Blind Eye

27

'Well?' Finnie looked up from his newspaper as Logan climbed back into the car.

'Cheese and pickle, or egg mayonnaise?' At half twelve in the afternoon Victoria Road was more like a slice of southern France than a street in Torry. The warm granite glowed in the sunshine, a pleasant breeze off the North Sea keeping it from getting uncomfortably hot.

'Egg.' The Chief Inspector held out his hand and Logan passed him one of the sandwiches, a packet of pickled onion crisps, and a can of Irn-Bru — the metal surface glistening with dew. 'Thanks.' Finnie broke into the sandwich's plastic triangle case, and chewed in silence for a while, staring down the road at the blue frontage of the Krakow General Store. He swallowed, slurped at his can, then said, 'I meant what I said about Wee Hamish.'

Logan peered suspiciously at the sandwich he was left with — all cheese and no bloody pickle. Which just about summed things up as far as he was concerned. 'If he's so dangerous, why'd we go see him?'

'Because… because the world isn't black and white, Sergeant. Sometimes you have to work with shades of grey.'

'Is that what Wee Hamish Mowat is?'

Shrug.

Logan tried his sandwich. It was every bit as dry as it looked. 'Ack…'

Finnie smacked the open newspaper with the back of his hand, making it crackle. 'We're getting another bloody golf course. Can you believe they gave Malk the Knife planning permission? Bloody idiots. The whole thing'll be one big money-laundering operation…' He took a mouthful of Irn-Bru, swilling it through his teeth as if it was fine wine. 'Mind you, surprised anyone wants to come play golf here these days.'

The DCI stuck the front page under Logan's nose. 'Read that.'

Page one of that morning's Aberdeen Examiner: 'STREETS NO LONGER SAFE AS POLICE LOSE CONTROL' with a subheading of 'SERIAL KILLER BLINDING VICTIMS PAEDOPHILE MISSING DRUG VIOLENCE WORSE THAN EVER • WOMAN RAPED IN PARK'.

Finnie chewed for a while. 'Imagine what it's going to be like when they find out about all those machine guns…'

Logan had one more go at his all-cheese-and-no-pickle. It was still dreadful. He jammed it back in the plastic triangle, crumpled it up, and stuck it on the dashboard. 'You got Kevin Murray to make a statement.'

'It's all a matter of leverage, Sergeant. Soon as he saw our little friend from Manchester outside the interview room he was screwed.'

Logan stared straight ahead through the windscreen. 'What about his kids? His mum? What about-'

'Oh, don't be so melodramatic. Your Manchester hoodies turn up to collect their protection money this afternoon, we arrest them. Parole violations, assault with a deadly weapon, threats against minors, resisting arrest — there's no way they're getting bail. So tell me, Sergeant: who's going to hurt Kevin Murray's children? The revenge fairies? Tinkerbell with a grudge? Hmm?'

Logan didn't answer that.

'Exactly.' Finnie ruffled his newspaper back to the sports section. Logan snapped back into consciousness, sitting bolt-upright in the driver's seat. Blinking. Mouth opening and closing on a taste of stale cheese. 'What? What is it? I'm awake…'

Finnie let go of Logan's arm and pointed down Victoria Road. 'There.'

Three men in hooded tops were making a beeline for the Krakow General Store. The Chief Inspector clicked on his Airwave handset as they disappeared inside. 'I want everyone ready to go on my mark. And just in case you're a bit confused, we're not playing Shoot The Civilian today. OK? Are we clear?' He glanced at Logan. 'We've already bagged our quota for the year.'

There was a small commotion at the front door of the shop and an old lady was ejected onto the street. She stumbled to a halt on the pavement, turned, and hurled a torrent of abuse back through the door.

One of the hoodies appeared, shoved a bottle of whisky into each of her hands and told her to bugger off.

Finnie was back on the handset again. 'All right, get ready…'

Shouting.

And then the cash register flew through the shop window. BANG and the glass was a thousand sparkling shards in the sunshine. CRASH and the register embedded itself in the passenger window of a Citroen. Then the air was sliced to ribbons by the blaring car alarm.

One of the hoodies followed the cash register, head first, landing hard on the pavement.

Finnie shouted 'GO! GO! GO!'

On the opposite side of the street, the back doors of an unmarked Transit Van burst open. Four firearms officers staggered out into the afternoon and lumbered across the road, machine pistols at the ready. After baking for three and a half hours in the back of the van they looked knackered. Being dressed all in black probably wasn't helping.

Logan watched Sergeant Caldwell puff and pant her way to the front, line her team up, and give the signal. They lurched their way into the Krakow General Store.

'You sure four's enough?'

Finnie climbed out into the sunshine. 'Three hoodies with knives versus four firearms-trained officers with sub-machineguns. I think we'll be OK, don't you?'

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.