Blind Eye (57 page)

Logan took another sip of whisky, trying not to think about the look of betrayal on Rory's face. 'It was an accident.'

'He says it is not the first time you have hit him.'

'I didn't ... I didn't mean to. It just sort of happened.'

Wiktorja looked at him, but Logan couldn't meet her eyes.

'I know Rory Simpson looks like this nice little old man, but he's not. We've caught him four times interfering with little girls, none of them older than six. God knows how many times he's got away with it. I just...' He pulled out his cigarettes, but the pack was empty. He scrunched it up. Threw it away. Ran a hand across his face. 'I don't know.'

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of a balmy Thursday evening. Then Wiktorja said, 'I was suspended, because of what happened in Nowa Huta. Eight months undercover work, wasted.' She snapped her fingers. 'Eight months convincing Ehrlichmann I was a drug dealer from Warsaw, looking to move up. Eight months pumping his thugs for information on the Watchmaker: Gorzkiewicz.'

Logan stared at her. 'You
what
?'

'I have not been entirely honest with you, but--'

'Damn right you haven't!'

She finished her whisky. 'What was I supposed to do? It was bad enough you knew I was a police officer.'

'How could you be undercover?'

'Did you really think we had to go to the cathedral in Krakow to pray? I had to contact my handler, tell him we had an address for Gorzkiewicz.'

Logan scowled. 'And the next thing you know we're getting our arses shot off.'

'I am sorry. I should never have taken you with me to Nowa Huta. It was irresponsible.'

Logan reached for his whisky, the liquid sloshing in the trembling glass. 'Did they find his body? The man I shot?'

'I should have called for backup...'

'Did they check the hospitals? Doctors? Maybe he's not dead.'

'Do you know how many departments are after Gorzkiewicz? All of them. I had him at the end of my gun and I let him go.'

'Wiktorja!'

She looked up. 'What?'

'Did they find the man I shot?'

'There was a lot of blood near the Trabant, but...' She shrugged. 'Hospitals must report anyone admitted with gunshot wounds, so Ehrlichmann has his own doctors. He does not want the
policja
involved.'

'You're sure it was Ehrlichmann?'

'I am sure.'

'And your handler?'

'Disappeared.'

Logan sagged in his chair and took a mouthful of whisky, not really tasting anything but cordite and concrete dust. 'Every night. I dream about that bloody apartment and that bloody explosion every bloody night.'

She reached across the table and took his hand. 'I know.'

The clock on the cooker was broken or something: wouldn't stay in focus for more than a couple of seconds. Logan squinted one eye shut and tried again. Seven o'clock and they'd just about killed the bottle of Highland Park. He lurched back out into the garden with a couple of packets of things. You know: crunchy things. Salt and vinegar, stuff like that.

He bumped into the table and let the packets fall from his hands. 'Help yourself.'

Wiktorja did, fumbling with a yellow bag, and then there were prawn cocktail Skips all over the place. 'Oops.' She levered herself up and wobbled back and forth a bit.

Probably a bit drunk. She'd had quite a lot to drink.

Logan took one step forward, and leant on the garden wall, only the damn thing wasn't where it was supposed to be, and he sort of staggered a little.

Wiktorja laughed at him. 'You are
pijany
.'

'No I'm not.'

'Yes you are. You are
pijany
. Drunk.'

'I'm not
pijany
, you're
pijany
.'

Wiktorja held up her good arm, posing like the Statue of Liberty. 'OK, I am
pijany
.' She picked up one of the little shell-like disks and stuck it on the end of her tongue. Then stepped in close. 'We are both
pijany
.'

Logan grinned. 'I'm not
pijany
, I'm an idiot.'

'No, you are not an idiot.' Her face softened. And then she was kissing him; prawn cocktail tongues on a sun-soaked Thursday evening.

Upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms they struggled out of their clothes, Logan helping Wiktorja with the buttons and zippers she couldn't get at because of her arm being in a sling. They collapsed onto the bed, wrapped around each other. Kissing, groping, fondling. She'd been telling the truth - not a real blonde after all...

And then it all went wrong.

Logan let go and rolled over onto his back. 'I can't do this.'

She lurched up until she was looming over him, breasts brushing the scars on his torso. 'You do not like me any more?'

'I do. I just... I can't do this.' He let out a little grunt as she grabbed him somewhere private.

'This bit says you can.'

Dead puppies. Warts. DI Steel in a thong. The last image had the desired effect, and Wiktorja said, 'Oh... Not any more.'

'I like you, I really do, but we're
pijany
. And I'm seeing someone.'

'You are?
Cholera
.' She sat back on her haunches. 'Is she prettier than me?' Then she punched him in the thigh. 'How can you be seeing someone?'

'It's complicated and--'

The long, sonorous
biiiiiing-bonnnng
of the doorbell saved him. Logan scrambled out of bed and into his trousers, in too much of a hurry to bother about socks or pants. 'I'd better get that.'

'Wait, but we have not--'

He shut the bedroom door behind him, pulling on his shirt as he thumped down the stairs, barefoot.

Biiiiiing-bonnnng...

'Coming.' He was all buttoned up and tucking his shirt into his trousers as he reached the front door.

Biiiiiing-bonnnng...

'I said I'm coming! God's sake...' Logan could see the distorted shape of whoever it was through the rippled glass on one side of the door. He unlatched the chain - having to concentrate to make his drunken fingers work - then undid the deadbolt.

The door opened.

A mountain of muscle stood on the top step: six foot tall and almost as wide, arms like tree trunks, angular features, receding mullet. Kravchenko's right-hand man.

Logan got as far as, 'Oh f--' before the fist slammed into his stomach. He crumpled, all the breath rushing out of him in one painful wheeze, and then his legs gave way and he crashed onto the black-and-white tiles.

Mr Mullet stepped inside, grabbed Logan by the ankles and dragged him further back into the hall. Then went back and closed the door.

Logan tried to roll over, tried to get up, but he could barely move.

Shout. Warn Wiktorja. DO SOMETHING!

Mr Mullet flicked the deadbolt into place.

Logan dragged in a rattling breath. Oh GOD that hurt.

The huge Polish man squatted down over Logan's chest. Grabbed a handful of hair, drew back a massive fist. '
Dobranoc policyjna suko.
'

Darkness.

62

Sharp stabbing pain. Logan groaned, coughed, opened his eyes. Then really wished he hadn't.

He was in some sort of warehouse. Golden sunlight streamed through a series of small windows twenty feet above his head, a row of partially dismantled metal shelves casting shadows across the dirty concrete floor.

He was lying on his side, arms behind his back, shoulders aching along with everything else. Handcuffs, or cable-ties around his wrists, the same around his ankles.

Fuck. Not good. Not good at all.

His stomach ached, and his head felt as if something was trying to claw its way free. A rabid hangover fighting with a punch in the face. His mouth tasted of blood, and one of his teeth was loose.

Sodding hell.

Logan coughed again, the movement sending another wave of fire through his scarred stomach. He hissed in pain...

'Ah, you are awake. This is good.' Foreign accent, heavily laced with Eastern Europe. 'Turn him around, Grigor.'

Mr Mullet appeared, grabbed Logan by the collar, hauled him around through ninety degrees, then dropped him back to the floor again. And there he was: Vadim Mikhailovitch Kravchenko, looking almost exactly as he had in Rory Simpson's e-fit.

Only this time he was smiling. 'So glad you can join us, Detective Sergeant. I begin to worry Grigor hit you too hard. He is still have grudge from when you pepper-spray him.' He looked up for a second. 'Grigor, please to fetch our other guests.'

Another grunt and Grigor marched into view, then out through a side door. There was a sudden flash of blue sky and green weeds before the door swung shut again.

'Now,' said Kravchenko, squatting down in front of Logan, 'Detective Sergeant, you are man of honour, yes?'

Logan coughed again, then spat out a mouthful of blood - aiming for the old bastard, but getting nowhere near.

The Russian smiled. 'A man of fire as well. I like that.' He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, rolling the fabric up to his elbows. 'You know who I am, yes?'

'You won't get away with it.'

Laughter. 'Do people really say this? Like in bad movie, is big cliche.' He pulled something from his pocket. It was a Swiss Army knife. 'I have business proposition for you.' He put the knife on the dusty concrete between them. 'I want Aberdeen. I want her drugs and her prostitutes. You want long, happy life. Is fair swap, yes?'

'I'm a police officer. If you kill me--'

'No, no, is not worry. I not kill you.' He produced a small tin of lighter fluid and placed it next to the knife.

Oh dear Jesus.

The side door banged open and Rory Simpson staggered in, hands tied together, his nose at a jaunty angle to his bloody face. Grigor was next, with a half-dressed, struggling woman thrown over his shoulder. Wiktorja - wearing a pair of jeans and a bra, bound hand and foot. She was screaming something behind a gag of duct tape.

Kravchenko pointed. 'Thank you, Grigor: over there.'

The big man put a hand on the small of Rory's back and shoved, sending him tumbling to the floor. Then Wiktorja was unceremoniously dumped next to him.

Logan thrashed against the concrete. 'Let them go!'

'I am think not.' Kravchenko picked up the knife. 'You will work for me. You will be my ... how is called: eyes and ears? Yes?'

'Thought you already had a bent copper in your pocket.'

Kravchenko frowned. 'What is "bent copper"?'

'A policeman. You've already got some bastard working for you, why do you need me?'

'Ah, I see ... sorry, my English is not so good sometimes.' He unfolded a curved blade from the knife. 'A businessman never have too much staff. So: you will work for me, yes?'

Logan closed his eyes. Screwing them tight, as if that would make them stab-proof. 'Yes. Yes, I'll work for you. Just let everyone go.'

'Good. This is good.'

Logan felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched.

'Now, just in case you are lying ... Grigor, bring the fat one.'

Rory screamed.

Logan opened his eyes. Grigor was dragging Rory across the floor, the little man kicking and struggling all the way, tears streaming down his face. 'DON'T LET THEM HURT ME! PLEASE! PLEASE DON'T LET THEM HURT ME!'

Logan looked up at Kravchenko. 'You've made your point. I'm not lying - I'll do whatever you want. Let him go.'

Kravchenko shook his head. 'First we must take care of Mr Simpson. Grigor?'

'YOU PROMISED! YOU SAID YOU'D... ulk--'

The burly man wrapped one arm around Rory's throat, pulling his head up, the other arm clamped over the top to keep it in place. Now when Rory screamed all that came out was a muffled squeak.

Kravchenko pinched Rory's bottom eyelid between his finger and thumb, pulling it down. 'How can you be eye witness with no eyes?'

Logan: 'You don't have to do this! I said I'd work for you!'

The curved blade shone in the cavernous warehouse. And then it went in, between the lid and the eyeball. A twist of the wrist and blood poured down Rory's face, soaking into Grigor's sleeve. Another muffled scream. And then a bloody eye sailed through the air, bouncing in the dust at Logan's feet.