Blind Eye (5 page)

Logan poked him in the shoulder. 'Ever sent anonymous letters, Derek? You know, lots of different fonts and exclamation marks?'

'Eh?'

'Where were you last night?'

'Went round Harry Jordan's and got wasted. Ask him. We had a party with his ... we had a party.'

Steel tutted. 'Hope you wore protection, Derek: you'll get all sorts of nasty diseases partying with Harry Jordan's girls.' She slapped the Strawberry Mivvi back against his cheek. 'So, you going to come clean about who you're selling for? Like I couldn't already guess.' She pointed at the green-and-yellow Turf 'n Track sign. 'Come on, Derek, play it smart for once.'

But Derek had no intention of changing the habit of a lifetime.

Mr Meat Paste for a Nose sat on the other side of the interview room table, repeating for the umpteenth time, '
Nie mowie po angielsku.
'

It was all he'd say, over and over again: I don't speak English.

Lying sod.

Steel yawned, checked her watch, and told Logan to switch off the tapes. 'Hell with this.' She stood, then leant on the table, doing her best to loom over the prisoner. 'Listen up, Sunshine, I know fine well you speak English: I've got witnesses who heard you do it. But if you want to play silly buggers we'll get you an interpreter, and then we'll bang you up for obstruction. And public disorder. And anything else I can think of. We've got a whole pile of unsolved burglaries on the books, fancy getting fitted up for some of them?'

'
Nie mowie po angielsku.
'

'Blah, blah, blah.' She headed for the door. 'Chuck him back in his cell, Laz. We'll have another crack with a translator in the morning. You and me are going to knock off early and go find somewhere with a beer garden.'

It was the best idea Logan had heard all day.

Half past seven Wednesday morning and interview room three was like a sauna - the battered radiator in the corner pinged and clanked away to itself, even though the sun was blazing down outside. Logan and Steel sat at the chipped table, both of them sporting the rosy glow of a mild sunburn from three hours sitting at a picnic table outside Triple Kirks drinking lager and white wine.

The interpreter was slumped on the other side of the table, sweat darkening the armpits of her blouse as she repeated yet another phrase Logan was getting sick of.

'He says he doesn't know anything.'

Steel slammed her fist down on the chipped Formica tabletop. 'Stop sodding about - I want to know who he's working for!'

The interpreter sighed and tried again, '
Zapytaca: dla kogo pracujesz?
'

The thickset man with the flattened nose shrugged and replied in bunged-up Polish. His face was one big bruise today, crisscrossed with sticking plasters. It wasn't a good look.

'He's not working for anyone. He's in Aberdeen visiting his cousin.'

'Then why did we catch him brawling outside a known hangout for lowlife scumbags? Why have I got a drug dealer downstairs in the cells telling me Lumpy here tried to recruit him? Who - is - he - working - for?'

'Which question do you want to ask first?'

'Oh for God's sake. We know the bastard can speak English--'

A knock at the door.

DCI Finnie marched into the room without waiting for an invitation. 'Inspector, a word please.'

The interpreter waited until Steel was out of the room before asking Logan if she was always this bad. 'Doesn't she like Polish people?'

'Not when they lie to her, no.'

'You've got to understand it from their point of view,' the interpreter nodded at the prisoner. 'Polish police were a nightmare under the Communists. They were enforcers for the regime, they'd make people disappear. And they weren't much better after independence: corrupt and lazy. So no one trusts the police anymore, and you can't really blame them, can you?'

'I can when they...' Logan trailed off into silence, listening to the raised voices coming through the door.

The interpreter looked puzzled. 'What?'

'Shhhhhhh!' He held his hand up for silence. It was Steel and DCI Finnie, having a stand-up row in the corridor outside.

Steel: 'No way! I am not--'

Finnie: 'That wasn't a
request
, Inspector, it was an
order
.'

Steel: 'I'm in the middle of--'

Finnie: 'You're interfering with an ongoing investigation.'

Steel: 'I'm doing my bloody job!'

Finnie: 'Not any more you're not. And if you've got a problem with that you can take it up with the DCS.'

An angry silence.

Steel: 'Fine. Laughing Boy in there's
all
yours.' She yanked the door open and glowered at Logan. 'Pack it up. We've been pulled off the case.'

Three Days Later

5

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 secondhand 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 cliche?'

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.'