Blind Eye

25

'Got any spare change?'

Logan stopped in his tracks, and looked down at the figure huddled in the entrance to Lodge Walk — a little alley that ran between the Toll Booth museum and the pub on the corner, connecting Union Street to Force Headquarters. It was a shortcut in regular use by uniform and plainclothes officers. Not the usual place for beggars. And at five to seven on Thursday morning, it was a bit early too.

She was sitting cross-legged on a dirty orange Kenny-from-South-Park-style parka, gazing up at him with panda eyes. She'd done her best to make them match, but the left eye was all swollen, the bruising barely hidden by a thick layer of pancake makeup and too much eyeliner. Bright-red veins spidered their way across the white of her eye, making the pupil look like an emerald floating in a sea of Tabasco. It was Tracey — the girl who'd fingered Creepy Colin McLeod for battering Harry Jordan's head in with a hammer.

She was dressed in a short black skirt and a lacy top that still had the security tag hanging from the side, high-heeled ankle boots, and stockings with more ladders than your average fire station. Someone had broken her nose.

'Oh,' she said, 'it's you…' Tracey stuck out her hand and Logan pulled her to her feet, where she wobbled on four-inch heels. As she bent to grab the parka she'd been sitting on, he caught a flash of skin between her skirt and her top. It was a collage of bruises and welts.

'Been waiting, like, forever.' She ran a hand through her bleached blonde hair. 'Haven't got a fag, have you? I'm gasping.'

'Gave up years ago. What happened to your face?'

She turned and squinted across Union Street at a small flurry of pigeons fighting over a discarded kebab. 'I was wrong, you know? About what happened. It… it wasn't Colin McLeod battered Harry.'

'What?'

'It wasn't him. It was someone else. Colin didn't touch him.'

'You can't just change your statement-'

'I was wrong, must've been off my face or something, you know? Colin was nowhere near the place when Harry got his head caved in.'

'And all of a sudden he's "Colin", not "Creepy"? Tell me, Tracey, would this have anything to do with your new black eye?'

'I was wrong, OK? It wasn't Colin, you gotta let him go!'

'We found a claw hammer in Colin McLeod's garage with traces of Harry Jordan's blood on it.'

'It… We…' She rubbed at her arms. 'You must've planted it. You know? To fit him up, like.'

'You got a visit from Agnes McLeod last night, didn't you? That or a couple of her son's associates, and they helped change your mind about what happened.'

'No! I just remember it better now. It wasn't Colin. It wasn't…' She grabbed for Logan's hand. 'You've got to let him go.'

'We can't do that, it's-'

'How about a blowjob? Right now, on the house like? No? I got girlfriends, we could, you know, put on a show for you? Like an orgy or something? You could do whatever you like, we wouldn't tell no one…' She licked her chapped lips, leaving a smear of saliva behind. The effect wasn't exactly erotic. 'You know you want to…'

'No I bloody well don't.' Logan got a cappuccino and a rowie with butter and jam from the canteen. And as a rowie was, more-or-less, just a croissant that had really let itself go, technically it counted as a continental breakfast. Chewing, he made his way to the morning briefing.

With any luck all that salt and saturated fat would kill him before he had to tell Finnie that Tracey was changing her story.

Halfway down the stairs Logan's phone started ringing. He juggled hot coffee and greasy pastry. 'Hello?'

'Hello? Yes?' A man's voice. 'Is this Detective Sergeant Mackie?'

'McRae.'

'Is it? Oh, sorry. This is Father John Burnett, Sacred Heart… Well, Saint Peter's now I suppose. Erm… I know it's early, but you left a message asking me to call you back?'

Two minutes later Logan was hurrying out of the side door, dragging a moaning Constable Karim with him.

'But I'm supposed to be at the briefing; you know what Finnie's like!' Karim was dressed in the standard Grampian Police uniform: black T-shirt, black stab-proof vest, black peaked cap, black trousers, black boots, and a fluorescent yellow waistcoat with 'POLICE' across the back. Which kind of spoiled the whole ninja ensemble.

Logan punched the keycode into the gate that lead out onto Lodge Walk. 'We're only going to be fifteen minutes.'

'But-'

'You can blame me if it makes you feel any better.'

'Damn right I'm blaming you.' He followed Logan out of the shadowy alleyway and onto Union Street. The sunshine was blinding. 'Jesus!' Karim grabbed his hat and pulled it as far down as it would go, hiding in the shade of the brim — making his ears stick out at right angles. 'Like a sodding microwave out here…'

They crossed the road and headed into the Castlegate, a wide-open plaza of cobbles and pigeon droppings, with the Mercat Cross sitting in the middle like a dirty granite carousel. A pair of tramps were slouched against the hoarding that surrounded the Salvation Army Citadel, basking in the morning sun and sharing a breakfast of white spirit and cigarettes. They waved and cheered as PC Karim went past.

Logan waved back. 'Didn't know you had family in Aberdeen.'

'Oh ha, ha.' The constable sniffed. 'That's Dirty Bob and his mate Richard. Saved them from a kicking last year. They might stink, but at least they're grateful, unlike some people. Broke up a fight outside the McDonalds last night: rival hen parties. Matron of honour called me a Paki bastard and tried to take my head off with a plastic tray. Said I should go back where I bloody came from.'

'What: the exotic, sun-soaked shores of Fraserburgh?'

'Makes you proud to be Scottish, doesn't it?'

St Peter's Catholic Church was hidden away at the end of the Castlegate, between a card-shop-come-printers and a defunct hairdressers. A little recess led between the buildings into a tiny courtyard that stank of bleach and disinfectant.

A pair of big blue doors sat off to one side — beneath a lancet window of unstained-glass — posted with the standard welcome for this part of town: 'NOTICE ~ THESE PREMISES ARE PROTECTED BY CLOSED CIRCUIT TELEVISION SECURITY SYSTEMS'.

Karim marched straight past them and up to the battered wooden door of the parochial house. It opened on a clean, but shabby hallway: primrose walls, white ceilings — the paint blistering and cracked, showing the grey plasterwork beneath. The whole place had an air of neglect Logan hadn't been expecting. It was a long, long way from the opulence of the Vatican. Like a dying relative no one wanted to talk about, let alone visit.

The constable opened a part-glazed door into the main building, and shouted, 'Anyone home?'

A disembodied voice replied, 'Hello? I'm in the kitchen.'

Logan followed Karim into a large room dominated by a big wooden table and units that had seen better days. Possibly during the Crimean War.

There was a man sitting at the table, in front of an open laptop. Early forties; bouffant hair starting to grey at the temples; thin, blue cardigan over a black priest shirt; glasses. 'Constable! How nice to see you again. Did you manage to catch him?'

He stuck out his hand, and Karim shook it, smiling.

'Not yet, Father.'

'Oh, that's a pity… Still, I'm sure you're all doing your best.' He half rose from his seat and offered Logan a handshake too. 'Have we met?'

'DS McRae. Are you Father Burnett?'

'Guilty as charged. Now why don't you both grab a pew and we can have a chat.' Logan and PC Karim sat, listening to the kettle grumbling its way to a boil while Father Burnett went hunting through the fridge.

'Trouble is, we've got an open-door policy, and people will insist on leaving the milk out. Ah, excellent…' The priest emerged with a plastic carton of semi-skimmed. 'Where was I?'

Logan pointed at a framed photo on the kitchen wall: it was Father Burnett, in full vestments, standing in front of Sacred Heart, Torry.

'Right, right. Well, it's been in pretty poor repair for years, but we've finally got the money together to have the place done up properly. So, while it's closed for refurbishment, I came down here to lend a hand. Be four months next Friday.'

Teabags, hot water, milk. He waggled a mug at Logan. 'That about the right colour for you?'

'Perfect. What about your congregation?'

'Ah, therein lies a tale…' He brought the teas back to the table, followed by a tin of Marks & Spencer fancy biscuits. 'Last year we started doing Mass in Polish, twice a week — thought it would make our European friends feel more at home, if they could attend services in their native language. Help them integrate. Trouble is, pretty soon they'd only go to the Polish Masses, so instead of helping them get to know the locals we ended up with a segregated Catholic community that didn't mix at all.'

He slurped his tea. 'Long story short, when we shut Sacred Heart for refurbishment, we thought we'd give it another go. We do the Mass half in English and half in Polish, four times a week.'

'Working?'

'So far. We're packed to the rafters. Literally. You'd think more people would go to the Cathedral, but… well, their loss is our gain.' Father Burnett helped himself to a chocolate biscuit. 'Parishioner of mine brings in a tin every week. Just between you and me, I think they're the spoils of shoplifting, but she's in her eighties, so what can you do?' He offered the tin around again. 'But I'm guessing you didn't come here to talk about Polish integration and pilfered biscuits?'

'Actually,' said Logan, 'we sort of did. Since the Poles started coming to Mass here, have you noticed anyone who's stopped turning up? Someone who used to go to Sacred Heart all the time?'

Frown. 'Can't say that I have.'

'Lives with his mother? Father's dead? Probably used to work in a bar, or a hotel, or on a building site?'

Father Burnett put his tea down. 'What's this about?'

'You've heard of Oedipus?'

'Greek tragedy: murdered his father and slept with his mum — a bit like Fraserburgh-'

Karim sat up in his chair. 'Hey!'

'No offence. Then he gouged his own eyes out with a spoon.'

Logan pulled out a set of photographs, laying them on the table. Each one showed a victim's face, the eyes hollow, scar-ringed sockets. 'I think whoever did this was an active member of Sacred Heart.'

The priest stared at the pictures, then crossed himself. 'Dear God…'

'Has anyone said anything. You know, in confession?'

That got Logan a stern stare. 'The confession is sacrosanct, Sergeant. I couldn't tell you, even if I wanted to.'

Logan picked up a photo at random. 'Luboslaw Frankowski drank himself to death six weeks after this was taken. His health visitor was off sick for a fortnight. When she got back, Luboslaw had been dead for nine days. Alone in his flat in the middle of June… The smell was unbelievable.'

Father Burnett winced. Then sighed. 'I know it's hard to accept, but I can't break the confidentiality of the confession.'

'So if someone came in here, told you he'd blinded seven people then set fire to the sockets… you'd give him what: three Hail Marys and absolve him of all blame?'

'Well,' the priest put the lid back on the biscuits, 'I'd do my best to convince them to go to the police and hand themselves in. But it's immaterial, because no one's confessed to anything like this. And while I couldn't tell you if they had, I can tell you that they haven't.'

A buzzing noise sounded in the hall and Father Burnett glanced up at the CCTV monitor sitting on top of the fridge — a view of the courtyard outside, slowly panning from left to right. 'We get a lot of people peeing in the courtyard after the pubs shut…'

The top of a bald head came into view, standing at the front door.

Father Burnett scraped his chair back and stood. 'Would you excuse me for a minute?'

Logan waited until he heard the front door open and the mumble of muffled conversation, then turned to PC Karim. 'You believe him?'

'Don't see why not. He's a nice enough bloke. Last time I was here, it was a break-in. Someone kicked in a connecting door from the choir loft and ransacked the place. Caught the Father in the bath. Poor sod had to talk his way out of it wearing nothing but bubbles and a smile. Anyway, he's a priest: you can trust him.'

'Thousands of choirboys might beg to differ on that one.' Logan wandered over to the window and looked out on a walled garden. Rose trees at the bottom, a baptismal font in the middle, and a snowdrift of empty carrier bags in the corner. 'If Oedipus really was a member of Sacred Heart, why doesn't Father Burnett recognize the des cription?'

'Too vague?'

'Sorry about that.' The priest was back, a brown paper bag in his hands. He unloaded a collection of glass jars and stacked them in one of the cupboards. 'Golabki: stuffed cabbage leaves. I love this stuff — got a taste for it when I worked in Krakow. Mr Woloskowski brings me some every time his nephew comes to visit.'

Father Burnett closed the cupboard door. 'They're good people, Sergeant. They come over here looking for a better life for their families, they work hard — and yes, I know some of them like to get a bit drunk and rowdy — but deep down… Look if someone's targeting them I want to help. OK?'

'OK.'

Father Burnett gently shepherded them out into the hall. 'I'll put the word out at Mass this evening. See if we can't rustle up some information for you.'

He stopped at the threshold and shook both of their hands again. But he held on to Logan's. 'I know this probably isn't my place, but I do actually know who you are. I read about you and the Flesher case last year.'

Logan opened his mouth to protest, but the priest carried on regardless, 'And I know you probably don't want to hear it, and you're obviously not a Catholic, but if you ever want to talk, please: you have my number.' By the time they got back to the station, the briefing room was empty, just a whiff of stale coffee and cheesy feet to show it had been packed with CID and uniform less than fifteen minutes before. Logan abandoned PC Karim at the main desk and headed up to Finnie's office. Might as well get it over with…

Pirie was there, scribbling things on a whiteboard already crowded with photos, diagrams, and notes: Operation Oedipus in all its going-nowhere glory.

Finnie looked up from a report as Logan closed the door.

'Ah,' he went back to his report, 'DS McRae, how good of you to join us today. Let me guess: you were too busy interrogating your duvet this morning to bother showing up at my morning briefing?'

Pirie sniggered. 'Heh, "Interrogating your duvet", that's-'

Finnie cut him off. 'If I wanted someone to repeat everything I said, I'd buy a parrot.'

The tips of Pirie's ears went bright pink. 'Sorry, sir.'

'Now, DS McRae, care to tell me what was so important?'

Here we go: 'Tracey Hamilton wants to retract her statement. Says it wasn't Colin McLeod who bashed Harry Jordan's head in after all.'

He filled them in on the details, but instead of shouting and swearing, Finnie just sat back in his seat, steepled his fingers and said, 'Excellent.'

'It is?'

The DCI pointed at Pirie. 'How long have I been after the McLeods? Five years, six?'

His sidekick nodded. 'At least.'

'And now it's all paying off. Sod the witnesses: we've got enough forensics on Creepy Colin to send him down for at least fourteen years. Simon's out of commission and blind as a bat. And if your pet tart's been forced to change her story

— we've got a crack at the McLeods' mum for attempting to pervert the course of justice.' He played a little drum roll on his desk. 'This is going to be a good day, gentlemen!'

'Yeah, about that…' Pirie cleared his throat. 'Those paramedics from yesterday made a formal complaint. They say we obstructed-'

'Eggs and omelettes; eggs and omelettes.' The DCI spun his chair round and stared at the Oedipus board, then round to a smaller board with 'CARAVAN FULL OF GUNS ~ TERRORISTS? ~ DRUGS? ~ BANK JOB?' written on it. The word 'DRUGS' had been underlined three times.

'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?'