Blind Eye

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?'

Finnie sent a box of herbal toothpaste flying. Then went back to his phone call. 'Hello? Hello? Of course I'm still here, what did you think: I was abducted by aliens?'

Logan left him haranguing whoever was on the other end of the phone, and returned to the shattered window.

A black-clad figure was wheezing its way up Victoria Road, helmet clutched in one hand, face bright red and dripping with sweat. The firearms officer Finnie had sent after Hoodie Number One.

The officer staggered to a halt outside the Krakow General Store and collapsed against the wall. 'Ah… Jesus…' Puff. Pant. He dragged out a handkerchief and scraped it across his glistening forehead.

Logan looked around, but there was no sign of Hoodie Number One. 'Please tell me you didn't let him get away.'

'I didn't… I didn't let anyone… anything…'

'How could you let him get away?'

'He… he was… he was wearing trainers…'

'Oh you're…' Logan closed his eyes and swore. 'Trainers? That's it? He was wearing trainers?'

The firearms officer slapped his bullet-proof vest, jiggled his Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. 'You got any… any idea… how much this… crap… weighs?' Wheeze, cough. He waved his helmet in Logan's face. 'And it's all black! I'm… sodding melting here…'

'Oh… bloody hell.' Logan grabbed a bottle of Polish mineral water from the upturned chiller cabinet and handed it to the sweaty officer. 'Here.'

The man unscrewed the top and drank deep.

'Better?'

'The little sod disappeared on Abbey Place — tried to follow him, but there was no sign. Must be miles away by now.'

Logan glanced back at Finnie; the DCI was still on the phone, moaning about how long it was going to take the Identification Bureau to get its grubby Transit Van up here. Then he snapped his mobile shut, and Logan gave him the bad news.

Finnie kicked a packet of washing powder. 'Why am I surrounded by morons? Did I tick the wrong bloody box for room service? I wanted scrambled eggs on toast, but they delivered a family-sized bag of idiots!'

The firearms officer threw his empty plastic bottle on the floor. 'It wasn't my fault! He was-'

'Why the hell didn't you just shoot him?'

'I-'

'Do you think we give you lot guns for a laugh? And you,' Finnie jabbed a finger in Logan's direction, 'why did I hear automatic fire from your team?'

Logan nodded at the officer who'd accompanied him on the chase. 'Ask Rambo here.'

'Yeah?' The constable stuck out his chest. 'At least I managed to get a shot off. Unlike some people.'

'My gun was jammed!'

'Your head was jammed. Jammed right up your arse!'

Finnie threw his hands in the air. 'ENOUGH!'

Silence.

'And what exactly do we have to show for this afternoon's little fiasco? Two officers in hospital; one shopkeeper with a knife in his belly; two hoodies I can't question because they've got concussion; and you…' Finnie's whole face twitched. 'You useless bunch of pricks let everyone else get away!'

No one would look him in the eye.

The DCI pointed at the shop door. 'Get out of my sight.' But when Logan made a move Finnie grabbed him. 'I'm not finished with you yet.'

The two firearms officers sloped out of the shop, across the road, and back to their unmarked Transit Van. A seagull had decorated the windscreen. So Finnie wasn't the only one shitting on them from a great height.

As the van pulled away, the Chief Inspector sank back against the counter and folded his arms. 'I expected better of you, McRae.'

'And what exactly was I supposed to do?'

'Shoot the bad guys! Why is that concept so difficult to understand?'

'There was a kid in the line of fire. Can you imagine what the press would do to us if he'd got hit by accident?'

Finnie opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. 'Fair point.' He scuffed the toe of his shoe through a small drift of washing powder. 'Going to be bad enough as it is…' A look of hope flickered across his face. 'Don't suppose you're still friends with that journalist scumbag?'

Logan shook his head. 'They're on holiday: three weeks in the Maldives. I'm watering the plants.'

The hopeful look vanished. 'Then we're buggered.'