Blind Eye (28 page)

Wee Hamish Mowat's office looked like something straight out of a National Trust catalogue - wood panelling, hunting prints, bookcases, two brown leather chesterfield sofas, and a mahogany desk the size of Switzerland.

Finnie was sitting on one of the sofas, directly across from the office's owner.

Wee Hamish Mowat: grey hair, hooked nose, hands like vulture's feet, and eyes like chips of flint. He looked up at Logan, and a stray beam of sunlight flashed across his rectangular glasses. 'Ah, Detective Sergeant Logan McRae, I've heard so much about you.' The voice was a gravelly Aberdonian with a slight hint of public school. 'Your Chief Inspector was just telling me about his little problem.'

Finnie shifted, making the leather creak. 'Yes, well...'

Wee Hamish stood, crossed to an antique sideboard, and pulled out a bottle of whisky and three glasses. 'Macallan, thirty year old. I take it you'll join me?' He pointed at one of the sofas.

Logan sat.

The old man poured a measure of whisky into each glass. '
Slainte mhar
. Or, I suppose we should say "
Na zdrowie
" now, what with all the Polish people we've got over here.'

They returned the toast and sipped in silence.

'So,' Finnie twisted the crystal tumbler in his hands, 'about that caravan...?'

'Tell me, Logan, what do you think of the whisky?'

Logan put his glass down on the big wooden coffee table. 'Very nice.'

'Good.' Wee Hamish smiled, showing off a set of perfect white dentures. 'I do like a man who appreciates a good malt. I think we're going to get on perfectly.'

Which wasn't exactly the most comforting thing Logan had ever heard.

The old man took another drink. 'From what I understand, your caravan was full of machine guns and bullets.' The smile faded. 'Some people just don't understand how business works here. They watch all these big American movies, with the gunfights and the explosions, and they think that's what the real world's like.'

Finnie nodded.

'This,' said Wee Hamish, poking his couch with a finger, 'is not some bloody third world country. Guns are for professionals,
not
rank amateurs. Don't you agree, Logan?'

Logan glanced at Finnie, but got no help there. 'I think Aberdeen doesn't need this kind of trouble.'

'Well put, Logan. Well put. You see, your Chief Constable was right - I heard him on the radio the other day - people look at Aberdeen and they see a fat hog, swollen with oil money and ready for slaughter.' He leaned forward in his chair. 'The funny thing about pigs though, is that they'll devour anything. Hair, skin, bones. And if you're not
very
careful, you can end your days as a big pile of pig shit.'

Silence.

Logan cleared his throat. 'Is that what happened to Simon McLeod? He wasn't careful enough?'

Finnie nearly choked on his whisky.

'That was a terrible, terrible thing. Blinded like that...' The old man stared across the coffee table. 'According to the papers you're looking for a serial killer who doesn't kill people?'

The DCI glowered at Logan. 'You'll have to excuse Sergeant McRae, he--'

'Nonsense,' Wee Hamish waved a liver-spotted claw, never taking his eyes off Logan, 'I want to hear what Logan has to say. I read that your psycho doesn't like Polish people. Which is a pity; personally I think they're marvellous. I've got one of them retiling my bathroom right now.'

'Why would Oedipus attack Simon McLeod? He's not Polish, he's one of Aberdeen's biggest--'

'Entrepreneurs,' said Finnie. 'Biggest
entrepreneurs
.'

Wee Hamish laughed. 'Oh don't be so sensitive, Chief Inspector. We all know what Simon is.' Then the old man turned his glittering grey eyes back towards Logan. 'Go on.'

'I think this was business related.'

This time the silence went on for an uncomfortably long time, and then Finnie broke it with, 'I want to apologize on behalf of--'

Wee Hamish ignored him. 'So, you think this was someone trying to muscle in on the McLeods' territory?'

'Yes.'

'Maybe someone who saw what happened to those poor Polish people, and decided this was a perfect opportunity to take care of a rival?'

'Wouldn't you?'

There was another uncomfortable silence.

Then Wee Hamish flashed his dentures again. 'You've got balls, Logan, I like that.' He drained his glass and stood. 'Now, if you'll excuse me gentlemen, I have some business to attend to.'

Out in the sunshine Reuben was leaning against the garage wall smoking a roll-up. A pimply youth with green hair appeared at his shoulder, handed him a mug of tea, then they both stared at Logan and Finnie until they were off the premises.

Logan looked back over his shoulder at the small office block with its row of dark windows. 'What did he mean, he'd heard all about me?'

Finnie didn't reply, just marched straight-backed across the grassy patch to the pool car. He waited for Logan to unlock the doors, then climbed into the passenger seat.

'OK...' Logan got behind the wheel and started the engine. 'Where to?'

'Exactly what part of "keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking" did you have
difficulty
with, Sergeant?'

'I was--'

'What the
hell
did you think you were doing?' Finnie turned in his seat, face pinched, jowls trembling. 'Accusing Wee Hamish of blinding Simon McLeod? Did you really think that was a
good
idea? Or were you dropped on your head as a child?'

'But he--'

'Let's get something perfectly straight here,
Sergeant
: Hamish Mowat isn't like Simon McLeod, or any of the other two-bit crooks you deal with. Wee Hamish Mowat will chew you up and spit out your
bones
!'

'It was a legitimate question. He--'

'That lovely little story about pigs isn't a
metaphor
, Sergeant. Mowat's got pig farms all over the North East. If he wanted rid of Simon McLeod, Simon McLeod would disappear.' He dragged his seat belt out and rammed it into the buckle. 'You do not
mess
with that man, understand?'

Logan started the car. 'OK, so he can make people disappear, but maybe he didn't want that? Maybe he left Simon McLeod alive as proof of what happens when you get in his way.'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'Really?' He pulled away from the kerb, heading back towards the centre of town. 'You said it yourself: Simon McLeod's terrified.
Simon McLeod
. Who else is he going to be scared of?'

'One,' said Finnie, holding up a finger, 'if Wee Hamish wanted to teach the McLeods a lesson we'd never find their bodies. Two: the McLeods and the Mowats go back
two generations
. Wee Hamish lets the boys operate in peace because he had a soft spot for their mum.'

A third finger joined the other two. 'Three: YOU'RE AN IDIOT!' He dropped the hand. 'You're lucky he likes you.'

Somehow Logan didn't feel all that lucky.

27

'Well?' Finnie looked up from his newspaper as Logan climbed back into the car.

'Cheese and pickle, or egg mayonnaise?' At half twelve in the afternoon Victoria Road was more like a slice of southern France than a street in Torry. The warm granite glowed in the sunshine, a pleasant breeze off the North Sea keeping it from getting uncomfortably hot.

'Egg.' The Chief Inspector held out his hand and Logan passed him one of the sandwiches, a packet of pickled onion crisps, and a can of Irn-Bru - the metal surface glistening with dew. 'Thanks.' Finnie broke into the sandwich's plastic triangle case, and chewed in silence for a while, staring down the road at the blue frontage of the Krakow General Store. He swallowed, slurped at his can, then said, 'I meant what I said about Wee Hamish.'

Logan peered suspiciously at the sandwich he was left with - all cheese and no bloody pickle. Which just about summed things up as far as he was concerned. 'If he's so dangerous, why'd we go see him?'

'Because ... because the world isn't black and white, Sergeant. Sometimes you have to work with shades of grey.'

'Is that what Wee Hamish Mowat is?'

Shrug.

Logan tried his sandwich. It was every bit as dry as it looked. 'Ack...'

Finnie smacked the open newspaper with the back of his hand, making it crackle. 'We're getting another bloody golf course. Can you believe they gave Malk the Knife planning permission? Bloody idiots. The whole thing'll be one big money-laundering operation...' He took a mouthful of Irn-Bru, swilling it through his teeth as if it was fine wine. 'Mind you, surprised anyone wants to come play golf here these days.'

The DCI stuck the front page under Logan's nose. 'Read that.'

Page one of that morning's
Aberdeen Examiner
: 'S
TREETS
N
O
L
ONGER
S
AFE
A
S
P
OLICE
L
OSE
C
ONTROL
' with a subheading of 'S
ERIAL
K
ILLER
B
LINDING
V
ICTIMS
* P
AEDOPHILE
M
ISSING
* D
RUG
V
IOLENCE
W
ORSE
T
HAN
E
VER
* W
OMAN
R
APED
I
N
P
ARK
'.

Finnie chewed for a while. 'Imagine what it's going to be like when they find out about all those machine guns...'

Logan had one more go at his all-cheese-and-no-pickle. It was still dreadful. He jammed it back in the plastic triangle, crumpled it up, and stuck it on the dashboard. 'You got Kevin Murray to make a statement.'

'It's all a matter of leverage, Sergeant. Soon as he saw our little friend from Manchester outside the interview room he was screwed.'

Logan stared straight ahead through the windscreen. 'What about his kids? His mum? What about--'

'Oh, don't be so melodramatic. Your Manchester hoodies turn up to collect their protection money this afternoon, we arrest them. Parole violations, assault with a deadly weapon, threats against minors, resisting arrest - there's no
way
they're getting bail. So tell me, Sergeant: who's going to hurt Kevin Murray's children? The
revenge
fairies? Tinkerbell with a grudge? Hmm?'

Logan didn't answer that.

'Exactly.' Finnie ruffled his newspaper back to the sports section.

Logan snapped back into consciousness, sitting bolt-upright in the driver's seat. Blinking. Mouth opening and closing on a taste of stale cheese. 'What? What is it? I'm awake...'

Finnie let go of Logan's arm and pointed down Victoria Road. 'There.'

Three men in hooded tops were making a beeline for the Krakow General Store. The Chief Inspector clicked on his Airwave handset as they disappeared inside. 'I want everyone ready to go on my mark. And just in case you're a bit confused, we're not playing
Shoot The Civilian
today. OK? Are we clear?' He glanced at Logan. 'We've already bagged our quota for the year.'

There was a small commotion at the front door of the shop and an old lady was ejected onto the street. She stumbled to a halt on the pavement, turned, and hurled a torrent of abuse back through the door.

One of the hoodies appeared, shoved a bottle of whisky into each of her hands and told her to bugger off.

Finnie was back on the handset again. 'All right, get ready...'

Shouting.

And then the cash register flew through the shop window. BANG and the glass was a thousand sparkling shards in the sunshine. CRASH and the register embedded itself in the passenger window of a Citroen. Then the air was sliced to ribbons by the blaring car alarm.

One of the hoodies followed the cash register, head first, landing hard on the pavement.

Finnie shouted 'GO! GO! GO!'

On the opposite side of the street, the back doors of an unmarked Transit Van burst open. Four firearms officers staggered out into the afternoon and lumbered across the road, machine pistols at the ready. After baking for three and a half hours in the back of the van they looked knackered. Being dressed all in black probably wasn't helping.

Logan watched Sergeant Caldwell puff and pant her way to the front, line her team up, and give the signal. They lurched their way into the Krakow General Store.

'You sure four's enough?'

Finnie climbed out into the sunshine. 'Three hoodies with knives versus four firearms-trained officers with sub-machineguns. I
think
we'll be OK, don't you?'