Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

A faint glow oozed out between the curtains of number fourteen. Colin McLeod's house.

Three cars down, a new-ish Vauxhall flashed its lights at them.

'Right,' Finnie checked his watch and picked up the radio, clicking it to transmit. 'Pay attention, the lot of you. All teams are to go in on my mark: simultaneous, both properties. This is the best chance we've ever had to get Colin McLeod off the streets, let's pretend we're all professionals and try not to screw it up, shall we? You've got three minutes to get into position.' Then he sat back and waited.

'Er…' Logan leaned through from the back seat. 'Don't you think we should have a firearms team?'

'I've got enough idiots to supervise without-'

'But McPherson found that huge stash of guns yesterday: we could be walking right into the middle of a drug war.'

DS Pirie joined in: 'He's right, Chief. Creepy Colin could be armed with God knows what.'

'Colin McLeod is a hands-on thug — claw hammers, screwdrivers, pliers, maybe a blowtorch. But if you're scared, you can both stay in the car. I'll get someone to bring you out a nice glass of warm milk and some cookies when we're done. Would you like that?'

'No, sir.'

They clambered out into the rain, Pirie making a quick detour to pick up the bright-red mini battering ram from the car boot. They hurried up the path to the front door, then Finnie gave the word.

'Time for the big red door key.'

Pirie yelled, 'POLICE!' and swung the battering ram. BOOM. Nothing happened, so he did it again. And again. And again. 'Bloody UPVC double-locking bastards…' Again. Three more times, and finally the heavy-duty plastic started to crack, but by then the sergeant was puffing and panting, sweat mingling with the rain. 'Come on you son-of-a-bitch!'

BANG, and the door fell apart, leaving the locking mechanism intact. The harsh shriek of an alarm bit through the air, blue lights flashing on the box bolted high above the door.

They shouldered their way in, Finnie first, Logan second, Pirie hobbling along at the back, out of breath.

Team Two charged through from the kitchen. 'No one there.'

Finnie stood in the middle of the hall, shouting through the alarm's din, 'Colin McLeod, I have a warrant to search these premises: come out with your hands up!'

Logan checked the lounge. Expensive-looking leather couches, massive plasma TV bolted to the wall, framed Jack Vettriano prints on the walls, hand-carved oak coffee table…

Pirie stuck his head around the door. 'Wow. And they say crime doesn't pay.' He crossed to a fancy wall unit and opened the doors to reveal a vast array of spirits, glasses, and wine. 'Think we should take a couple bottles of malt into protective custody?'

Finnie was still bellowing away in the hall, 'SOMEBODY SHUT OFF THAT BLOODY ALARM!'

Pirie closed the door, shutting out most of the noise. 'Think McLeod's still here?'

'Not unless he sets the motion sensors before he goes to bed, no.'

'The guvnor's not going to be happy.'

'Shock horror — hold the front page.' Logan pulled on a pair of latex gloves and poked his way through Creepy's belongings. 'We should get the IB down here, have them take the dishwasher apart. If I had a blood-soaked hammer to clean up, that'd be a good start.'

'He's not as bad as you think.' Pirie settled down on the arm of a huge sofa and watched Logan search. 'Finnie's a pretty decent guy when you get to know him.'

'Yeah? That why everyone in the station hates him?' The lower part of the drinks cabinet was stuffed with shoeboxes. Logan dragged one out and opened it: hundreds of old photographs.

'You know I said he didn't like you? Well…' Shrug. 'I was yanking your chain. He thinks you've got a lot of potential.'

Logan riffled through the snapshots. A small, ugly child with a tall, ugly man. He had sideburns and a chunky-knit jumper on over a pair of blue shorts, the kid was in swimming trunks. Standing outside the open-air swimming pool at Stonehaven. 'TONY AND COLIN ~ SUMMER HOLS 1975' was written on the back in perfect biro copperplate.

'Well, he's got a funny way of showing it…' The box was full of McLeod family snaps. Birthdays, Christmases, holidays, school sporting events, the colours slowly fading to an orangey-grey.

'Come on, why do you think he keeps dragging you along to things? Thinks if he keeps you under his wing you'll turn out OK. You'd have a really good track record, if you didn't keep screwing it up.'

'Thanks a heap.' The next shoebox was full of wedding photographs: Simon McLeod getting married to an attractive redhead who disappeared three years later, never to be seen again. The reception pictures were a who's who of Aberdeen's criminal underbelly, everyone wearing their best suits — the ones they saved for weddings, funerals, and court appearances.

Logan stuffed the photos back in their box and wandered over to the answering machine. 'Think I can do without Finnie as a mentor, if it's all the same to you.'

'You've just got to tune him out when he goes off on one. That's what I do if-'

DCI Finnie barged through the door and glowered at the open drinks cabinet. The alarm blared in from the hallway behind him and he had to shout to be heard: 'He's not home. So if you girls have finished your little cocktail party, do you think you could possibly do your jobs and help me find that bloody hammer?' He paused, watching Logan examine the answering machine. 'If it's not too much trouble, Sergeant.'

According to the display, Colin had three stored messages. Logan pressed play, then had to crank the volume up to full to make anything out over the burglar alarm.

'M ESSAGE O NE: Kssssssssh… Col, it's Dunk, yeah? I need you to give us a call, OK? Do it 'fore six though, me and Shaz is going out.'

Beeeeeeep.

Finnie slammed the door, cutting off the screaming alarm. 'Oh I'm sorry, Sergeant, I didn't realize you were hard of hearing: find — that — hammer!'

'MESSAGE TWO: Fucker!' A man's, voice the words slurred and blurry around the edges. 'I'm gonnae kill you… you hear me? Creepy? You hear me? Nobody fucks with Harry Jordan! Not you, not… not anyone!'

Beeeeeeep.

'MESSAGE THREE: Colin, it's Mum. Are you still coming over for your tea tonight? The doctors say Simon's getting home tomorrow; going to have a party to cheer him up. We'll talk about it when you get here, OK? Bye.'

Beeeeeeep.

'E ND OF MESSAGES.'

'There you go,' said Logan as the machine fell silent, 'we've got a threatening call from Harry Jordan before the attack, and thanks to Colin's mum, we now know where he is.'

Finnie scowled at him, held up a single finger, said, 'That's one,' then turned and marched out of the room.

By the time they'd made it across town to Mrs McLeod's rose-encrusted bungalow in Garthdee it was just after midnight and the rain looked as if it was settling in for the duration. The pool car's radio chattered away to itself, playing the symphony of Aberdeen after the pubs shut: drunk and disorderly, assault, theft, vandalism, more assaults. And then the voice of Team Two came through with a report on what was left of the Turf 'n Track.

Finnie picked up the handset and said, 'Nothing, you're sure?'

'Aye, place is deid. No sign of oanybiddie, just a burnt oot shell, like.'

The DCI switched the thing off, then climbed out of the car and into the downpour.

'Actually,' said Pirie, following him, 'we don't have a warrant to search the mother's house, so-'

'I'm not searching the mother's house; I'm here to inform her that her son's home has been broken into. And if I just so happen to spot the little sod while I'm here, I'll arrest him.' He stopped at the gate, looking up and down the street for something. 'Pirie, you stay out front. McRae, you're round the back in case Creepy Colin does a runner.' And then Finnie marched right up to the front door and started banging on it with his fist.