Blind Eye (34 page)

'Like I said, the men always keep their faces covered, but...' He shifted the mouse, highlighting the corner of the picture, and zoomed in. Now they were looking at a grainy close-up of the not-very-good painting of Union Street. A man's face was reflected in the glass. 'Cameraman wasn't so careful.'

Steel went on squinting. 'It looks like Mr Potato Head! What the hell are we supposed to do with that?'

'What we do with
that
, is send it to my computer geeks. They take the next twenty frames or so and subtract all the pixels that are part of the painting. Composite what's left, clean it up, and Bob's your rapist.'

'I still can't believe you got a warrant based on that.' Rennie parked the pool car and killed the engine. The house was at the end of a moth-eaten cul-de-sac, its garden overflowing with weeds, grass, and a rotting bicycle frame. The houses on either side were even worse: boarded up windows; the corpse of a washing machine; a stack of ruptured bin bags, the contents disappearing into the long grass.

DI Steel sat in the passenger seat, puffing her way to the end of an angry cigarette. 'Aye, well Sheriff McNab might be a sanctimonious old git, but even he's no' going to pass up a chance like this.'

They climbed out into the morning sunshine.

Logan scanned the street. The only visible inhabitant was a grey and white cat, watching them warily from the roof of a plastic Wendy-house.

Rennie marched round to the back of the car and fetched the 'big red door key' from the boot. 'Thing weighs a ton...'

'Don't whinge.' Steel started up the path to the door, with Rennie grumbling along behind her.

Logan waded through the knee-high grass, round the corner of the house and into the back garden. At least this time there wasn't a fence to climb, or a dirty big dog, just a whirly listing at thirty degrees and a collection of mildewed garden furniture. He got into position, and waited for things to kick off.

Three crashes of battering ram against UPVC. Shouts. A thump.

Logan tried the back door - it wasn't locked.

Straight through the kitchen and into the hallway. A man in a brown T-shirt and boxer shorts was sprinting towards him as the front door exploded off its hinges. The man saw Logan and slithered to a halt, socks getting little purchase on the linoleum.

Rennie: 'STOP, POLICE!'

Logan: 'Give it up, Gary.'

Gary: 'Fuck!' He turned and scrambled up the stairs with Rennie in hot pursuit. Logan followed, getting up to the landing in time to see Rennie launch a flying rugby tackle.

The constable slammed into Gary, and they both went down in a heap of flailing limbs and swearwords. An ironing board hit the carpet: creased clothes went everywhere.

Grapple. Struggle.
Clunk
- Gary bounced the iron off Rennie's head. The constable let go, wobbled a bit, then fell over.

Logan fumbled in his pocket for the canister of pepper-spray as Gary struggled to his feet, the iron still clutched in his fist.

'I didn't do nothing!' He wasn't the ugliest person in Aberdeen, but he was having a decent stab at the title. One thick eyebrow, face like curdled milk, patchy beard.

'You just assaulted a police officer.'

'He was breaking into my house!'

'Come on, Gary, don't make it any worse. Put the iron down.'

Gary dropped it, turned, and ran, slamming the bedroom door behind him. Logan scrambled past Rennie, and kicked the door open. Double bed. Black sheets with crusty white stains. Mirrored tiles on the ceiling. Camera lights on tripods. Gary was on top of a chest of drawers by the window, fighting with the catch.

'It's not going to happen, Gary. Give it up.'

Gary swore, then climbed down. Moping his way across the carpet, head down. 'Bloody thing was locked.'

'Well, if you'd just come quietly in the first--'

Gary's knee slammed right into Logan's crotch.

Oh God... He folded in half, clutching his groin as Gary shoved past out onto the landing. 'Unnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh,'

And then Steel's voice bellowed out from the stairwell: 'Oh no you bloody don't!'

35

Logan winced his way through into the hallway. The bathroom door was shut, but there was a lot of swearing and spluttering coming from inside; the sound of the toilet filling, then flushing, then filling, then flushing.

He stood, holding onto the wall, trying to breathe his way through the burning ache in his testicles, just like they'd taught him at the pain clinic. Then knocked on the door.

'Inspector?'

Flush, splutter, swearing, something thumping on the bathroom floor.

'Inspector, are you OK?' He tried the handle and the door swung open.

She was sitting on the edge of the bath, holding Gary by the scruff of the neck, forcing his head into the toilet bowl. His legs flailed about as water rushed by, both arms wrapped around the porcelain. She'd cuffed his hands either side of the U-bend.

The flushing stopped, and she dragged his head back up.

'I'm not going to ask you again.'

'Aaaagh, Jesus!' Then a bout of coughing.

'Who were they?'

'You can't--'

She shoved his head back into the bowl again, and there was a clunk as Gary's face bounced off the porcelain. 'Aaagh! Stop it!'

Steel cranked the flush again, but it just made gurgling noises; the cistern wasn't full enough yet. 'Who were they?'

'I don't know!' His voice was distorted and echoey inside the bog. 'I don't!'

Logan froze. 'What are you doing?'

She looked up. 'How's the balls?'

'Sore. You can't--'

She slapped Gary on the back of his wet head. 'You better pray they're no' broken! If he can't get my wife pregnant...' The cistern was full again.

Flush.

'Aaaaagh!' And then gurgling.

'Stop it!' Logan limped into the small room. 'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

'This is what you do with shite, you flush it down the bog.' She dragged Gary's head back above the rim. 'I said: who - were - they?'

'I can't, they'll kill--' Gurgle, thrash, gurgle.

Logan lurched forwards and grabbed her arm, pulling her off. Gary surfaced again, retching up toilet water.

'Please...'

'Let go of me you daft--'

Logan hauled her to her feet. 'That's enough.'

Gary was crying now, tears and snot running down his wet face. 'Make her stop. Please ... make her stop...'

Steel shook herself free and kicked him in the backside. 'Who were they?'

'Allan Rait and Duane Cowie. OK? Allan and Duane...' More coughing.

Another kick. 'Who sold you the girl?'

'Aaaaaagh, we didn't buy her! We just ... rented...'

And this time there was no stopping the inspector. She leapt forwards, and plunged Gary's head into the bowl again, flushing, holding on for grim death while Logan tried to drag her off.

'She's a HUMAN BEING!'

Splutter, gurgle.

'Stop it!' And then Logan did something really stupid - he slapped her. Just like they did in the movies. Only instead of shaking her head and saying, 'Thanks, I needed that.' DI Steel slapped him back. Hard enough to split his lip.

'The
fuck
you think you're doing?'

But at least she'd let Gary go. He surfaced like a dolphin, only not so attractive, and with a distinct smell of mouldy dog food.

This time the retching brought up a couple of pints of water, and then what looked like a not-so-happy meal. Gary laid his head on the toilet rim and sobbed like a child.

Steel's face was clenched, Logan's handprint beginning to show pink across her left cheek. 'If you
ever
hit me again--'

'You can't do this, OK? You can't!'

'They raped that girl--'

'This isn't the way we do things!'

'Well maybe it
should
be.' She rubbed a hand across her cheek, then kicked Gary again.

Gary dragged in a shuddering breath, tears and toilet water dripping from his face. 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...'

Logan pushed past Steel, getting between her and Gary before she did him some permanent damage. 'Who was it? Who rented Krystka Gorzalkowska out like she was a bloody Transit Van?'

'We got ... we got her from this guy Allan knows. Some Polish bloke...'

'Name.'

'I don't know...'

'
Name,
Gary. I want a name and address, or I'm out of here; you can go back to your swimming lesson.'

'I don't know! I swear, on my mother's grave! I never met him, Allan did all that stuff.' Gary howched up a mouthful of something foul and spat it into the bowl. 'He said they were like a company that did porn actresses and stuff.'

'What company?' Logan got the sinking feeling he knew where this was going.

'Cost Key Internal somethings ... She was two hundred pounds for the day...'

'Kostchey International Holdings Limited.'

Steel was in the back garden, sitting on an upturned wheelbarrow in the long grass, smoking a sulky cigarette. The sound of Radio One wafted over from three houses down - some TV talent show wannabe murdering an Elvis song.

Logan settled back against the wall. 'That was out of order.'

'Rape's a nasty thing, Sergeant. You should try it some time, see how tolerant you are then.' She flicked a little swirl of ash into the still morning air.

'You can't assault a prisoner in custody. Look what happened to DI Insch.'

'Aye, well,
technically
he's no' in custody yet. He's just had an unfortunate toilet-related mishap.' She took a deep drag on her fag. 'He going to press charges?'

Logan looked away. 'I had a word with him.'

'Oh aye?'

'Still got a pile of those Polaroids from Rory Simpson's flat: little girls running about with their panties on show. Told Gary it would be a shame if we find some of them when we search his house. Might not go down too well when he gets to prison.'

'Ta.'

'You owe me.'

'Aye...' The grey cat was back, picking its way along the fence at the bottom of the garden. Steel dug in her trouser pocket and came out with a five pound note. 'Here.' She handed it over. 'For the swear box. Should only be three fifty, but I'm planning on calling Gary a worthless sack of shite a couple of times.'

Logan watched the cat jump down and disappear into the long grass. 'You can't ever do that again, you know that, don't you?'

'Like you said, I owe you one.' Steel ground her cigarette out on the wheelbarrow, then flicked the remains away into the jungle. 'How's Rennie?'

'Got bashed on the head with an iron. Might be brain damaged, but who'd know the difference?'

She hauled herself to her feet, brushing dust and cobwebs from the seat of her trousers. 'Better get on the blower to your mate the fat pornographer. I want to know who these Kostchey International Dickheads are and where I can find them.'

'Already did it. No answer, so I left a message.'

She nodded. 'Right, let's go see what the Little Mermaid has to say for himself.'

Gary was sitting on a ratty brown armchair in the lounge, staring off into the middle distance, hair plastered to his head, T-shirt soaked through all the way down to his waist.

Rennie was perched on the sofa, a bag of frozen sweet-corn clutched to the side of his head. He looked up as Steel creaked down beside him, then handed over his notebook. 'Mobile number.'

Gary sniffed. 'We had to call it when we was finished with the girl.' He raised his cuffed hands and rubbed at his pink eyes. 'They'll kill me if they find out.'

'Oh aye? That'd be
such
a shame.' Steel produced her phone and dialled with her thumb, held the thing to her ear. 'Ringing...'

Gary wiped his nose on his arm. 'You got to get me that witness protection, yeah?'

'Oh don't be so wet. They're just--' Steel stopped, then spoke into the phone, 'Hello?' Pause. 'Aye, got your number from a friend. Said you had ...
women
for hire. You know, for doing films and stuff? ... His name? ... Aye, aye, keep your shirt on, it was Duane Cowie. You... Hello? Hello?'

She clicked the phone shut, pursed her lips, then said, 'Hung up. Some people got no manners.' The inspector slapped Gary on the back of the head again, sending little droplets of water flying. 'Backside in gear, Toilet Boy. Got a nice warm cell waiting for you.'