Blind Eye (29 page)

The shouting from the shop got even louder. Polish, Mancunian, and over the top, Caldwell yelling, 'ON THE FLOOR! I'm NOT GOING TO TELL YOU AGAIN!'

Logan and Finnie ran for the shop.

28

Logan skittered to a halt on the glass-scattered pavement and peered in through the smashed window. The little shop was full of struggling bodies, flying fists, pushing, shoving, and foul language. Mr Wojewodzki was slumped back against the wall, staring down at his stomach and the knife handle sticking out of it. Bright red spreading across his white shirt.

Four firearms officers, two hoodies ... and two unidentified men.

One was small and wiry, banging a hoodie's head off the counter, blood and chunky KitKats falling on the linoleum. The other man was huge: at least six foot two, broad as he was tall, with a haircut that could only be described as a receding mullet. For a moment Logan thought they might be customers caught up in the fighting, and then he saw the gun. It was a semiautomatic pistol - large, chunky and black - clutched in the big man's hand.

Half of the firearms team were on the ground, struggling with the hoodie who'd slashed Kevin Murray's face, but the two remaining officers had their submachine guns pointing at Mr Mullet's forehead. Sergeant Caldwell yelled over the screeching car alarm, 'DON'T MAKE ME SHOOT YOU!'

The big man sneered. '
Nie wierze w to...
' and then he was glaring at the bleeding shopkeeper, '
Oklamales mnie!
'

'PUT THE GUN DOWN!'

'
Nie rozsmieszaj mnie.
'

'I'm NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN: PUT THE GUN--' She never got any further, because the small, wiry man dropped the hoodie he'd been battering off the countertop, grabbed a bottle of Grass Vodka and smashed it into her face. BANG. The bottle cracked the safety goggles, broke her nose, then shattered against the edges of her helmet. Glass and liquid went everywhere.

Caldwell staggered, slipped and went crashing down onto the shop floor in a slick of blood and vodka.

Her colleague only looked around for a fraction of a second, but that was enough. Mr Mullet lunged, shoved the sub machine gun out of the way, and jammed his semiautomatic up under the officer's chin.

'Oh Jesus...'

Logan stepped over the hoodie groaning on the pavement, and kicked the door open. The big man swung the gun round.

BOOOM!

Logan dived to the ground and the glazed door exploded in a shower of safety glass behind him.

Nobody moved.

The firearms officer brought his MP5 up again ... then screamed, blood spurting from a jagged slash in his face. The small, wiry man had stabbed him with the broken end of the vodka bottle. The officer let go of the submachine gun and clutched at his cheek. Bright red spattered all around him.

Mr Mullet yanked open a door at the back of the shop and barged through. His partner leapt the counter and followed, slamming the door behind him.

Finnie shouted at the two officers still struggling with Hoodie Number One on the floor: 'What the
hell
are you doing? Go after them!'

They let go of their prisoner.

Mistake.

Hoodie Number One snapped an elbow into one officer's face and kneed the other in the balls, then ran for it. He leapt through the shattered shop window, landed on the glass-strewn pavement, scrambled over the Citroen with the blaring car alarm, and sprinted out onto the road. Arms and legs pumping like a gold medal athlete. A huge truck slammed on its air-brakes, shuddering and hissing to a halt on the hot tarmac, missing him by less than six inches.

Logan scrambled to his feet and ran for the door behind the counter. Just in time to hear something go,
snickt
. The handle wouldn't budge.

Finnie stormed into the shop. 'Get that bloody thing open!'

'It's locked.'

'Then kick it in!'

BOOM - Logan slammed his foot into the woodwork just beside the lock. Nothing. BOOM - again. BOOM - the whole door rattled on its hinges, but stayed resolutely shut. 'It's not moving...' One more go: BOOM. This time there was the groan and creak of splintering wood.

Behind him, Logan could hear Finnie ordering someone to chase the disappearing hoodie.

Last time: BOOM. The door flew open and Logan staggered into a long corridor lined with boxes and crates filled with Polish jars, bottles and tins. A fire exit lay open at the far end.

He took two steps, stopped, then hurried back into the shop.

Finnie stared at him. 'What the hell are you--'

'Gun.' Logan grabbed the stabbed officer's Heckler & Koch MP5, and ran back through the door, down the corridor and out onto a short flight of stairs. It overlooked a large back garden festooned with washing hanging from lines that crisscrossed back and forth between the eight-foot-high walls. A collection of outbuildings lay down one side, leading to an old washhouse with cobwebbed windows.

No sign of the two men.

He hurried down the stairs and out onto the grass, ducking beneath a batch of assorted ladies' underwear. With all the clothes and sheets, it was impossible to see more than four feet ahead. He ducked down and scanned the grass below the washing, looking for feet and legs. Still nothing.

How was he supposed to... Logan froze.

The sound of puffing and groaning came from behind him, getting louder. He span around, snapping the submachine gun up to his shoulder, just in time to see a grim-faced firearms officer limping down the stairs. He had his gun in one hand and his groin in the other, teeth gritted as he picked his way across the grass.

'Are you OK?'

The officer grimaced. 'Right in the bloody balls...'

There was a clang, and what sounded like Polish swearing, somewhere down at the far end of the garden. Logan shoved his way through jeans and towels, enveloped in the plastic-floral smell of fabric softener. But by the time he'd reached the bottom of the garden, there was no one there.

'Sodding hell!'

Maybe they'd doubled back, or were hiding in one of the sheds, or--

Next door, someone screamed.

'How did they get...' Logan drifted to a halt, staring at the old washhouse. The roof slates were covered in a thin layer of green and grey moss, except for a line of scuff marks that stood out dark grey in the sunlight.

The firearms officer limped up next to him. 'What are we--'

'Give me a boost.' Logan waved him over, then stepped into his cupped hands, using the leg-up to clamber onto the sloping roof. From there he could see into next door's garden.

A woman was hunched up on a sun-lounger, towel clutched over her naked chest. 'Bugger off, you dirty bastards!'

Mr Mullet and his friend were already scrambling over the wall on the far side into the street beyond.

'Damn it.'

'What? What's happening? Help me up!'

Logan didn't. He ran up the roof, and jumped off, landing in a small vegetable patch. He fought his way through the purple sprouting broccoli, then ran across the garden. Behind him, he could hear the firearms officer swearing his way up onto the washhouse roof.

The wall on the far side was only six foot. Logan jumped, got his elbows over and hauled himself up as the firearms officer crashed head-first into a steaming compost heap. 'Aaaagh!'

Logan dropped onto the pavement.

He was on Grampian Road: parked cars, trees covered in emerald leaves, four-storey granite tenements with identical gardens of sun-wilted grass. The looming bulk of Sacred Heart Catholic Church sat in the background, still covered in scaffolding.

The street wasn't busy, just an old man walking his dog, a young woman with a pushchair, and a blond-haired kid on a skateboard.

And there - running across the road - the two men from the shop.

Logan yelled, 'STOP, POLICE!
POLICJA!
UNDERSTAND?'

It didn't work. It
never
worked.

Logan ran after them, bringing his borrowed Heckler & Koch MP5 up to his shoulder. 'HALT, OR I
WILL
SHOOT!'

The small wiry one yanked open the driver's door of a battered Mini Cooper and leapt inside. Mr Mullet spun round, his gun pointing directly at Logan's face.

Logan shot him.

Or tried to.

The MP5 just went 'click'.

'Bloody hell!'

Mr Mullet didn't have the same problem. His pistol worked: the bullet ricocheted off the roof of a Fiat Punto three feet from Logan's head.

The woman with the pushchair grabbed her child and ran for the nearest building. The old man hid behind a rusty four-by-four. But the boy on the skateboard just trundled slowly down the middle of the road, staring, mouth hanging open.

There was a grunt and the firearms officer clattered onto the pavement beside Logan. He stank, eggshells and rotten vegetables smeared all over his back and trousers. Another bullet clanged into the Punto.

The officer returned fire, but Mr Mullet was already clambering into the passenger seat. The Mini roared away from the kerb, leaving a cloud of vaporized rubber behind.

'SHOOT THE TYRES!'

They ran out into the road, Logan fumbling with the breech bolt on his MP5, trying to eject the jammed round, while the officer let off two more shots. Both slammed into the car's boot as it accelerated away.

The Mini was heading straight for the boy on the skateboard.

At the last moment it swerved around him, close enough to make his red tracksuit flap as it passed. He turned to watch it, slack-jawed.

The firearms officer said, 'Bugger this...' and thumbed his MP5 onto automatic. BRRRRRRRRRRT. Brass shell casings cascaded onto the street as bullets pinged and clanged into the Mini's boot. Logan lunged, slapping the barrel up.

Silence. Now the only noise was the squealing of tyres as the car fishtailed around the corner onto Glenbevie Road and then it was gone.

The firearms officer turned on him. 'What the hell did you do that for?'

'You've got your gun on automatic, outside, with bloody civilians in the line of fire! What is
wrong
with you?'

'Wrong with me?
You're
the one who let them get away!'

29

The first ambulance roared away from the Krakow General Store, lights flashing as the driver raced to Accident and Emergency. The second ambulance followed thirty seconds later, the wail of the sirens fading into the distance.

Two patrol cars sat on the other side of the road, flickering lights barely visible in the sunny afternoon. A couple of uniforms were making a cordon around the scene, stretching a roll of blue-and-white 'POLICE' tape along a perimeter of orange traffic cones, shutting off this side of the road.

What a disaster...

Logan turned away from the shattered shop window.

The place was a mess of broken glass, bloodstains, and overturned display stands - boxes of Eastern European cornflakes swelling up in a puddle of dark red.

Finnie slapped his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone and scowled at Logan. 'Well?'

'Shopkeeper's touch and go: lost a lot of blood, but if they can get him into surgery ... maybe. Both hoodies have concussion and one's--'

'Do I
look
like I care about the hoodies? What about the bloody firearms team?'

'Oh ... right. Sergeant Caldwell's nose is broken, but other than that she's OK. Banks isn't so good. Paramedic says he's going to need a hell of a lot of stitches, probably a skin graft. He's lucky the broken bottle didn't go in half an inch lower or it would've punctured the jugular.'

Finnie swore and kicked a pack of toilet roll the length of the shop. 'It's a bloody cock-up! Go on then,' he pointed at Logan, 'go on,
say
it.'

'Say what?'

'"Told you so." I should've got a bigger firearms team. Should've had uniform backup. Should've set up a bloody cordon to stop the bastards getting away.' A packet of biscuits followed the toilet paper, crunching against the far wall. 'But
no
, I had to play it low key.' He looked around for something else to kick.

'How were we to know there'd be guns? It was only supposed to be three hoodies from Manchester, we couldn't--'

'Oh, really?
Couldn't
we? You said the shopkeeper was already paying for protection: so what
exactly
did you think he was going to do when someone came in and smashed up the place: bake them a cake? What's the point of paying for protection if you don't use it?'