Blind Eye

19

By the time they'd made it across town to Mrs McLeod's rose-encrusted bungalow in Garthdee it was just after midnight and the rain looked as if it was settling in for the duration. The pool car's radio chattered away to itself, playing the symphony of Aberdeen after the pubs shut: drunk and disorderly, assault, theft, vandalism, more assaults. And then the voice of Team Two came through with a report on what was left of the Turf 'n Track.

Finnie picked up the handset and said, 'Nothing, you're sure?'

'Aye, place is deid. No sign of oanybiddie, just a burnt oot shell, like.'

The DCI switched the thing off, then climbed out of the car and into the downpour.

'Actually,' said Pirie, following him, 'we don't have a warrant to search the mother's house, so-'

'I'm not searching the mother's house; I'm here to inform her that her son's home has been broken into. And if I just so happen to spot the little sod while I'm here, I'll arrest him.' He stopped at the gate, looking up and down the street for something. 'Pirie, you stay out front. McRae, you're round the back in case Creepy Colin does a runner.' And then Finnie marched right up to the front door and started banging on it with his fist.

Logan had to scrabble up the path, across the front of the house, and round the side… He stopped at a six-foot fence with a wrought iron gate set into it, secured with a dirty big chain and padlock — as if anyone would be daft enough to steal from the McLeods' saintly mother.

Logan stuck one foot in the trellis nailed to the wall, and used it to scrabble over the fence, coming down in the pitch black of the back garden.

He stood in silence for a minute letting his eyes adjust to the dark as the rain soaked through his jacket and trickled its way down his back and into his underwear. There was a shed off to one side; a clump of fruit trees, already groaning under the weight of plums; a climbing frame and a plastic chute for the grandchildren; and a couple of sinister gnomes, lurking in the gloom. Rumour had it that good old Tony McLeod used to buy his wife a new gnome every time he personally introduced someone to the Grim Reaper. Logan could see at least ten from where he was standing.

He could hear Finnie's voice booming out from the front of the house, calling for someone to come open the door. Like that wasn't going to make Colin do a runner if he was inside.

'Come on Mrs McLeod, let's not mess around, shall we?'

Logan snuck along the wall, ducking down as he passed beneath the black hole of the kitchen window.

Rain bounced off the patio's paving slabs, soaking into Logan's shoes as he crept into position between the kitchen and the conservatory. Creep, creep, creep, SQUEEEEK!

He froze, one foot on top of a small rubbery lump.

Something shifted in the shadows.

Oh fff… Logan raised his foot slowly and the thing he was standing on went, WheeeeEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEK!

The something in the shadows started growling. It wasn't the kind of noise a little terrier in a tartan raincoat made, it was a full-on Great-Big-Sodding-Monster growl. Winchester — the huge Alsatian from the Turf 'n Track.

'Nice doggy?' No it wasn't, he'd seen the mangy, vicious thing before. It was like a rabid mincing machine on legs.

And then the kitchen door burst open, slammed into the house wall, and a figure exploded into the back garden. Two security lights cracked into life, giving Creepy Colin McLeod a perfect view of his escape route as he sprinted for the side fence.

Round the front, Finnie shouted, 'COME BACK HERE!' but Colin kept going. So Logan went after him, praying to God they kept the Alsatian chained up.

They didn't.

Winchester was even more scary in the light than he'd been in the dark, foam flying from his grey muzzle as he charged through the downpour. Barking, snapping.

Colin made it to the fence and threw himself over.

Logan ran for it. Vaulted the plastic slide, and scrambled up the fence.

Too slow.

He came to a sudden stop, one leg already over the top, the other weighed down by a half-ton of angry wet Alsatian.

'GET OFF ME!' He kicked out, but it barely moved.

Winchester shook his head back and forth, and then a miracle happened. Logan's trouser-leg gave with a loud ripping sound, and the dog fell back into a rosebush. Crackle, whimper, snarl. Logan dragged his leg over and dropped into the neighbour's garden before the dog could have another go.

Just in time to see Colin McLeod charging through a wall of dark leylandii on the other side.

Logan ran after him — through the damp, scratchy hedge, across an anonymous garden. Over a box hedge, through another garden, then a creaky panel fence into what looked like a huge vegetable plot. Yellow streetlight showed a trail of destruction across two dreels of tatties, a row of leeks, and a patch of broccoli. But it was the runner beans that had done for Colin McLeod; he was thrashing in the mud, trying to disentangle himself from a duvet-sized chunk of green plastic netting and bamboo canes.

Swearing, he dragged himself to his knees and slithered through the mud towards the next fence, but Logan got to him first. They crashed into a greenhouse, plastic glass splintering as the frame buckled. A clatter of tomato plants and pots. A rake, fork, and spade clanged onto the concrete path.

Light spilled across the garden, as someone threw open the kitchen door and shouted, 'Get out of it you little buggers! I've got a gun! Do you hear me? A gun!'

Logan opened his mouth to shout, 'Police!' but all that came out was a painful grunt as Colin McLeod's elbow slammed into his face. Blood.

Another elbow — right in the temple — making the world swim in and out of focus.

Logan let go, and Colin struggled to his feet, lurching off balance. The sound of police officers crashing through the back gardens was getting louder — shouting and swearing their way through hedges and over fences in the pouring rain.

Colin turned to face the noise. Then turned back to kick Logan in the head.

Only he never got that far. There was a soft crack and the big man froze, teeth gritted, eyes open wide. Then he clutched at his buttock and went, 'Aagh, FUCK!'

'I told you I had a gun, you little bastards! Get out of my garden!' Then came the sound of an air rifle being broken and racked again.

Colin turned and limped towards the householder in a barrage of foul language.

Crack — only this time the shot went wide, bouncing off the crumpled greenhouse.

The man said, 'Oh God…' then jumped back inside and slammed the door.

Logan scrabbled around in the sudden darkness, grabbing the rain-slicked handle of some fallen piece of garden equipment, then staggered upright. 'Colin McLeod, I'm arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder-'

Creepy Colin ignored him, hurpling towards the side gate and the road, one hand clamped to his backside.

'-you do not have to say anything… ah bugger it.' Logan raised his makeshift truncheon, the yellow streetlight glinting on the flat face of the spade, and swung it at the back of Colin's head.

CLUNK.

The big man went face-down in a patch of muddy strawberries and stayed there.

Logan dropped the spade and slumped against the fence. Spat out a mouthful of salty blood. And listened as DS Pirie struggled his way out of the last hedge, just as DCI Finnie was rattling through the gate. They both came to a halt, staring down at Colin McLeod's unconscious body.

Logan coughed, spat more blood, and probed his swollen lump. His head was pounding from the elbow in the forehead. His trousers were clarted in mud, one leg ripped to the knee. 'You took your time.'

Finnie nudged Colin in the ribs with his shoe, then scowled at Logan. Held up a pair of fingers. 'That's two.'

The householder was peering out at them from the safety of the kitchen window. 'I've called the police!'

'I wanted to question him!'

'Yeah, well… he wanted to kill me, so-'

'Oh, I'm sorry. Did I not make myself clear, Sergeant McRae? Were you confused by why we were after Colin McLeod? Or did you think it'd be easier to question him if he was un-bloody-conscious?'

'What? I stopped him, didn't-'

'Don't you dare answer back! When I tell you to-'

'No!' Logan pushed off the fence, lurching forwards till he was nose-to-nose with the DCI. 'You listen to me: I have had enough of your bloody sarcasm. You asked me to watch the back garden: I watched the back garden. And when Colin did a runner I chased him and I stopped him. If it wasn't for me, the bastard would've got away.' His voice getting louder and louder till he was shouting in Finnie's face. 'So I'll answer back if I bloody well like!'

Silence.

The Detective Chief Inspector took a step back, then held up another finger. 'That's three.' And a smile spread across his rubber-lipped features. 'About bloody time too!'

Logan opened his mouth, then shut it again. 'What?'

But Finnie had turned to DS Pirie. 'Was I right? Didn't I tell you?'

'Yup.'

'Tell him what?'

No answer. The DCI just sauntered from the garden, ordering Pirie to 'Escort that back to the station,' as he passed Colin McLeod. Pirie did as he was told, leaving Logan all alone in the ruined back garden. Soaking up the rain.

'What?'