the ribs. 'Come on. You go do that, I'll get us a couple of beers, then we can crack open the ice cream.' She stood and disappeared into the hall. 'Think there's some garlic bread left too...'

Logan dragged himself up and through to where his jacket lay, just in time for it to go through to voicemail. Blessed silence. He dragged the thing out of his inside pocket. According to the readout he had twenty-two messages.

But before he could check them the phone blared into life one more time.

He flipped it open. Didn't recognize the number. Pressed the button. 'McRae?'

Silence.

'If you're not going to say anything, stop bloody calling! I'm--'

'Is this the...'
Pause.
'Are you that policeman, Detective Sergeant McRae?'
It was a woman's voice, sounding young. Scared.

Logan wandered back into the lounge, where his clothes were strewn all over the carpet, stifling a yawn as he sank down, naked, on the sofa. 'What can I do for you?'

'You was round here yesterday. Harry Jordan's gaff? You said I could call...?'

He'd forgotten all about it. Yawn. 'Did Sheila turn up? The doctor?'

'Something's happened, you know? It's...'
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
'You gotta come over. You gotta come right now, before it's--'

'I can't, I'm off duty. I'll get them to send a patrol car and--'

'No! It's gotta be you! You gotta come! You got a doctor for Kylie. We don't trust no one else.'
Another pause, and this time when her voice came back on the line there were tears in it.
'Please, you said!'

'But--'

'Please!'

Logan looked up to see Samantha standing in the kitchen doorway, carrying two bottles of lager and a heaped bowl of vanilla ice cream. She pointed at the phone and mouthed the word, 'Work?'

He nodded. 'Sorry.'

'Fine, but if you're not back here before midnight, I'll have gone off the boil.'

Logan told the woman on the phone he'd be there in twenty minutes.

The flat was silent as the grave - which was kind of appropriate given what was lying on the living room floor. Harry Jordan's wheelchair was on its side in the corner, but the man himself was spread out on the carpet. It looked as if someone had put on a pair of stilettos then jumped up and down on his head - it wasn't even the right shape anymore.

His face was a mess of red and purple, the features all mashed up, bone reflecting dully in the dim light. A shiny slick of blood had oozed out into the carpet, making it sticky and wet.

Logan stood in the middle of the room and swore. So much for getting back before midnight.

Someone tugged on his sleeve and said, 'See, told you, didn't I tell you? I did, I told you...' It was Kylie's sister, Tracey, only now she wasn't wearing an eggy nightie, she was wearing the full-blown stockings, suspenders and basque outfit. Cheap, shiny black material edged with red lace. Pale skin, protruding ribs in the hollow between her small, hoiked-up breasts. Thin and sickly looking. Eyes like shiny black buttons. 'Told you.' She was chewing on her fingers. 'Told you, yeah, you know?'

'You didn't tell me he was dead!'

'You've got to get rid of him. Get him out of here.'

Logan pulled out his phone and called Control. 'This is DS McRae, I need to report a suspicious death. I want two patrol cars, the IB, Duty Doctor, and whatever pathologist's on call, to Flat C--'

Tracey snatched the phone off him. 'What are you
doing
? You can't tell the police!'

'I
am
the police.' He held out his hand. 'Give me the phone back.'

'You promised you'd help!'

'Who did it?'

'You promised!'

Logan grabbed her by the arms, trying not to touch the weeping sores where she'd injected herself. 'Who was it?'

'It...' She looked down at Harry's battered body, then quickly away again, staring at the blood-soaked carpet instead. 'Creepy. It was Creepy.'

18

Tracey sat on the arm of the sofa, a cigarette smouldering away between her fingers as she told Logan all about it. How Creepy Colin McLeod had burst in and battered Harry Jordan's head in with a claw hammer.

'He was screaming and swearing, you know? Someone told him what Harry did to Kylie, and he wasn't having none of it. And Harry's all, "Don't hit me!" and he's crying and that...' She shuddered, took a drag on her cigarette and went back to chewing her fingers again. 'And Creepy just keeps on hitting him. Blood flying everywhere, you know? Again and again and again...'

Logan squatted down beside the body. 'You expect me to believe Colin McLeod killed Harry Jordan, just because he beat up his favourite prostitute?'

Tracey scowled at him through a haze of cigarette smoke. 'Wasn't like that, OK? Was complicated. Creepy loves her. Got her name tattooed on his arm and everything. Been sweet on her since school.'

'And you're sure you saw him batter Harry?'

She bit her bottom lip and nodded. 'Uh-huh. So did Laura and Emma. He was like ...
crazy
or something.'

'And where are they?'

Tracey stared at the carpet. 'Did a runner. Thought Creepy might come back, you know? Said fuck this, they was off to Edinburgh.'

'What about Kylie?'

'Never seen nothing.' Tracey pointed back towards the hallway, 'Barely been out of her room since Harry battered her, yeah?'

Logan looked down at the wreckage of Harry's head.

Better get it over with. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, reached out and felt for a pulse. The duty doc, or the pathologist, would declare death when they turned up, but as First Attending Officer Logan had to check too. The skin was turning sticky as Harry's blood coagulated. There was no way he was alive. Not with his head looking like a burst haggis.

Something fluttered beneath Logan's fingertips.

Harry Jordan was still alive.

Alpha One Nine was first to arrive, closely followed by an ambulance. Logan got the uniformed officers to start going door to door taking statements while the paramedics strapped Harry's battered body onto a backboard.

By the time DCI Finnie turned up they were loading Harry into the ambulance, its blue and white lights sparkling in the rain. The Detective Chief Inspector gave them a cheery wave as they slammed the back doors and roared away.

Then he bounded up the path to where Logan was standing beneath the building's concrete portico. Every light in the tenement block was on, and in the surrounding buildings too; faces in the windows staring out at the little scene of tragedy on their doorstops. Probably wouldn't be too long before the first floral tribute appeared as the bandwagon of public-performance-grief started rolling.

Finnie clapped Logan on the shoulder and beamed at him. 'Any chance Harry Jordan's going to die?'

'That or severe brain damage.'

'To be honest, I'd rather get Creepy Colin McLeod for murder, but attempted will do at a push. Right,' He clapped his hands together. 'Let's see if you go to the top of the class, or have to sit in the corner wearing a dunces cap: door-to-doors?'

'Underway: Three teams of two. Every flat in the street.'

'Witnesses?'

'One: a prostitute working for Harry Jordan. There were two more, but they've legged it for Edinburgh. I've asked Lothian and Borders to keep an eye out for them.'