Blind Eye

II

GRAMPIAN POLICE FORCE HEADQUARTERS — MONDAY

DI Steel was waiting for him outside DCI Finnie's office, lounging back against the wall, hands jammed deep into her armpits. She raised an eyebrow as Logan closed the door. 'Well, they going to throw the book at you?'

'Depends if the Buckie Ballad turns up where it's supposed to.' He grimaced and started down the corridor. 'There's still no sign of Kravchenko's thug, Grigor: ferries, bus stations, airports, nothing. Right now Finnie and Bain are in there fighting about who gets blamed for DS Pirie being bent. I've got a two o'clock with Professional Standards, so it'll probably end up being my fault.'

'Oh, come on, don't be such a grumpy monkey.' She slapped him on the back, then linked her arm in his. 'If you're nice to Aunty Roberta, she'll put in a good word for you.'

'Yeah, because that worked so well when they were looking for a new DI.'

'Don't start with that again.' She pushed open the door and they were in the stairwell. 'Anyway, you owe me for upsetting Susan with that paedophile thing. She's still sulking.'

Steel stopped him on the stairs, dug about in her pocket and came out with a little plastic specimen jar.

Logan groaned. 'Like things aren't bad enough?'

'Oh come on, it's the least you can do! Get your tattooed gothfriend to-'

'Inspector?' DI Beattie was coming up from the third floor, a cup of tea in one hand and a chocolate digestive in the other.

Steel didn't even turn around. 'What?'

'I think I've found out who stole the money from your swear tin!'

'Come on then, which thieving git's backside do I have to jam my foot up?'

Beattie cast a sneaky look left, then right. 'It was Detective Sergeant Pirie.'

Steel stood there, mouth hanging open. Then she slapped her cheeks, leaving her hands there for dramatic effect. 'Oh, my God, why didn't I think of that?'

'Well, don't be too hard on yourself, Inspector, it did take me-'

'You bloody idiot.' She shoved past Beattie and stomped down the stairs. 'Since it got out Pirie was taking backhanders, he's been blamed for everything. My money's gone missing? Blame Pirie. The milk's gone off? Blame Pirie. They promoted a bearded-sodding-halfwit to Detective Inspector? Blame Pirie.'

'But I-'

'You were a lousy DS and you're an even worse DI!'

She disappeared around the next flight of stairs, her voice echoing up from below. 'Lazarus, we're no' getting any younger here. Move your backside!'

He hurried after her, shrugging at a spluttering DI Beattie on the way past.

Logan caught up with the inspector in the corridor outside her office. She stopped with one hand on her door handle, and grinned. 'Think that's going to be my new hobby — winding Beattie up till he cries.'

She turned the handle and the door swung open behind her, which was why she couldn't see a startled-looking DC Rennie jumping up from behind her desk. He scrambled over to the window, pretending to be watching something outside as Steel turned round and sauntered into the room.

'What you doing here?'

Rennie went into a pantomime, 'Oh I didn't see you there…' act. 'I was… erm… looking for DS McRae. You know how they let Ricky Gilchrist out on psychiatric licence, coz he was only pretending to be Oedipus?'

'And?'

'Attacked a Polish barman last night, right in the middle of the pub. Managed to gouge one of the poor sod's eyes out with his thumb before the doormen dragged him off.'

'Wonderful — that's all I need.'

'Apparently, he was screaming about how the Polish were all rabid dogs, and how the police should never've let him go.'

'Aye,' said Steel, 'that's right, rub it in. Do you no' think Laz has got enough to worry about: half-dead Polish bint, a missing DS, escaped Polish henchman, and a blind paedophile who's suing our arses off.'

Logan collapsed into one of the visitor's chairs. 'I still don't know how Kravchenko found out we had Rory Simpson at your place. Wiktorja sure as hell didn't tell him.'

'Ah…' Rennie went brick red. 'Actually…' He coughed. 'That might've been my fault.'

'What?'

'Well… Pirie asked me what I was doing Thursday and I kind of… you know.'

'You told him.' Logan slumped even further down his chair, hands over his face. 'Oh for God's sake.'

'Sorry?'

Steel's voice was worryingly calm and level. 'Laz, do you have ten quid I can borrow?'

Logan peered out through his fingers. 'You told Pirie?'

'It wasn't my fault!'

'Someone lend me a tenner!'

Rennie dug a ten pound note from his pocket and handed it over. 'I really didn't mean to-'

Steel poked him in the chest. 'People nearly died! Rory Simpson got his eyes gouged out! You stupid, idiotic, halfwit, son-of-a-bitching, useless, bloody tosser!' That was just the warm up — once she got into her stride Rennie was subjected to a tidal wave of abuse. And then the rant came to a sudden and unexpected halt.

'Ten quid.' She turned her back on the constable and thrust the money she'd borrowed into Logan's hand. 'Stick that in the swear tin. And while you're at it…' She chucked the plastic specimen tub at him as well.

'But-'

'No buts.' DI Steel threw a finger in Rennie's direction. 'And you… you just think yourself lucky I'm skint!' She stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

'Bloody hell…' The constable slouched back against the desk. 'Is it just me, or is she getting worse?'

Logan didn't answer that, just sat there, turning the little tub over and over in his hands.

'Look, I'm really sorry about telling Pirie, OK?'

'What were you doing behind her desk?'

Rennie blushed. 'Ah, right… I sort of borrowed some money from the swear tin a couple of weeks ago. It was just a loan, I swear. I put it all back — you can count it if you like?'

'Beattie says Pirie stole it.'

'Oh…' Rennie chewed the inside of his cheek. 'Does that mean I can keep the cash? You know, if everyone thinks it was Pirie's fault?'

Logan just scowled at him.

'Right. No. Suppose not.'

More silence.

Rennie peered at the little plastic tub in Logan's hands. 'What's that?'

'She wants me to get Susan pregnant.'

'Really? Wow, hot lesbian gangbang for you then!'

'Just don't, OK? I'm not in the mood.'

'Don't see what all the fuss is about; just a wee bit of sperm.'

'It's… complicated.'

'Don't want to be a daddy, eh?'

Logan stuck the tub on the desk. 'Not particularly, no.'

Rennie pursed his lips for a minute. Then picked the container up. 'I'll do it.'

'What? No, she-'

'Oh, come on! Nearly got you killed: least I can do is wank in a cup.' He headed for the door, a spring in his step and a hand in his trousers. 'I'll show her who's a useless tosser.' By the time Steel got back from wherever it was, Rennie had come and gone, leaving a slimy reminder in the bottom of the plastic tub. Not wanting to touch the thing, Logan had told him to put it on the windowsill in the sunshine to keep it warm.

Steel cracked the window open and stood there, staring at the little tub. 'Is this what I think it is?' She picked up the tub and squinted at the contents. 'Could you no' have managed a little more?'

'Look, forget about it. Chuck it in the bin, it's not-'

'No!' She clutched it too her chest. 'No, I'm no' being ungrateful, this is great. It's fine, honestly.' The inspector grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair. 'If anyone needs me, tell them to sod off, OK? I've got a baby to make.'

She hurried out. Then bustled back in again, planted a big smoky kiss on Logan's cheek, and said, 'Thank you.'

Logan watched her go, all happy with her counterfeit sperm. He tried to warn her, no one could say he didn't try…

He slumped back to the empty CID office. Screw Professional Standards, they could haul him over the coals tomorrow.

Someone had stuck a Post-it note on his computer screen. Yet another message from Dr Goulding about how he could help with some fictitious case.

Wee Hamish's bottle of thirty-year-old Knockdhu was exactly where Logan had left it, along with the glass he'd used to take Krystka Gorzalkowska's fingerprints when she was in hospital.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Once you started accepting free booze, what came next?

He took the glass out of the evidence bag, tore the foil cap off the whisky with shaky fingers, and poured himself a stiff measure. It glowed like bottled fire.

Logan toasted Goulding's Post-it. 'Thin end of the wedge.' It went down smooth, hitting his stomach and spreading warm, sweet tendrils through his body, soothing out the tremors. Peat and alcohol making his breath tingle. It was good stuff. He finished the rest of the glass before someone came in and asked for a taste, then went onto the internet and found out how much a bottle of thirty-year-old Knockdhu was actually worth.

'Jesus…' It was a small fortune.

Really should phone Wee Hamish up and say thank you. Only polite. Thanks for the hooringly expensive whisky: anything I can do in return?

Logan looked at the Post-it note. Or he could call Goulding, let the psychologist probe and prod away at his problems like a rotten tooth.

Wee Hamish or Goulding?

Whisky or toothache?

He pulled out his phone and made the call.