Blind Eye

67

'Aye, I thought as much.' It wasn't Kravchenko, it was Steel. 'What the hell do you think you're doing, screening out my calls? Where are you?'

'Altens.'

'Altens? You're supposed to be getting bent over a desk by that knob-end Napier, no' swanning about in sodding Altens.'

'Got a lead on Kostchey International Holdings, I'm checking it out with Pirie.' He started walking again. The black BMW was parked at the far side of the unfinished office unit, beside a couple of pallets of breeze blocks and some pantiles. No sign of the driver.

No sign of Pirie either.

'They suspend you?'

'Are you kidding, I'm like the queen of sodding Teflon Town — nothing sticks to Detective Inspector Roberta Steel. But the bastards made me call the Warsaw police and tell them your mate Wiktorja was missing.'

Logan peered in through one of the office windows, or at least the hole where one would be fitted. Nothing but bags of cement and a mixer. 'Yeah?'

'She doesn't work there anymore.'

The doorway was a big open space, so he tried inside, his shoes scuffing on the gritty concrete floor. It was just a collection of empty rooms. 'I know.'

A flight of pre-cast stairs led up to the first floor. Logan climbed them and found more unfinished rooms: bare breeze block walls, gaping doorways, carefully piled boxes of building materials.

Where the hell was Pirie?

'What do you mean, you know?'

'She told me.'

A noise echoed up from downstairs.

'She told you?'

Logan peered down the hole where the stairs were, opened his mouth to shout hello, then swore very, very quietly. The person walking past on the ground floor — heading for the front of the office unit — was built like a rugby player, with angular features and hair that was receding at the front but a full-on mullet at the back. Kravchenko's henchman, Grigor.

Son of a rancid bitch.

It looked as if Pirie's informant was right; only Kostchey International Holdings Limited hadn't cleared out a week ago, they were still here.

'What do you mean she told you?'

Logan crept back out of sight of the stairwell. Straining his ears to follow Mr Mullet's progress on the floor below. It sounded as if he was heading for the front door.

'Hello?'

Logan whispered as loud as he dared, 'They're here!'

'They're…? What? Have you been drinking again?'

'I've just seen Kravchenko's thug go past downstairs.'

Logan followed him, one floor up, risking a peek out of the empty window frame at the end of the corridor. Grigor was standing just outside the building, a mobile phone clamped to his ear, talking in rapid Polish.

He was huge, and probably armed as well.

Bloody hell. Where was Pirie when you needed him? And then Logan got the nasty feeling he knew exactly where Pirie was — lying battered in a corner somewhere, both hands tied behind his back, waiting for a visit from Kravchenko and his Swiss Army knife.

Logan sneaked another peek over the window ledge. 'I think Pirie might be hurt.'

'That's all I need. Where is he?'

Outside, Grigor was facing away from the building, still on his mobile, staring out towards the chain-link fence.

Logan ducked down again. 'Haven't seen him since I got here. I'll go look-'

'No! You stay where you are, you hear me? I'll get a firearms team out there.'

'I've got an idea.'

'No, no ideas!'

Logan snuck back into the shadows, pulled his Airwave handset out of his pocket and clicked it on. The upper floor was almost symmetrical around the stairwell, blank offices on either side. He picked one at random — full of scaffolding poles, bags of cement, boxes of nails — and stuck the handset in the far corner, behind a stack of wooden two-by-fours.

'Are you listening to me?'

Logan crept out of the room and into the one opposite, pausing to grab a chunk of wood on the way. 'Right,' he said, flattening himself against the wall by the door, 'call me on my Airwave thing.'

'No chance. You want to get yourself killed? I'm no' helping.'

'Just call the bloody thing.'

'No.'

'Fine, I'll get Rennie to do it.'

There was a pause and some swearing, and then, 'OK, OK. But you better get Susan pregnant for this…'

Through in the other room, Logan's Airwave handset started ringing: a high-pitched electronic warble, volume turned up full. He peered around the door frame. Come on, come on… Bingo. Grigor was charging up the stairs.

Logan ducked back, listening to the big man's footsteps on the concrete floor, then Grigor marched into the other office.

Trying not to make any sound at all, Logan inched his way out into the corridor, clutching the length of wood like a baseball bat.

Grigor was stalking across to the far corner, gun out, pointing at the sound of the ringing. When he got to the stack of two-by-fours he stopped, stood there for a moment, then peered into the corner.

Logan waited for him to reach for the handset, then tried to take the bastard's head off with the length of wood. It crashed into Grigor's skull, just above his left ear and the big man went sprawling. The gun flew out of his hand, clanging into a neat pile of scaffolding poles.

That should hold him…

Oh God, he was getting up again.

Grigor fought his way to his knees, and then to his feet. Logan smacked him in the head a second time, but he just staggered around, blood streaming from a three-inch gash in his forehead. 'Moje jaja! Pierdolona sukinsyn…'

'What the hell are you made of?'

His face was all twisted up, teeth bared, hissing out obscenities in Polish as he scanned the floor for the gun. And then the big man lunged, going for the pile of poles.

Logan swung the two-by-four again: missed. Grigor wasn't just big, he was fast too. He was bent double throwing scaffolding poles left and right, hunting for the gun, his backside sticking up in the air. So Logan dropped the chunk of wood, took a run up, and did his best to kick the bastard's testicles into orbit. It wasn't quite as effective from the back, but it produced a high pitched squeal. If in doubt — go for the balls.

Grigor collapsed face-first into the metal poles, one hand clutching his groin, the other still feeling for the gun.

Logan picked up a scaffolding coupler from the pile — like a pair of heavy-duty handcuffs held together with swivelling bolts — about the same weight as a bag of sugar. 'Hey, ugly!'

'Kurwa mac…' Grigor gave up on the gun and grabbed a length of scaffolding pole instead. He threw himself onto his back, swinging the pole hard and fast. It whistled past, a couple of inches from the end of Logan's nose, clanged against the breeze block wall and bounced out of Grigor's hand.

Logan jumped on him, grabbed him by the throat, and smashed the scaffolding coupler off his forehead. THUNK. The skin broke, and a fine spray of blood misted out into the sunny afternoon.

'You-' Logan hit him again, '-are-' And again, '-under — ' One last time for luck, '-arrest!'

Logan sat back, breathing hard, the coupler heavy in his hand. Grigor wasn't moving anymore. The big man's head looked like a ruptured sausage, but at least he was still breathing.

Logan rolled him into the recovery position, then handcuffed his hands behind his back. And then lurched off into the corner to throw up.