Blind Eye (6 page)

Steel gave it one last try, 'But I've got prisoner in tow--'

'Some poor sod's probably getting murdered, and you're buggering about wasting time!'

Steel took her thumb off the transmit button and indulged in the kind of language that would make a social worker blush. 'Fine, we're on our way. You happy now?'

Logan started the car, drowning out the sarcastic response.

Primrosehill Drive was a curving line of large, semidetached houses with big gardens and four-by-fours in the driveways, sweltering beneath the hot sun. Logan killed the siren, and asked Steel for the address again.

She squinted out at the street. 'There, on the left: that one. Looks like a building site.'

Two storeys of grey granite, almost invisible behind a forest of scaffolding and tarpaulins. The garden was home to a cement mixer, a JCB digger, a pile of rubble, and a bright blue porta-potty. A battered green skip sat on the road outside, orange cones and planks of wood blocking anyone from parking in front of the house. Logan pulled up as close as possible.

'What now?'

Steel smacked him on the arm. 'What do you think? We charge in and save the day. Picture in the paper. Medals. Dancing girls.' She turned in her seat and poked at Rory. 'You stay here. Don't move. If I think you've so much as farted while we're gone I'm going to take your goolies off with a potato peeler. Understand?'

She took out a pair of handcuffs and slapped one side on Rory's right wrist, then dragged him forwards until he was bent double in the foot well.

'Hey!'

'Oh don't be such a whinge.' She poked the cuffs through the metal struts securing the driver's seat to the car floor, then fixed Rory's other wrist in place. He was well and truly stuck.

'Surely there's no need for this, Inspector, you know I won't--'

'Shut up before I change my mind and lock you in the bloody boot.'

She smacked Logan again. 'What you waiting for?'

They climbed out into the sunshine.

The only sound was the distant drone and rumble of traffic on Great Northern Road. No screams.

They picked their way through the churned up dirt, skirting a stack of breezeblocks. The front door was poking out of the skip at the kerb, leaving the hallway a gaping black hole.

Logan pulled out his Airwave handset. 'DS McRae to Control, I need backup to Primrosehill Drive--'

'You are
such
a bloody Jessie...' Steel took another look at the dark hallway. 'Come on then,' she said, pushing Logan ahead of her, 'you go first.'

Logan swore and pulled out his little canister of pepper-spray. According to Control there still weren't any patrol cars free. They were on their own.

Steel gave him another shove and he stumbled over the threshold.

Gloom.

The builders had ripped everything back to the bare granite, and started again from scratch. Wooden stud-frames had been fixed in place with enormous masonry screws, lining the walls. Stiff ribbons of grey mains wiring were laced through holes in the joists, stretching out in hanging loops across the ceiling.

The chipboard flooring creaked beneath Logan's feet as he crept inside.

First left: the living room was empty. A green tarpaulin had been stretched over the glassless window, shrouding everything in mouldy shadows. No sign of anyone. Dining room: empty. Downstairs toilet: empty, just the hole where a WC was supposed to go and a couple of plastic pipes poking out through the floor. The kitchen was little more than a storeroom for piles of wood, boxes of tiles, bags of concrete, thick rolls of Rockwool insulation, and sheets of plasterboard.

Logan worked his way back to the stairs and started to climb. If anything it was even darker up here. It looked as if the builders had started their renovating job on this floor: the granite walls were already clad; doors hung; double glazing in; architrave, windowsills and skirting nailed in place. Logan froze on the top step and whispered, 'Did you hear that?'

'What...?' Steel frowned. 'Why the hell are we creeping about?' She took a deep breath, 'POLICE! Come out with your hands up and no one has to get hurt!'

A voice sounded in one of the bedrooms: '
Kurwa!
'

A figure exploded out of the open bedroom door - large, male, it was difficult to tell much more than that in the dark. He had something in his hand. Something long, that glinted in a rogue sliver of light. Crowbar.

He tried to take Logan's head off with it, swinging the thing like a broadsword.

Logan ducked and it whistled by close enough to ruffle his hair before embedding itself in the plasterboard. Logan slammed his fist into the man's stomach.

He didn't collapse and roll about on the floor in agony, he just grunted and yanked the crowbar out of the wall, taking a puffball of Rockwool with it.

Oh God...

Logan flipped the cap off his pepper-spray and gave him a liberal dose in the eyes.

'Aaaaghh...
Matkojebca!
'

It was close quarters. Too close. The jet hit and spattered back off the man's face, a mist of stinging liquid that coated everything within a three-foot radius. Including Logan.

'Ah, Jesus!' It was like being sandpapered with dried chillies, his eyes were on fire, he could barely breathe.

The crowbar smashed into the balustrade, bounced, and went spiralling down the stairwell.

Steel swore.

Clang, crash, bang, wallop.

When Logan peeled his eyes open again, the man at the top of the stairs was just a blurry figure: on his knees, swearing and panting.

God that stuff
stung
...

Steel shoved past Logan shouting, 'POLICE! Get your arse--' She smashed backwards into the balusters with a splintering crack.

Logan staggered against the wall, trying to peer through the pain and tears as a second figure loomed at the top of the stairs. Logan dragged up the canister of pepper-spray. 'You! Face down on the ground!'

The man stepped forwards, right arm whipping out, grabbing Logan's spraying hand and twisting it back on itself.

Logan swung a left hook, but the man blocked it, took hold of the sleeve and yanked him off balance.

'Let go you bas--'

A knee slammed into Logan's stomach, and his world went from bad to worse. The pepper-spray was painful, but this was agony, tearing across his scarred abdomen. His legs gave way.

A hand wrapped itself into his hair, pulling his face up.

Even through pepper-spray blur the silhouette was unmistakeable: a semiautomatic pistol. The man pressed the barrel against Logan's forehead, cold metal on hot skin.

At this range the bullet would leave a little burnt halo around the entry wound as superheated gas forced the chunk of copper-jacketed lead out of the barrel and into Logan's skull. The hole would be about the same size as a garden pea on the way in, bigger than a grapefruit on the way out, spreading grey and pink and red all over the nice new plasterboard walls.

Logan closed his stinging eyes.

And then the Airwave handset in his pocket went off, the voice of Control announcing that backup was on its way.

The man let go of Logan's hair and patted him on the cheek.

'You are lucky boy today,' he said in a heavy Eastern European accent. 'I let you live. You remember this.'

Then he was gone, dragging his fallen friend with him.

6

Logan knelt on the floor with his forehead resting against the cool chipboard. He was still alive... Oh thank God.

He could hear the gunman and his friend thumping down the stairs; Steel groaning; a magpie cackling somewhere outside; the blood singing in his ears. Fear-induced adrenaline made his whole body tremble.

Maybe now would be a good time to be sick?

A crash sounded from downstairs and Logan struggled to his feet, forcing his wobbly legs to take him to the big window at the far end of the hall. It was double-glazed, the glass covered in blue plastic to keep it clean and scratch free while it was being installed. He twisted the handle and wrenched it open. The world was a blurry haze. Logan wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and squinted through the tears.

The gunman had made it out of the front door - he was half dragging, half carrying his friend across the dry mud of the drive.

Logan scrubbed at his eyes again, but the two men wouldn't stay in focus. And then they were on the pavement and the tarpaulin-draped scaffolding that covered the house hid them from view.

He clambered out of the window and onto the little walkway of boards outside. They bounced beneath his feet as he staggered to the outer edge, yanking back a green tarpaulin sheet. Logan took a deep breath and yelled: 'STOP POLICE!'

They didn't even turn around. The two blurry figures hurried along the pavement towards the CID pool car: the one with Rory Simpson handcuffed in the back.

For a brief moment Logan caught sight of a pale blob - Rory's face, peering up from the gap between the front and back seats - and then the gunman and his friend were past.

They disappeared from view, and the sound of a car starting echoed up from the street below. The engine roared, the wheels spun, and it accelerated away: getting out of there before the sound of distant sirens got any closer.

They were gone.

Logan staggered back to the landing, where Steel was lying slouched against the cracked woodwork of the banisters, head lolling, making incoherent mumbling noises.

'Inspector? Are you OK?'

'Nnnffff ... can't find my hat ... mphhhh...'

Logan dug out his Airwave handset and called Control, telling them to get an ambulance over here ASAP. He slumped back against the banisters next to Steel, listening to the background chatter of the control room as it got everything organized.

His stomach ached, the initial biting pain settling down to a dull throb. His face wasn't much better. No doubt about it - they came, they saw, and they got their arses kicked.

Logan stared through the open doorway into the darkness of the bedroom the gunman had burst out of. There was something lying on the floor.

He grunted his way to his feet and wobbled into the room.

It was a large bedroom, complete with ensuite shower, he could just make out the tiles glittering in the gloom. The whole place smelled of scorched meat.

The something lying on the floor was a man, smoke curling up from the holes where his eyes used to be.

He was large, heavily built, muscle just starting to turn to fat. Half of his left ear was missing. Simon McLeod.

Logan didn't think it was possible, but today had just got even worse.

The ambulance sat on the road beside the skip, flanked by a pair of patrol cars. Half a dozen uniformed officers were already going door-to-door. Logan watched their fuzzy, out-of-focus figures from the tailgate of the ambulance, while a paramedic rummaged about in the back.

'Right,' said the man, dressed in a wrinkly green jumpsuit, 'head back and we'll wash that crap out your eyes.'

Logan did as he was told, and instantly regretted it. The stinging pain had been easing off a little, but now it was back at full strength. 'Ahh, Jesus!'

'Hold still...'

And gradually it began to subside. He could actually see by the time they were walking DI Steel out of the house. They helped her into one of the ambulance beds. She sat there swaying back and forth as they checked Simon McLeod was securely strapped into the other bed. Unconscious and hooked up to a heart monitor.

'OK,' said the paramedic who'd washed out Logan's eyes, 'we've got to get going.' He shouted through to the driver. 'Lights and music, Charlie!'

Logan hopped down off the tailgate, said, 'I'll follow you up there,' then marched over to the CID pool car. Trying to pretend he wasn't still in pain. He climbed in behind the wheel, starting the engine as the ambulance pulled away - lights and sirens blazing in the sunny afternoon.

Rory's voice sounded from the back, 'What happened?' He was still handcuffed to the seat support.

'You saw them, didn't you? You must have been looking right at them when they passed.' Logan stuck the car in gear, accelerating after the ambulance as it turned right onto Leslie Road.

'I... What did they do? We--'

'I want a description.'

The speedometer hit fifty as they screamed through the roundabout and onto Westburn Drive.

'Aaaagh! Slow down! I haven't got a seatbelt on!'

'Did you see them or not?'