Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

Rennie reappeared with a big stack of napkins. They were better than nothing, but it didn't take long before all they had left was a pile of sticky red papier-mache.

By the time an ambulance arrived their patient had passed out on the cobblestones.

The phone sounded like an aluminium hedgehog trapped in a tumble-drier. Logan groaned, rolled over onto his side and checked the alarm clock — nearly half past nine. He flopped an arm across his eyes and waited for the answering machine to kick in.

Blessed silence.

And then his mobile got in on the act — the 'Danse Macabre' warbling out from somewhere on the other side of the room.

'Bloody hell…' He struggled out of bed, padded across the bare floorboards, and rummaged through the pile of clothes dumped on the chair in the corner. His suit jacket was at the very bottom, all crumpled and wrinkly. He pulled his phone out of the pocket, checked the display, and swore. It was DI Steel.

'Hello?'

'Aye, Laz, where the hell are you?'

He pulled the bedroom curtains back, blinking out at the sparkling granite buildings and the perfect sapphire sky. 'It's Saturday morning…' He yawned, and sank down on the edge of the bed. 'I'm knackered. Watching CCTV tapes till God knows when o'clock this morning.'

'Get your arse in gear. They're discharging me, I need a lift.'

He groaned, fell back on the rumpled duvet, and stared at the freshly painted ceiling. He'd missed a bit. 'Get Susan to do it.'

'Susan has a… she has a thing this morning.' Steel's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, 'And the nurses are acting all weird, like I'm a serial killer or something.'

'But it's-'

'You can pick up my car from the station. Keys are in my desk.'

Logan rubbed his eyes with the ball of one hand, enjoying a fleeting fantasy of feeding the inspector through a wood-chipper. 'OK,' he said at last, 'twenty minutes.' The ward was nearly empty, just a grey-haired old woman in the corner, babbling on about Aberdeen Royal Infirmary being a front for the IRA. And people with bird heads trying to steal her biscuits.

The inspector was stuffing yesterday's clothes into a little pink suitcase, muttering away to herself.

Logan called out from halfway across the ward, 'Madame, your carriage awaits.'

She scowled up at him. 'You're late.'

'You're not even packed yet.'

'Can't find my bloody wedding ring.' Then she started stripping the bed. 'Got to be here somewhere…'

She was still at it five minutes later, when a young woman appeared with a trolley laden with tea and coffee. The lady in the corner got fussed over for a bit, but Steel was totally ignored, the trolley making a pointed detour around where the inspector scrabbled on the floor beneath the bed.

Logan pulled on his best smile and asked if there was any chance of a cuppa.

The trolley's guardian looked him up and down, then asked if he was taking that — she pointed at DI Steel's waggling bum — home?

'Problem?'

'She's been a nightmare: they had to check her every two hours last night, because of the concussion, and everyone got their arse pinched or their breasts groped. And the language!'

'Ah…' He watched the inspector as she started to take the little bedside cabinet apart. 'If it's any consolation, I get that every day. Well, except for the groping.'

That got him a look of sympathy, a cup of milky tea, and a digestive biscuit.

By quarter past ten, DI Steel was rummaging through the bins.

Logan left her to it, and went for a wander through the hospital, treading the familiar corridors, looking at the familiar paintings, feeling the familiar depression. Drifting towards the small ward where Simon McLeod was being kept under observation.

The big man was slumped back against a mountain of scratchy hospital pillows. White bandages kept a pair of thick gauze pads in place over his eyes… Well, where his eyes used to be.

A woman sat in the chair beside the bed, holding Simon's hand and sniffling into a handkerchief. Early thirties, blonde, smudged makeup, with bright-red nail varnish and lots of gold jewellery, Hilary Brander — Simon's bidie-in — was basically a younger version of his mum. Which raised some disturbing questions about their sex life. But would explain why Hilary and Simon's two kids turned out the way they had.

She wasn't the only visitor: Simon's brother was there too, pacing back and forth, mouth working soundlessly. As if he was chewing on something bitter.

Colin McLeod had all of his father's rough looks, but none of the charm. Five foot four of aggressive muscle, hair cut short to disguise the fact he was going bald. Tattoos twisted up and down his furry arms: skulls, daggers, thistles, 'MOTHER', 'FREEDOM', and 'KYLIE'.

Logan stopped at the bottom of the bed. 'How is he?'

Colin McLeod glowered at him. 'Fuck is it to you?'

'Hey, I was just-'

'Someone cut his eyes out, how the fuck you think he is?'

Hilary looked up from her bedside vigil, her Essex accent wobbling. 'Why can't you leave us alone?'

Logan held up his hands. 'I didn't mean to intrude: just wanted to make sure he was OK. We're going to do everything we can to catch the men who did this.'

Colin McLeod stormed across the room, only just stopping at the last moment, inches from Logan; teeth gritted, neck muscles standing out like guy-ropes, a thick vein throbbing on his forehead. 'You fucking leave this to me, understand?' He poked Logan in the chest with a finger, the word 'HATE' tattooed across the knuckles. 'This is none of your fucking business.'

'You know we can't do that, Colin.'

The finger made another poke. 'Get in my way and you'll be fucking sorry. Understand? He's my brother.'

Logan took a step back. 'Don't do anything daft, OK?'

Simon groaned, shifting painfully in his hospital bed. Hilary squeezed his hand, a fat tear rolling down her cheek, taking the last sliver of mascara with it. She wiped it away. 'Please, just leave us alone.' Outside in the corridor, Logan bumped into the nurse from yesterday. She had heavy black bags under her eyes, and a bedpan in her hands. 'Watch out!' she said, trying not to spill the contents. 'Charging about like an… Oh, it's you.' She straightened the cover on whatever was slopping about in there. 'You don't hang about, do you? I only phoned five minutes ago.'

'Phoned?'

'That woman who got shot: she woke up.' The blinds in the small ward were down, shutting out the sunshine and the outside world. A young couple were sitting by one of the other beds, the woman crying, the man looking as if he didn't really know where he was. The small child hooked up to the ventilator didn't move.

Only one other bed was occupied — the shooting victim. She didn't look that much better than she had five days ago, still connected to a bank of machinery that pinged and gurgled. Her eyes were shut, but they flickered open as Logan dragged a chair over. He pulled the curtains around the bed, giving the young couple some privacy.

'How are you feeling?'

She looked at him for a while in silence.

Logan tried again, going for the simplest Polish phrase he knew. 'Dzien dobry?'

'Thirsty…' it was barely a croak.

He poured a small glass of water from the jug by her bedside. 'Here. Take small sips.'

'Dziekuje.'

Logan smiled. 'I can't remember what's Polish for "you're welcome".' She emptied the glass and Logan gave her a little more. 'Too much at once and you'll be sick. Trust me, the last thing you want to do is throw up when you've got stitches in your stomach. Hurts like hell.'

'Please not to deport me…' Her English was a damn sight better than Logan's Polish, but he had to strain to hear the words.

'Why would we do that?'