Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

Mrs McLeod sparkled away behind the counter — dripping with jewellery — face buried in a copy of the Racing Post. She looked up as the door bleeped, her face souring as she recognized Logan and DI Steel. 'What the hell do you Muppets want?'

Steel slapped her wallet on the counter. 'Fifteen quid on Mary Hinge: three thirty at Chepstow.'

'Why aren't you out there catching the bastard who blinded my Simon?'

The inspector slumped onto one of the cracked-leatherette barstools in front of the televisions. 'Where's Colin?'

'None of your damn business.'

'Come on, Agnes, you and I both know he should be here, looking after his dear old mum in her dotage, not out gallivanting with a claw hammer.'

'Who the hell are you calling "in her dotage"?'

'Leaving you here to run the shop while he's off cracking people's kneecaps, it's not right is it?'

Mrs McLeod threw her Racing Post across the counter. It smacked into Steel's chest and fell apart, riders and runners fluttering to the sticky linoleum. 'Get out.'

The inspector didn't budge. 'When he comes back, I want you to tell him it's over. This stops now. I don't care if he's only battering drug-dealing scumbags, I want him to hang up his hammer.'

'My Colin's a good-'

'Oh, give it a rest, Agnes. We've just spoken to one of the guys he crippled: Harry Jordan's prepared to finger him.' Wink. 'And I don't mean in a sexual way.' She stood and shambled her way to the door. 'No more kneecaps, Agnes. Understand?'

Mrs McLeod glowered, her pinched face almost white in the artificial light, golden earrings glinting, mouth a hard red line. 'Get the fuck out my shop!'

Archibald Simpson was packed with off-duty police officers. Quarter past five and nearly the entire day-shift was in there, getting themselves outside the first pint of the evening. Logan pushed his way through the throng to the bar, flashed his warrant card and got a free pint of Stella from the Polish barman.

The hubbub rose, and then someone shouted, 'As you know…' Then tried again: 'SHUT UP!' Silence settled into the crowded bar. 'That's better.'

Logan couldn't see who was speaking, but it sounded like Detective Chief Superintendent Bain, the baldy head of CID.

'As you know, we had a great result today, thanks to DI McPherson-'

Everyone cheered.

'-excellent job. He and his team have dealt a significant blow in the fight against gang violence in Aberdeen.' Bain raised his glass. 'Ladies, gentlemen, and Custody Assistants, a toast: DI McPherson, and his team.'

And they all drank to his health, honour, and the large stash of weapons he'd stumbled upon hidden in a caravan in Stoneywood.

'Right,' said, DCS Bain, before the noise could start again, 'there's three hundred quid left behind the bar. First come, first served!' Logan sat at their usual table, under the television in the little alcove off the main bar, watching DC Rennie weaving his way through the crowds with a tray of drinks and crisps.

The constable sank into his seat and everyone helped themselves: pint of Stella for Logan, pint of Export for DS Beattie, pint of ice and a bottle of cider for Gary from fingerprints, and a lager for himself. 'Tell you,' said Rennie, popping open a packet of prawn cocktail, 'it was funny as hell. McPherson's just done this big motivational speech thing — all duty and public trust and stuff — then he turns to walk back to the car, slips, and goes arse over tit all the way down the hill! Right through a dozen gorse bushes and a pile of dog turds big as your house.' Rennie took a mouthful of lager, chasing it with a handful of crisps, crunching round the words. 'So he's lying there, spread-eagled, covered in scratches and jobbies, groaning away to himself, and we're all up at the top of the hill trying not to piss ourselves laughing.'

More lager disappeared. 'So I go down there to help him up and what do I see, but this manky looking caravan hidden away in the trees and bushes. "Oh-ho," I thinks, "this looks a bit fishy." And when we pop it open, guess what: it's full of bloody Kalashnikovs!'

Logan still couldn't believe it. 'So you're saying this was all down to you?'

Rennie posed, one hand on his chest, the other flopping about in the air. 'I am a detecting machine!'

DS Beattie scratched a hand through his beard, sending a dusting of dandruff fluttering down the front of his shirt. 'Is it just me, or is Aberdeen getting bloody scary? What do they need machine guns for?'

The constable snapped his fingers. 'Maybe it's Al-Qaeda? Eh? Maybe I just foiled some huge terrorist plot.'

'In Stoneywood?' Another little snowfall drifted from his chin.

'You want to know what I think?' said Rennie, scooting forward in his seat, 'I think-'

A voice cut him off. 'What happened to all the free drink?' Samantha, the IB's pet Goth, stood with a frown and a noxious looking pint of something dark purple. 'Had to pay for this myself!' She grabbed the only free chair and helped herself to Rennie's crisps.

The constable snatched the packet away. 'Your own fault for being late.'

'It's you greedy bastards in CID more like. First sniff of free booze and you drop everything.'

'I'll drop everything for you, Sam, especially trousers.' Rennie gave her what was probably meant to be a suave smile. 'Go on, show us your tattoos.' Two hours later they'd vacated Archie's for the Pizza Express on Union Street. By which time Rennie was making even less sense than usual, and Beattie looked as if he'd emptied a carton of desiccated coconut all down his front.

Logan topped Samantha's glass up with the last of the wine, then ordered another bottle. 'Did it turn out OK? The tattoo Twit-Boy tried to ruin?'

She smiled and rolled up the sleeve of her skull-and-crossbones T-shirt. It was a life-sized handprint in black ink, made up of little tribal squiggles, the skin still slightly red and inflamed around the design. 'What do you think?'

'That must have hurt.'

'Not as much as this one.' She turned her back on him and pulled open the neck of her T-shirt. 'It's OK, you're allowed to look.'

Logan peered down inside — it was a Chinese dragon and it covered pretty much everything, the bright colours only broken by the black of her bra strap. 'Wow.'

Samantha grinned at him. 'You ain't seen nothing yet.' They giggled their way into the flat and tumbled through to the bedroom. Kissing and groping and stumbling over a cardboard box in the gloom. Logan flicked on the bedside light. 'I want you to know,' he said, trying to sound serious, 'that I don't usually do this…' He frowned. 'Come to think of it, I've not done it for…' Counting backwards on his fingers — June, May, April, March… 'Nine months!'

Sam whistled. 'Nine months? Hope you can still remember where everything goes. I better get you started.' She pulled her T-shirt up over her head, exposing even more tattoos. A pair of skeletons stretched a banner across her chest above the bra-line with, 'QUOTH THE RAVEN, "NEVERMORE"' on it, and a spiky tribal thing poked out from the waistband of her black leather trousers, as if a really big spider was trying to escape from her pants. Both arms had a collection of skulls and hearts and swirly things.

She looked him up and down. 'Well, don't just stand there, get your kit off.'

As Logan fumbled his way out of his shirt, Sam stripped off her stripy socks and black leather trousers, until she was kneeling on the bed in nothing but her underwear. Which was a lot more impressive than Logan's slightly baggy pair of blue Marks & Spencer briefs.

'Oh very sexy!'

He shrugged. 'Didn't think anyone would see them.'

The spidery tribal tattoo reached all the way down to her left knee, thick spikes of black ink forever ingrained into her skin. It was disturbing and strangely erotic at the same time. She unhooked her bra, lay back on the bed and said, 'Well, don't just stand there…'