Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

Logan picked up the bottle of whisky and gave it a little shake, just over a third left. 'You feeling OK?'

'I'm a bit… a bit drunked.' An ominous gurgling sound came from her stomach. 'Uh-ho… Don'… don' tell anyone, OK?'

'Are you going to be sick?'

'Car keys, car keys…' Steel went rummaging through her handbag, scattering the contents all over the bench. She squinted at the collection of receipts, combs, breath mints, lipstick, Airwave handset, loose change, nicotine gum, and fluff, then picked the keys out of the junk and handed them over. 'Friends don' let… don' let friends drive drunked.'

She hiccupped again. 'Is… how you find me?'

'Your Airwave handset. I got the control room to check the GPS on it.'

'Pfffffffffffffff… Can't even… even disssspear no more. No' like old days… You wanna chip?' The inspector looked around her, frowned, then pointed at three fat seagulls squabbling over a discarded paper bag from Burger King. 'Oh… Have to fight for them.'

'You're absolutely blootered, aren't you?'

'I like seagulls. Everyone… everyone hates them. But they're only… only…' another hiccup, 'you know? What they're supposed to be.' She threw her arms wide, accidentally belting Logan in the chest. 'I am a seagull! SQUAAAAAAAAAAK!'

The three real ones paused in their squabble over the thin ribbons of deep-fried potato and glared at her with beady yellow eyes.

'SQUEEEEAAAAAK!' She took another swig of whisky, swallowed, and shuddered. 'You wan' some?'

'Why don't I take you home?'

She giggled and hit him again. 'No, you… I'm lesbian… but… but if I wasn't… eh?' Hiccup. 'Did I tell you I was a seagull?'

'You might have mentioned it.' He stuck out his hand. 'Come on, Susan will be worried.'

When the tears came, they appeared from nowhere, great hacking sobs accompanied by twin shiny streams from her nose.

Logan took the whisky and popped the cork back in, then hauled the inspector to her feet. He helped her stagger back up the embankment and over to the pool car, safe in the knowledge that she was probably going to be sick in it.

The radio blared into life as he manhandled her into the back: Control calling with an update on some fire in Sandilands. Fire engines in attendance, two unit cars, suspicious circumstances. It wasn't until they mentioned the address that Logan started to pay attention.

Someone had petrol-bombed the Turf 'n Track.

'Bloody hell.' He jumped in behind the wheel. 'Inspector?'

No reply.

He looked in the rear-view mirror. She was fast asleep, head lolling to one side, with the bottle of Macallan clutched to her breast like a little glass baby full of whisky.

Logan pointed the car in the direction of Sandilands, switched the siren on, and put his foot down. The Tuesday afternoon rush hour parted before them like sluggish custard. The Turf 'n Track was surrounded by fluorescent orange and yellow fire engines, spraying thousands of gallons into the dying blaze. A thick pall of black smoke curdled its way into the bright blue sky, stinking of burning plastic and years of cigarette tar. The shops on either side had been evacuated, the patrons and owners loitering behind the police cordon, watching the betting shop burn.

An ambulance sat half on the pavement and half on the road, its blue lights spinning lazily as the paramedics fussed over someone in the back.

Logan abandoned the pool car as close as he could to the scene, checking that DI Steel wasn't going anywhere before locking her in. The rumble of diesel motors was almost deafening as he picked his way through the rivers and puddles covering the car park, past the fire engines, and over to the ambulance, where two uniformed officers were trying to take statements from the coughing witnesses.

Logan beckoned a PC over. 'What's the situation?'

The officer pointed at an old man in a soot-stained cardigan and flat cap. 'They're a bunch of lying bastards. The guys from the newsagents next door say they saw a man wearing a balaclava chuck a petrol bomb in through the front door. But the people in the bookies say that's rubbish. It was a faulty radiator.'

'Yeah?' Logan turned to give the betting shop's clientele another look. Two old men, and a filthy West Highland Terrier in a bright-pink raincoat with little yellow daises on it. 'Who was running the shop — Mrs McLeod, or Creepy Colin?'

'The bidie-in, Hilary Brander.' The officer pointed again at the ambulance and a dishevelled figure sucking on an oxygen mask.

Up close she reeked of smoke, her clothes, face and hair blackened with a thin layer of burnt betting shop. Green eyes ringed with red.

Logan leant against the side of the ambulance. 'So… faulty radiator?'

Hilary didn't even look up. 'I already gave a statement.'

'What happened to Colin and Mrs McLeod?'

'Agnes is looking after the kids. I…' She coughed, wrinkled her nose, then spat something black into a handkerchief. 'What do you want?'

'I want to know who firebombed the shop.'

'I already told them: it was a faulty radiator.' Her Essex accent was getting stronger as she raised her voice. 'Don't you people ever listen?'

Logan turned to look back at the Turf 'n Track's smouldering remains. The blaze seemed to have finally died; the firemen were rolling their hoses up and hefting them back to the engines. 'You know what I think? I think someone's fed up with Colin running around hammering the hell out of people's knees.'

'You should be out there catching whoever blinded my Simon, not harassing his family.'

'I'm not harassing anyone, I'm trying to make sure no one else gets hurt!'

The ridiculous little Westie in the plastic Mac skittered up and started barking at him. Hilary scooped the thing up, called it 'Mummy's little angel', and held it tight. 'Did the nasty man frighten you?'

A big bloke in the standard padded, baggy brown fire fighter's uniform stepped out of the bookies' front door, carrying something in his gloved hands. One of the uniformed constables pointed him in Logan's direction.

'You in charge?' asked the fireman.

'Depends.'

He held out his hand, revealing the neck and top half of a glass bottle. 'Smell that. Found it just inside the shop.'

Logan did as he was told. The familiar sweet-acrid aroma of petrol. He turned to Hilary and the snarling dog. 'Still say it was a faulty radiator?'

'You calling me a liar?'

'Yes. We've got witnesses, we've got evidence, and with a bit of luck, we'll have fingerprints too. So why not give me a break and tell me what happened?'

She told him to go to hell instead.

For once luck was on Logan's side: DI Steel wasn't actually sick in the pool car. Instead she waited until she was being half-carried, half-dragged up the path to her house before painting the rose bushes in several shades of yuck.

Logan left her kneeling in front of the spattered red blossoms and rang the doorbell — no answer. The house was a big granite lump of a place on a leafy side street; bay windows showing off a lounge and a dining room both decorated in pastel shades. Logan cupped his hands to the glass and peered inside: fireplace, leather couches, upright piano, lots of bookshelves. No sign of life.

He tried the bell again and waited in the sunshine, trying not to listen to the inspector bringing up everything she'd eaten in the last seven years. On and on and on.

One more go…

The door rattled open and Steel's wife, Susan, peered out at him. Short, blonde, pretty in a Doris-Day-after-too-many-pies kind of way, and at least ten years younger than the inspector. Her nose and cheeks were red, her eyes pink and swollen. Freshly-applied mascara all clumpy on her lashes. She sniffed, then pulled her face into a smile. 'Logan, how nice to see you.' Which was probably a lie. 'If you're looking for Roberta, she won't be back till…'