Blind Eye (27 page)

'Pirie: I want you to get onto your contacts. Yardies, Triads, Northfield Massive, Kincorth Groove Brigade, and anyone else you can think of. I want to know who's trying to move in on the McLeods' territory. McRae: we picked up a tosspot from Manchester last night, trying to flog heroin to a hen night. Steve Preston. Get him in an interview room, and we'll see what he's got to say for himself.'

Logan didn't move. 'I thought Pirie interviewed him last night.'

'No, I had Pirie drag him into an interview room, so he could
accidentally
bump into your Kevin Murray. Wasn't that a
nice
surprise for everyone involved?'

'You did it on
purpose?
'

'Our friend Mr Preston has form for drugs and knife crime. You said Murray was being leant on by drug dealers from Manchester who cut his face.' Finnie held up both palms. 'Hardly rocket science is it?'

'But they threatened to kill Kevin Murray's kids!'

'You just get Steve Preston into room three and let me worry about that.'

'Actually, sir,' said Pirie, 'I was kinda hoping to sit in on the interview--'

'You've got more important things to do.' The Detective Chief Inspector was on his feet and heading for the door. 'We've got a drugs war on its way and a caravan full of automatic weapons. I will
not
have a bunch of incomers turning my city into downtown Basra.'

'Don't play stupid with me,' Finnie leant on the tabletop and glowered at the prisoner, 'we know you did it.'

Logan got the feeling Steve Preston wasn't playing stupid at all, he was the real deal.

'I'm not saying nothin' without me brief.' The Manchester accent sounded a bit rough at eight o'clock in the morning, but it went with the grey face and bloodshot eyes. Whatever he'd been on the night before was long gone, leaving him to cope with reality all on his own.

Finnie folded his arms and pulled his rubbery lips into a pout. 'Oh, I'm
sorry
, did I confuse your little brain the first
four
times I explained this? You'll get a lawyer when
I
say so, not before.'

'Naw, I been arrested loadsa times: I knows me Fookin' rights.'

The Chief Inspector closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. 'For God's sake ... McRae?'

Logan tried again: 'The Scottish legal system's different, Steve. You'll get to see your brief when we're done here.'

'I knows me rights!'

Finnie: 'Why did you want Kevin Murray to torch the Turf 'n Track?'

'Never 'eard of no Kevin Mornay.'

'Really? Because that's not what Kevin Murray says. He says you and your mates threatened to kill his mum and kids if he didn't do what you said. Got his statement right here...' Finnie produced a sheet of paper from a manila folder and slapped it down on the chipped Formica.

Pause.

'Fookin' tosser's lying, ain't he?'

Logan tapped the tabletop. 'You don't remember me, do you, Steve? I was there the night you and your hoodie mates slashed Kevin Murray's face.'

Steve shifted in his seat. 'Nah ... I wasn't nowhere near nothin'.'

Logan stared at the man's hands. There was a DIY tattoo in the webbing between the thumb and forefinger. It was far too small and on the wrong hand to make him Hoodie Number One, but what the hell: 'Sure you were. In fact, I think
you
were the one who cut him.' Logan turned to Finnie. 'What are they giving people for assault with a deadly weapon these days?'

Finnie thought about it. 'Eight years. Ten if you get Sheriff McNab, he's a real bastard.'

'I didn't stab no one!'

'Yes you did,' said Logan. 'And you know what? Detective Constable Rennie saw you too. Two police officers as witnesses, that'll be good enough for any jury.'

'It weren't me! It were Baz...' And then his eyes went wide, and he clamped his mouth shut. 'I mean, I weren't there. And neither was nobody else.'

Logan made a show of writing: 'IT WAS BAZ' in his notebook in big block capitals.

'What? No, you can't write that: I never said it were Baz.'

'We can rewind the tape and check if you like?'

Finnie pulled another sheet of A4 from the folder. 'Where are you staying, Steve?'

'I never said it were Baz! Tell 'im.'

'According to this you're supposed to report to your parole officer every Wednesday morning. In Manchester.' Finnie checked his watch. 'Ooh, looks like you're
not
going to make it. Do you think he'll be
disappointed
when I tell him you've been picked up for drug dealing and attempted murder in Aberdeen?'

'Attempted murder? Wha? No, it weren't me, you said I only stabbed the bastard--'

'The suspect said, "I only stabbed the bastard..."' Logan wrote it down in his notebook.

'Make 'im stop doin' that!'

Finnie sucked a breath through his teeth, like a mechanic about to deliver bad news. 'Not looking good, is it Steve?'

'I didn't do nothin'!'

'Tell you what: why don't we pick up your good mate, Baz, AKA: Barry Hartlay ... oh don't look so shocked, when I spoke to Manchester Police they gave me a list of your known associates.'

'What? No, I--'

'When we play him that bit of the tape where you grass him up, think he'll do the decent thing? Own up and let you off the hook? Like a good mate?'

Steve was sweating, eyes going from Logan to Finnie and back again. 'I... I... You can't... No... He...'

Logan watched him stammer for a while, then a thought occurred. He reached across the table and patted Steve on the arm. Steve flinched.

'Did you know that Polish guy's shop had CCTV?' It was a lie, but there was no harm in trying.

Finnie and Steve both said, 'Polish guy?' at the same time.

'Must've been fun, that: smashing the place up. Looked fun anyway. Jars exploding, pickles going everywhere.' Logan whistled. 'That stupid look on the Polish guy's face when the display cabinet hit the deck... Sweet.'

The sudden change of subject seemed to confuse Steve for a second, and then an appalled look crawled all over his face. 'There was
cameras
and that?'

'Oh, yeah.' Logan leant forward and dropped his voice to a loud whisper, 'Got a great shot of you smashing stuff.'

'There wasn't supposed to be no cameras...'

'Mind you, the shopkeeper told me you were all a bunch of Jessies; said he could take you with one hand tied behind his back. Not going to give you a penny.'

Steve collapsed in his seat, hands covering his face. '"Come to Aberdeen," he sez. "Take over no problem," he sez...'

'Apparently next time you and your gay-wad mates show up, he's going to spank the lot of you.'

'Yeah?' Steve came out from behind his hands, scowling. 'We'll see if he's so Fookin' brave this afternoon, then! See if he's got the stones to stand there and... What you smiling for?' He sat back and frowned at Logan and Finnie. 'What?'

26

Finnie sat in the passenger seat, watching Logan out of the corner of his eye. 'There never was any CCTV in that shop, was there?'

'Nope.' Logan smiled and pulled out to pass a bendy bus that had stopped to pick up passengers. 'Shopkeeper said four hoodies trashed his shop, I thought it was worth a punt. Just like you did with Kevin Murray.'

The DCI nodded. 'You're learning, good.' He let the patronizing compliment hang in the air for a moment. 'And you're sure these hoodies are going to be armed?'

'Knives and machetes.'

'Good. Nothing worse than begging a firearms team then have them sitting about twiddling their thumbs.' He dug something out of his pocket and handed it over when Logan pulled up at the lights. It was a photocopy of an Oedipus note. 'Came in this morning.'

I can not help you any more!!!
I have
tried and tried
but you will not listen! I cut out their
filthy eyes
, while you do nothing!!
You are deaf and they are blind!

What happens now is
YOUR fault!!!
I am the burning of
GOD
and salvation will be mine!

Logan handed it back as the lights went green. 'Eleven exclamation marks: he's getting worse.'

'That's the third note in three days. Before it was one, maybe two a week. Dr Goulding says our boy's escalating.'

There was silence.

And then Finnie cleared his throat, looked out of the window, and said, 'I'm open to suggestions.'

'Ah...'

'I don't care how daft it sounds.'

Logan took them up Mid Stocket Road and across Anderson Drive, heading towards Mastrick. 'I spoke to one of the priests at St Peter's this morning.' He filled the DCI in on his chat with Goulding about Oedipus being a religious nut. 'You know what Aberdeen's like. Used to be the most secular city in Scotland, but a lot of these Eastern Europeans are devout. Been a windfall for the Roman Catholic churches, they've actually got bums on pews for a change. Goulding thinks our boy feels squeezed out.'

Finnie stared at him. 'Believe it or not, I
did
actually think of that. Pirie checked every church, mosque, and synagogue in Aberdeen. No joy.'

Damn. Now Logan would have to think of something else to make the DCI put him forward for that promotion. 'Well ... how about the victims then? We could put a bit of pressure on? See if they'll cooperate?'

Finnie waved a hand, as if wafting away a bad smell. 'I've already got Pirie doing that on a regular basis, they won't budge. They're terrified.' He pointed through the windshield. 'Take a right here.'

They parked in the shadow of a tower block. Mastrick wasn't exactly Logan's happy place, but it looked a lot nicer in the sunshine than it did in his nightmares. A breeze caught a small drift of empty crisp packets and crumpled pages torn from a lad's mag, sending them into a whirlpool dance of salt and vinegar and half-naked women.

A couple of old men shuffled their way across the road, dragging an unhappy-looking terrier between them, the dog whining and scrabbling against the tarmac.

Logan locked the car, then looked around. 'Why are we here, exactly?'

'Just let me do the talking,' said Finnie, leading the way across a patch of grass. 'And for God's sake, try not to piss anyone off.'

It was little more than a collection of squat concrete buildings, encircled by a rusting chainlink fence. A workshop, a garage, a small two-storey office block with not enough parking space, and a couple of warehouses. A bottle-green Jaguar XJS was up on the ramp inside the garage, a shower of electric-blue sparks marking out some serious welding going on. Old-fashioned accordion music echoed out between the flashes.

And then there was silence.

A pale face watched them from the other side of the car, and then its owner stepped out into the sunshine. He was huge, at least twenty stone, squeezed into grubby blue overalls, wiping his hands on a rag as he waddled towards them. 'Yeah?' The man's face was a topographical map of scar tissue and fat, a patchy beard struggling to conceal the damage. He stank of motor oil and ozone.

Finnie nodded a greeting. 'Reuben. Is Wee Hamish in?'

The man mountain looked them up and down. 'Depends, doesn't it?'

'Like a word.'

'Aye, I'll bet you would...' He stared at them for a little longer, then lumbered towards the shabby office block. They went to follow him, but the big man stopped dead, turned and pointed at Logan. 'Where the fuck you think you're going?'

'I'm--'

'No you're not. You're staying right there.'

Finnie patted Logan on the back. 'Don't go anywhere. Fidget doesn't like people wandering around his yard.'

Logan raised an eyebrow and the DCI pointed towards the dark interior of the garage, where the rectangular head of a Rottweiler glared out of the shadows. 'He's called Fidget, because if you don't stand perfectly still he goes for you.'

Logan stood on the forecourt, trying not to make any sudden movements. Bloody hell: Wee Hamish Mowat...

Fidget the Rottweiler lumbered out to the garage door and thumped himself down in the sunshine. He was huge. And unlike the McLeods' second-hand Alsatian, Fidget definitely looked as if he could outrun an out-of-shape Detective Sergeant. And then eat him.

It was probably only ten minutes, but it felt like hours before Reuben the man mountain returned, hooking an oil-stained thumb over his shoulder at the offices. 'You: inside.' And then he went back to his welding.