Blind Eye (54 page)

'Jesus, you're drenched...' Samantha sank down on the floor next to him and ran a hand down his chest, sending beads of sweat trickling away through the assault course of scars.

He dragged in a shuddering breath. 'Fuck...'

'You were screaming.'

'Oh God...'

She let her finger drift further down, tracing the little knots of scar tissue. Echoes of the knife.

Logan grabbed her hand. 'Don't, OK? Please, just ... don't.'

Samantha's voice was small in the darkness. 'I'm not a freak.'

Here we go.

Logan groaned. 'Can we not do this now?'

'I thought you'd understand ... when I ... when I let you feel my scars.' There was a long pause, and he felt her stand then settle on the edge of the mattress. 'I started when I was twelve - cutting myself. Never anywhere anyone would see, but ... Don't know why; just seemed to make sense at the time.'

Logan looked at her, bathed in the faint green glow of the clock radio. A little after three in the morning.

Samantha sniffed, tying her fingers in knots. 'Wasn't like my parents were beating me or anything, it just ... I don't know. They left these shiny marks on my skin. Do you know what I mean?'

She pulled at the flesh of her inner thigh, examining the black ink of the tribal spider. 'Soon as I was old enough I started getting them tattooed over.'

'Sam--'

'And then I saw yours and I thought ... I thought it made us ... connected or something.' She shrugged and rolled over until she was lying on the bed. 'Stupid, isn't it?'

He crawled in next to her. 'Might as well face it: you
are
a freak. And so am I. There's no such thing as normal people, it's a myth us freaks put out to torture ourselves. Just something else we can't live up to.'

She smacked him on the arm. 'I am not a freak.' But he could hear the smile in her voice.

Twenty minutes later, Logan stood in the dark kitchen, in front of the open fridge door. They'd made love then lay there in silence until Samantha drifted back to sleep. Then Logan had slipped out of bed. He gulped down half a carton of orange juice, not bothering with a glass, washing down three paracetamols. He turned and stared at the kitchen table. The sleeping pills were still there, pristine and untouched, caught in the fridge's pale light.

OK, so he woke up screaming every night - just like Simon McLeod - but at least he could still get it up. No Viagra needed.

Logan took another swig of orange, slooshing it around his mouth. Pity there wasn't any vodka left.

Poor old Simon McLeod. What would he say if he found out his wife was telling people he was impotent? Go bloody mental...

The smile faded from Logan's face.

Sandilands, 1998: Andy Howard - a small-time drug dealer with a big mouth - called Simon McLeod a 'big poof' and ended up eating through a tube for six months. There was no way in hell Simon would let Hilary tell people that his dick didn't work any more so she was shagging his brother instead. Not even to get Colin out of jail.

So either Hilary had come up with this scheme on her own, or she was telling the truth about her and Creepy.

Bugger.

Froghall was silent. Weak, jaundiced streetlight bounced back from dark windows, and glittered on the paintwork of parked cars. Twenty past four: far too early in the morning to be sodding about at an abandoned crime scene, but that's exactly what Logan was doing.

He ducked under a line of blue-and-white 'POLICE' tape and unlocked the door to Flat C. A damp, musty smell greeted him as he stepped over the threshold into Harry Jordan's place.

Logan clicked on the light ... and nothing happened. Someone must have turned the electricity off.

He pulled out his torch and ran it across the grubby carpet. The place looked exactly the way Kylie and her sister had left it: piles of ruined furniture and broken things. Logan shuddered. In the dark it was far too much like the Watchmaker's flat in Nowa Huta for comfort.

He stopped in the lounge, turning a slow three hundred and sixty degrees.

The girls - Tracey and her two friends - they'd
seen
Creepy batter the living hell out of Harry Jordan with a claw hammer. Hilary Brander was playing him for an idiot. And he was shell-shocked enough to fall for it.

He wandered from room to room, letting his torch drift through the bedrooms with their damp-stained woodchip wallpaper, the bathroom with its mildew and cracked tiles, the kitchen with its sink full of dirty dishes and bin full of something rancid and rotting.

How could anyone live like this? Even before the place had been trashed it was a hovel.

He found himself back in the smallest of the three bedrooms, the one where Kylie had been holed up with her bruised and swollen face. Mrs McLeod's pet thugs had flipped the bed up on its side, then slashed the mattress, the grey stuffing sticking out. A small chest of drawers lay on its back. They'd tried to tip the wardrobe over as well, but the room wasn't big enough and now it was wedged at forty-five degrees between the two walls, one door broken off its hinges, letting an avalanche of cheap shoes spill across the equally cheap carpet.

Logan poked a toe through the debris. There was nothing here. He was wasting his time. Should be home in bed with his slightly deranged girlfriend, not rummaging through some junky prostitute's bedroom.

But he was here anyway: might as well
try
and do a half decent job.

He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and started with the chest of drawers, hauling it back the right way up and then going through the drawers one by one, the torch stuffed in his mouth so he could see what he was doing.

Top drawer: vibrators, condoms, lubricants, hardcore porn magazines. Everything your discerning punter could want. All yours for fifty quid a go; twenty for a blowjob.

Jesus, you'd have to be desperate.

Middle drawer: cheap tarty underwear. Peek-a-boo bras and crotchless panties, frilly nylon things, a basque, fishnet stockings.

Bottom drawer: a stack of letters and a pile of woolly socks. Most of the letters had never been opened, but Logan read the couple that were, then put them back where he'd got them. Our dearest Kylie, you know your dad and I miss you and your sister, why won't you come home?

The wardrobe was next. He dragged it upright and it bounced off the wall, denting the woodchip wallpaper. All the clothes lay in a heap at the bottom - cheap jeans, shirts, a couple of rugby tops, pink fluffy bath robe.

The impact had knocked the chipboard moulding round the bottom loose. Logan gave it a little kick, but instead of going back on, the whole front piece fell off.

He bent and tried to force it into place again, but it wouldn't fit. What did it matter anyway? Everything here was destined for the tip when the council got around to clearing the place out.

He was about to stand up when he saw it: two parallel indents in the carpet, right in the corner of the room, where the little chest of drawers would have sat.

Logan ran the torch along the skirting board.

Everywhere else the carpet was tucked down flush with the wall, but in the corner it was all curled up. Pinned underneath that chest of drawers for who knew how many years, it should have been flat.

He took hold of the edge and pulled - about eighteen inches of cheap, corrugated carpet peeled back without so much as a ripping sound. And then it stopped, where the gripper strip started.

No underlay - the carpet had been laid straight onto the chipboard.

Someone had cut an uneven, shoebox-sized rectangle out of the chipboard, then put it back again. Probably nothing. Just a jury-rigged access point for the electrics, hacked out by a sparky too lazy to do the job properly. But it looked far too well-used for that, the join covered in grimy fingerprints.

Stash for drugs?

Logan poked a biro down into the crack and used it to lever the lid off. He was right, it
was
a hiding place. Bundles of photographs, held together with fraying elastic bands. Family snapshots of a much younger Kylie and Tracey on holiday, or at someone's birthday, or just playing Mexican banditos in the back garden. Kylie looked happy, a million years away from the stick-thin drug addict who couldn't get out of bed because her pimp had beaten her.

There was a small tin in the hole, complete with a syringe and spare needles. A bong in the shape of Yoda's head. A little porcelain ballerina. A set of tarot cards.

Logan took everything out, and lined it all up on the carpet. Not much to show for a life.

Then he stuck the torch back in the hole and swung it round for one last look.

Something glinted in the darkness.

He stuck his hand down into the gap between the chipboard and the dusty concrete.

Couldn't quite reach ...

He lay on his side, getting as much of his arm down the hole as possible, then walked his fingers along the gritty surface. Nothing ... nothing ... nothing - and then a faint rustle. Carrier bag? He teased it closer with his fingertips, took a good handful of plastic and pulled the whole thing out.

It was an anonymous blue-and-white-striped plastic bag, the kind you got from a corner shop. Heavy. He lowered it to the floor and peered inside.

It was a claw hammer, crusted with dark-brown, partially wrapped in a bloodstained copy of the
Aberdeen Examiner
.

59

'I don't care, OK? Get out of your sodding bed and put her on the phone!' Logan sat on the arm of the broken couch, the pre-dawn light just beginning to trickle in through the lounge window as he waited for the Witness Protection Officer to do what she was told.

'Quarter to five ... Jesus.'
A yawn. There was some muttered swearing, then a rustling noise then -
'Some bastard from Aberdeen ... What? ... I don't know, do I?'
More rustling. And finally knocking.
'Kylie? You awake? Kylie?'

Pause.

Then the officer was back:
'I think she's asleep.'

'Of course she's asleep, it's the middle of the night. Wake - her - up!'

'OK, OK, Jesus...'
The knocking turned into thumping. And a minute later Kylie was on the other end of the phone.

'Whhhhu?'
Some wet chewing noises.
'Whssleepin'...'

'Kylie, it's DS McRae. Remember me?'

'Mmmnhmmmm? You're the guy saved us. Tracey says we owe you, you know? For the doctor, and gettin' us outta that shite-hole and into rehab.
' A huge yawn came down the line from Lossiemouth.
'No one was ever nice to us before. Always thought police was bastards, but you're like, a hero and that...'

'I know about the hammer.'

Silence.

'I ... eh?'

'Under the floor: in your little hidey hole, there's a claw hammer in a plastic bag with blood all over it.'

'What? No. But...'

'It wasn't Creepy, was it? It was you. You battered Harry Jordan and tried to frame Colin McLeod.'

'No! It can't... Me and Colin, we're ... you know? He said he'd take me to Australia, start over ... maybe even get married. Have babies...'

Another voice in the background, asking who it was, and then Kylie's sister Tracey was on the phone.
'You found a hammer, yeah? Must've been that old bag Mrs McLeod. Planted it, like. Make it look like it wasn't Creepy smashed the bastard's head in.'

Logan hefted the carrier bag in his gloved hand. It was a long shot, but what the hell: 'Then why has it got your fingerprints all over it?'

Pause.
'It has?'

'What do you think?'

This time the silence dragged on for so long Logan had to check his phone to see if he'd lost the signal. 'Well?'

'Kylie, love, get us a can of Coke, or something, eh?'
Pause. A door closing.
'It wasn't her, it was me. I did it. She doesn't even know.'

Score one for the educated guess.

'Why?'

'Why do you think? Harry was going to hurt her again. Sooner or later, and maybe next time she's not so lucky, you know?'
Her voice was starting to wobble.
'Maybe next time he kills her, or she ends up a vegetable. I had to, OK?'

She sniffed.
'Told him we was leaving, but he wouldn't let us. He's got this big knife and he's off his face on smack. Going on about how no one fucks with Harry Jordan, how we belong to him, got to learn respect, he's going to cut off our faces... I was scared, OK?'
Her voice dropped to a whisper,
'I kicked over Harry's wheelchair and he goes sprawling on the carpet. Hits his head on the sideboard.'