Blind Eye (10 page)

The finger made another poke. 'Get in my way and you'll be fucking sorry. Understand? He's
my
brother.'

Logan took a step back. 'Don't do anything daft, OK?'

Simon groaned, shifting painfully in his hospital bed. Hilary squeezed his hand, a fat tear rolling down her cheek, taking the last sliver of mascara with it. She wiped it away. 'Please, just leave us alone.'

Outside in the corridor, Logan bumped into the nurse from yesterday. She had heavy black bags under her eyes, and a bedpan in her hands. 'Watch out!' she said, trying not to spill the contents. 'Charging about like an... Oh, it's you.' She straightened the cover on whatever was slopping about in there. 'You don't hang about, do you? I only phoned five minutes ago.'

'Phoned?'

'That woman who got shot: she woke up.'

The blinds in the small ward were down, shutting out the sunshine and the outside world. A young couple were sitting by one of the other beds, the woman crying, the man looking as if he didn't really know where he was. The small child hooked up to the ventilator didn't move.

Only one other bed was occupied - the shooting victim. She didn't look that much better than she had five days ago, still connected to a bank of machinery that pinged and gurgled. Her eyes were shut, but they flickered open as Logan dragged a chair over. He pulled the curtains around the bed, giving the young couple some privacy.

'How are you feeling?'

She looked at him for a while in silence.

Logan tried again, going for the simplest Polish phrase he knew. '
Dzien dobry?
'

'Thirsty...' it was barely a croak.

He poured a small glass of water from the jug by her bedside. 'Here. Take small sips.'

'
Dziekuje
.'

Logan smiled. 'I can't remember what's Polish for "you're welcome".' She emptied the glass and Logan gave her a little more. 'Too much at once and you'll be sick. Trust me, the last thing you want to do is throw up when you've got stitches in your stomach. Hurts like hell.'

'Please not to deport me...' Her English was a damn sight better than Logan's Polish, but he had to strain to hear the words.

'Why would we do that?'

'The ... the man who make me do films, he say he tell police I am prostitute they send me to prison. Deport me. I am sorry...' Her lips trembled, tears welling up in her eyes. 'Please...' She clutched onto Logan's hand - her fingers were cold and pale.

'Trust me, no one's going to deport...' Frown. 'What films?'

'Please, I will being good!' The heart monitor was starting to beep faster and faster.

'Calm down, shh... It's OK, no one's going to deport you. What films?'

'Dirty films. Horrible. I have to make ... with men ... is...' She was sobbing now, great heaving sobs.

The heart monitor sounded as if it was about to explode.

Logan grabbed the nurse call button and stabbed it repeatedly with his thumb. 'Come on, come on.'

He could hear the ward door slam open, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum, then the curtains were flung open and a nurse stormed up to the bed. 'I told you not to upset her!'

The bleeping was getting erratic.

Logan stood. 'I didn't, I was just--'

'Out!
Now
!' She ran a hand across the woman's forehead. 'Shhhhh, it's OK. You're all right. He's not going to hurt you.'

Logan stumbled out into the corridor, lurching out of the way as a doctor hurried into the ward. Then the door closed and Logan was alone.

Brilliant job. First class. Way to go. His one chance to find out if she knew anything about who blinded Simon McLeod and he blew it. When Finnie found out...

He groaned and let his head thunk gently into the wall. A woman was lying in there, seriously ill, and here he was worrying about bloody Finnie.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. 'Excuse please?'

Logan turned to find a small, round woman standing behind him, dressed like a retired schoolteacher.

'She is to be OK, yes? Krystka?'

Oh ... crap. 'You know her? The young Polish woman?'

'My
siostrzenica
. How you say this? Brother's daughter?'

'Niece.'

'Niece? Yes, niece. She come over here to get better job. Stay with me and Fryderyk. Send money home to her family. Now look...' She sniffed.

Logan tried to sound reassuring. 'I'm sure she'll be fine. The doctors here are very good.' They'd better be: he didn't need any more guilt.

'I see her in newspaper as unknown person: my brother's daughter is unknown person. I am so ashamed.'

At least Finnie's appeal for information had been good for something.

'Do you know who she was working for?'

The little woman shrugged. 'She never want to speak about it. Back home she is model for clothes. Very beautiful. Look ...' The woman went rummaging in a handbag the size of a small country, and produced an envelope with 'P
HOTOGRAPHS
D
O
N
OT
B
END
' printed on it. She pulled out a glossy eight-by-ten of a young woman posing in a studio somewhere, wearing nothing but her underwear and a smile. She was stunning. Hard to believe it was the same person lying in the hospital bed.

'Wow.'

'She was most beautiful girl in Wloszczowski... Look what they have done to her.'

Logan turned the photo over, there was something scrawled on the back: 'K
RYSTKA
G
ORZALKOWSKA
' and a mobile phone number. 'Can I keep this?' Adding a hasty, 'I'm a police officer,' just in case she thought he was a pervert.

The little woman looked him up and down. 'You can keep.'

'And you're
sure
you don't know who she worked for?'

'All she say is she work for crocodile man.'

'Crocodile...' Logan closed his eyes and swore.

Steel was waiting for him back in the ward. The old lady in the corner bed had fallen asleep - lying starfish-spread under the covers, snoring.

'Where the hell you been?'

'Find your ring?'

The inspector held up her hand and there it was. 'Must've been off my head last night. Found it stuffed inside a tub of anti-wrinkle cream.'

From the look of things, it wasn't working.

Logan hooked a thumb over his shoulder. 'Got a small detour to make on the way home.'

'Oh, you're kidding me! First you bugger off for half an hour, and now you want to--'

'Got to see a man about a porn film.'

And with that, Steel's face blossomed into a smile. 'Well why didn't you say so?' She hurried past, pulling her Barbie-pink suitcase behind her. 'There's
always
time for pornography!'

10

ClarkRig Training Systems Ltd was an industrial unit hidden away down a little alleyway off Hutcheon Street. Logan parked the inspector's Mazda at the front door, next to a battered Volvo Estate, and Steel climbed out into the sunshine, still clutching Krystka Gorzalkowska's photograph.

Logan locked the car. 'You finished drooling over that yet?'

'I'm no' drooling, I'm assessing the evidence. And you can talk, had to prise it out of your hands with a bloody crowbar.' She stopped and stared up at the ClarkRig sign. 'You sure she was getting forced to make porn films?'

'That's what she told me. Said they'd get her deported if she refused.'

The inspector blew a long wet raspberry. 'Silly cow. She's Polish - a member of our glorious European Union, how are we going to deport her? We can't even deport convicted bloody terrorists.'

'Well, obviously she didn't know that.'

'You know what I think? I think Gorza-le-kowska--'

'"Gorzalkowska". You pronounce an L with a line through it like a W.'

'Aye, thank you professor. If I want a bloody language lesson I'll show up to the ones at the station.' Steel hitched her trousers up. 'As I was
saying
: she's been making porn films and now she's scared her family's going to find out. So what does she do - admit she's in it for the money, or say a bad man made her do it?'

'If she's telling the truth--'

'I'll buy you a big sodding T-shirt with "I told you so" printed on it. That make you happy?' Steel was already heading for the front door. 'Come on. Less talk, more porn.'

Reception was an airy room, the walls covered with safety industry awards and framed DVDs. A pair of ancient film projectors sat in the middle of the polished wooden floor, in matching glass cases. Leather couches, steel coffee tables. Everything gleamed and sparkled. No sign of naked flesh anywhere.

DI Steel marched straight up to the long mahogany reception desk, banged on it with her fist and shouted, 'SHOP!'

A round face appeared from one of the doors behind the desk, bringing with it a cheery smile. 'Can I help you?' She was in her late sixties with dyed brown hair, arms like sides of ham, and as she wobbled towards her chair it looked as if her stomach was giving them a Mexican wave.

Steel stood entranced. 'Bloody hell, it's like--'

Logan took over before the inspector got them thrown out. 'Is Mr Clark about?'

'
Whom
shall I say is calling?'

'Detective Sergeant McRae. We met a couple of--'

'Oh aye! I remember you fine!' She dropped the posh accent and beamed at him. 'You just go straight through, he's in the editing suite.'

Steel raised her eyebrows. 'No' a safety film is it?'

'Oh no.' She winked. 'It's one of our
special
ones.'

The editing suite was a bank of keyboards, dials, sliders and switches, dominated by a dozen flat-screen monitors. All of them full of naked people inserting things into each other. And for some strange reason, everyone was singing. Every time the cameras moved there was a flash of bright blue or green scenery.

Steel paused in the doorway, looking up at the wall of flickering flesh. 'Bleeding heck ...'

'Hmmmph?' The man sitting in the room's only chair swivelled round. He was huge - tall and fat - with little rectangular glasses, a greying goatee, and a trendy haircut that made him look as if he'd dried it sideways in a wind tunnel. He was drinking soup from a mug, leaving little bits of minestrone sticking to his moustache.

He took one look at Logan and a huge smile creased his face. 'Sergeant McRae! It's so
great
to see you!'

Steel stuck her hand out for shaking. 'Hi, Mr Clark, I don't know if you remember me, but we met last year and it was, well, you know, and I wasn't, but then I watched all your films properly and they were, you probably hear this all the time,
really
brilliant, and I must sound like an absolute idiot, but they're just so great.'

He frowned at her. 'Aren't you the--'

'Yes, well, sorry about that, I'm a big fan, Mr Clark. Huge.'

The frown became a smile. 'Then all is forgiven. And please, call me Zander. With a "Z". I'm always delighted to meet someone who appreciates--'

Logan cut straight across him. 'Mr Clark, do you recognize this woman?' He pulled out the photograph.

'Of course I do: Krystka Gorzalkowska.' His pronunciation was perfect. 'Such a shame, she was gorgeous - terrible actress though. Couldn't carry a tune in a rucksack.'

'So you don't deny that she worked for you?'

'More that she
didn't
work for me. She just didn't have that ... spark. You know? People don't have sex in my films, they make love. They have to look happy, joyful, as if this is the best thing that ever happened to them. Poor Krystka always looked like someone just crapped in her borscht.' He sank back into his chair. 'Tried her for a couple of scenes, but it just wasn't working. I had to let her go.'

'She claims she was forced to make porn films.'

'Not by me she wasn't!' He spun round and fiddled with some buttons. All the screens went blank, then blue, a single image stretched to fill them all: the Crocodildo Productions logo, and then a caption, 'SCENE 174B'

It was Krystka, on her knees on a bright blue floor, marked out with a grid of little white Ping-Pong balls. An identical blue surface acted as a backdrop. She and another pneumatic blonde were 'entertaining' a man dressed in a top hat and frock coat. The camera swooped in.

Zander's eyes sparkled with reflected flesh. 'This is going to be my masterpiece. The whole set's digital; I've got a stack of blade servers, a brand-new rendering farm, and half a dozen top geeks. 3D modelling, animation, the whole thing. You should see some of the results we're getting.
Spectacular
.' He took another slurp of soup. 'I'm going to do for Aberdeen what Peter Jackson did for New Zealand.'