Blind Eye

34

'Come on, just a little sperm, you'll no' miss it, will you?'

Logan turned off the engine. 'Can we just go one day without the sperm talk?'

The ClarkRig Training Systems Ltd car park was busy today, he'd had to squeeze the CID Vauxhall in between a Nissan Skyline and a filthy minibus with 'BRUDAS ~ STRONG TEAM!!!' finger-painted in the grime. There was only just enough room to open the doors.

'Don't be so wet.' Steel popped another little white pellet of nicotine gum, chewing with her mouth open as they marched over to the entrance.

The old lady on reception told them Zander wasn't in his editing suite today, he was filming. Then she ushered them through in to the studio.

It looked a lot like a converted warehouse, because that's what it was. A large soundstage sat in the middle of the space, everything painted in the same shade of bright blue and covered in a grid of little yellow markers. There was a half-sized humpbacked bridge made of chipboard; two rows of boxes for a riverbank; and a pair of plastic Victorian lampposts, the kind you got in DIY stores for the garden. A big lighting rig hung above everything, showering it in a golden glow.

The only things onstage not painted Chroma Key blue were the three people on top of the bridge. Two women, one man, grinding away, stark naked.

Steel froze. 'Oooh… will you look at that…'

A camera swooped in on the end of a long, counterbalanced pole, worked by two blokes who wouldn't have looked out of place in a zoo.

Someone pressed play, and music belted out of a portable stereo.

As Logan watched, a small rowing boat slid out from beneath the bridge. There were little men in the boat. Little men dressed in white dungarees, brown turtlenecks, and white gloves. Little men with orange faces, white eyebrows, and green hair.

Logan blinked twice, but they were still there. 'Oh, you have got to be kidding.'

And then they started to sing. 'What do you get with a dose of VD? An itch in your crotch, and it burns when you pee, I bet you wish that you'd worn a condom, Now we are singing our song, Humpa Lumpa…' Steel stood, rooted to the spot, with her mouth hanging open. Making giggling noises.

When the song was finished, someone yelled 'Cut! Well done everyone; let's get set up for the next shot.' Zander Clark hauled himself out from behind a monitor and marched towards the bridge and its naked tableau.

'Doug, I want you to remember your motivation in this scene, OK?'

Doug stopped what he was doing, and turned to face the director. 'How come I'm the only one who doesn't get a song?'

Logan followed Steel onto the set as the director hummed and hawed for a bit. 'Well, you see, Doug… you know personally I think you're fabulous… But it's-'

'Excuse me, Mr Clark,' said Logan, stopping just short of where the fabulous Doug was playing with himself, 'but can we have a quick word?'

Zander, threw his hands in the air and made a noise like a dying balloon. 'How am I supposed to create when…' He stopped. 'I know that voice.' The director turned with a huge smile on his face. 'Sergeant McRae, Inspector Steel, how nice to see you again. Did you enjoy the films?'

'I mean, doesn't have to be a big song or anything,' said Doug, still keeping his lower portions amused, 'I just want-'

'Hoy!' Steel grimaced at Doug's erection. 'Don't point that thing at me. Might go off.'

'Anyway,' Zander clapped his hands, 'I'm sorry to be rude, but we do have a shooting schedule to stick to. So…?'

'Ah, right.' Logan dug the DVD copy from his pocket. 'We wanted you to take a look at this.'

'Really?' He turned the disk over in his thick fingers, the overhead lights sparking off the silver surface. 'I could probably run through it tonight, if you like?' And then he frowned, reading the label. 'Ah.'

'We wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.'

Fabulous Doug coughed. 'Is this going to take long?' He nodded in the direction of the fire escape, and mimed smoking a cigarette with his free hand. 'You know?'

The director nodded, not taking his eyes off the disk. 'Just make sure you keep your robe fastened this time — don't let anyone see you playing "keepy-up".' Zander turned to cast and crew. 'We're going to take a short break, people. I want you back here and ready to go in forty, OK?' The editing suite was in darkness, just the flickering pink light coming from the bank of monitors as Zander Clark played 'KRYSTKA GET'S F*CK~D DIRTY 3-WAY!!!*!'. Finally the screens went black and he clicked on an Anglepoise lamp.

'That was horrible. I mean, not just the production values — which were dreadful, by the way — but the whole thing.

Who on Earth wants to watch something like that?'

Steel: 'Recognize anyone?'

'Apart from Krystka?' He picked at the skin around his thumbnail. 'Both men are amateurs — they completely messed up the money-shot. Camera's not even high definition, probably a home camcorder thing. The worst sort of gonzo operation. And it's obviously not legal: even if the rape's simulated, there's no titles or BBFC classification.'

Steel's voice was alarmingly level. 'You think it's simulated? They were just faking it?'

Zander put his coffee down and rubbed at his face. 'I wish they were. But Krystka, God bless her, just isn't that good an actress.' He drooped. 'I should never have let her go…'

Logan tapped the nearest monitor. 'You've no idea who might have filmed this?'

'No. And believe me if I did, I'd tell you. The last thing we need is sick crap like this giving erotography a bad name. Doesn't Krystka know?'

'She won't talk: too scared.'

'Well… can't you analyse it? Don't you have police scientist people for this kind of thing?'

'Aye,' said Steel, 'if we want to wait three months.'

'OK.' The director took a deep breath, scrunched his face into a pout, then started punching buttons on his keyboard. A separate scene from the DVD popped up onto each of the monitors; Zander set them all playing at the same time.

A barrage of gibberish, grunting and swearing blared from the speakers. He hit mute. 'I can pull off the audio as a separate file for you, cut out the background noise. Maybe you can do something with the voices.'

His eyes flickered across the screens, the pink flesh reflecting in his trendy rectangular glasses.

Steel sniffed and hauled up her trousers. 'Why are-'

'Shhhh…' Zander stared at the images of Krystka Gorzalkowska being raped. 'They never show the men's faces — they're always wearing the dog masks…'

'We can bloody well see that!'

He hit a key and one of the screens went blank. Then another, and another until only one screen still showed a picture. He froze it, then wound it backwards. Hit pause again, then play.

As the scene started again a man's voice crackled out of the speakers: 'Take it! Take it! Taaaaaaa…' The last word stretched out into the lower register then stopped entirely as Zander slowed the playback. Backwards: 'Aaaaait. Ti…' Pause. '… it! Take…'

'There.'

Steel stared at the screen, face scrunched up in concentration. Krystka was pinned to the couch, tears streaming down her face while Bulldog-mask abused her. 'Where?'

'Like I said, the men always keep their faces covered, but…' He shifted the mouse, highlighting the corner of the picture, and zoomed in. Now they were looking at a grainy close-up of the not-very-good painting of Union Street. A man's face was reflected in the glass. 'Cameraman wasn't so careful.'

Steel went on squinting. 'It looks like Mr Potato Head! What the hell are we supposed to do with that?'

'What we do with that, is send it to my computer geeks. They take the next twenty frames or so and subtract all the pixels that are part of the painting. Composite what's left, clean it up, and Bob's your rapist.' 'I still can't believe you got a warrant based on that.' Rennie parked the pool car and killed the engine. The house was at the end of a moth-eaten cul-de-sac, its garden overflowing with weeds, grass, and a rotting bicycle frame. The houses on either side were even worse: boarded up windows; the corpse of a washing machine; a stack of ruptured bin bags, the contents disappearing into the long grass.

DI Steel sat in the passenger seat, puffing her way to the end of an angry cigarette. 'Aye, well Sheriff McNab might be a sanctimonious old git, but even he's no' going to pass up a chance like this.'

They climbed out into the morning sunshine.

Logan scanned the street. The only visible inhabitant was a grey and white cat, watching them warily from the roof of a plastic Wendy-house.

Rennie marched round to the back of the car and fetched the 'big red door key' from the boot. 'Thing weighs a ton…'

'Don't whinge.' Steel started up the path to the door, with Rennie grumbling along behind her.

Logan waded through the knee-high grass, round the corner of the house and into the back garden. At least this time there wasn't a fence to climb, or a dirty big dog, just a whirly listing at thirty degrees and a collection of mildewed garden furniture. He got into position, and waited for things to kick off.

Three crashes of battering ram against UPVC. Shouts. A thump.

Logan tried the back door — it wasn't locked.

Straight through the kitchen and into the hallway. A man in a brown T-shirt and boxer shorts was sprinting towards him as the front door exploded off its hinges. The man saw Logan and slithered to a halt, socks getting little purchase on the linoleum.

Rennie: 'STOP, POLICE!'

Logan: 'Give it up, Gary.'

Gary: 'Fuck!' He turned and scrambled up the stairs with Rennie in hot pursuit. Logan followed, getting up to the landing in time to see Rennie launch a flying rugby tackle.

The constable slammed into Gary, and they both went down in a heap of flailing limbs and swearwords. An ironing board hit the carpet: creased clothes went everywhere.

Grapple. Struggle. Clunk — Gary bounced the iron off Rennie's head. The constable let go, wobbled a bit, then fell over.

Logan fumbled in his pocket for the canister of pepper-spray as Gary struggled to his feet, the iron still clutched in his fist.

'I didn't do nothing!' He wasn't the ugliest person in Aberdeen, but he was having a decent stab at the title. One thick eyebrow, face like curdled milk, patchy beard.

'You just assaulted a police officer.'

'He was breaking into my house!'

'Come on, Gary, don't make it any worse. Put the iron down.'

Gary dropped it, turned, and ran, slamming the bedroom door behind him. Logan scrambled past Rennie, and kicked the door open. Double bed. Black sheets with crusty white stains. Mirrored tiles on the ceiling. Camera lights on tripods. Gary was on top of a chest of drawers by the window, fighting with the catch.

'It's not going to happen, Gary. Give it up.'

Gary swore, then climbed down. Moping his way across the carpet, head down. 'Bloody thing was locked.'

'Well, if you'd just come quietly in the first-'

Gary's knee slammed right into Logan's crotch.

Oh God… He folded in half, clutching his groin as Gary shoved past out onto the landing. 'Unnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh,'

And then Steel's voice bellowed out from the stairwell: 'Oh no you bloody don't!'