Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

Steve collapsed in his seat, hands covering his face. '"Come to Aberdeen," he sez. "Take over no problem," he sez…'

'Apparently next time you and your gay-wad mates show up, he's going to spank the lot of you.'

'Yeah?' Steve came out from behind his hands, scowling. 'We'll see if he's so Fookin' brave this afternoon, then! See if he's got the stones to stand there and… What you smiling for?' He sat back and frowned at Logan and Finnie. 'What?'

Finnie sat in the passenger seat, watching Logan out of the corner of his eye. 'There never was any CCTV in that shop, was there?'

'Nope.' Logan smiled and pulled out to pass a bendy bus that had stopped to pick up passengers. 'Shopkeeper said four hoodies trashed his shop, I thought it was worth a punt. Just like you did with Kevin Murray.'

The DCI nodded. 'You're learning, good.' He let the patronizing compliment hang in the air for a moment. 'And you're sure these hoodies are going to be armed?'

'Knives and machetes.'

'Good. Nothing worse than begging a firearms team then have them sitting about twiddling their thumbs.' He dug something out of his pocket and handed it over when Logan pulled up at the lights. It was a photocopy of an Oedipus note. 'Came in this morning.' I can not help you any more!!! I have tried and tried but you will not listen! I cut out their filthy eyes, while you do nothing!! You are deaf and they are blind!

What happens now is YOUR fault!!! I am the burning of GOD and salvation will be mine! Logan handed it back as the lights went green. 'Eleven exclamation marks: he's getting worse.'

'That's the third note in three days. Before it was one, maybe two a week. Dr Goulding says our boy's escalating.'

There was silence.

And then Finnie cleared his throat, looked out of the window, and said, 'I'm open to suggestions.'

'Ah…'

'I don't care how daft it sounds.'

Logan took them up Mid Stocket Road and across Anderson Drive, heading towards Mastrick. 'I spoke to one of the priests at St Peter's this morning.' He filled the DCI in on his chat with Goulding about Oedipus being a religious nut. 'You know what Aberdeen's like. Used to be the most secular city in Scotland, but a lot of these Eastern Europeans are devout. Been a windfall for the Roman Catholic churches, they've actually got bums on pews for a change. Goulding thinks our boy feels squeezed out.'

Finnie stared at him. 'Believe it or not, I did actually think of that. Pirie checked every church, mosque, and synagogue in Aberdeen. No joy.'

Damn. Now Logan would have to think of something else to make the DCI put him forward for that promotion. 'Well… how about the victims then? We could put a bit of pressure on? See if they'll cooperate?'

Finnie waved a hand, as if wafting away a bad smell. 'I've already got Pirie doing that on a regular basis, they won't budge. They're terrified.' He pointed through the windshield. 'Take a right here.' They parked in the shadow of a tower block. Mastrick wasn't exactly Logan's happy place, but it looked a lot nicer in the sunshine than it did in his nightmares. A breeze caught a small drift of empty crisp packets and crumpled pages torn from a lad's mag, sending them into a whirlpool dance of salt and vinegar and half-naked women.

A couple of old men shuffled their way across the road, dragging an unhappy-looking terrier between them, the dog whining and scrabbling against the tarmac.

Logan locked the car, then looked around. 'Why are we here, exactly?'

'Just let me do the talking,' said Finnie, leading the way across a patch of grass. 'And for God's sake, try not to piss anyone off.'

It was little more than a collection of squat concrete buildings, encircled by a rusting chainlink fence. A workshop, a garage, a small two-storey office block with not enough parking space, and a couple of warehouses. A bottle-green Jaguar XJS was up on the ramp inside the garage, a shower of electric-blue sparks marking out some serious welding going on. Old-fashioned accordion music echoed out between the flashes.

And then there was silence.

A pale face watched them from the other side of the car, and then its owner stepped out into the sunshine. He was huge, at least twenty stone, squeezed into grubby blue overalls, wiping his hands on a rag as he waddled towards them. 'Yeah?' The man's face was a topographical map of scar tissue and fat, a patchy beard struggling to conceal the damage. He stank of motor oil and ozone.

Finnie nodded a greeting. 'Reuben. Is Wee Hamish in?'

The man mountain looked them up and down. 'Depends, doesn't it?'

'Like a word.'

'Aye, I'll bet you would…' He stared at them for a little longer, then lumbered towards the shabby office block. They went to follow him, but the big man stopped dead, turned and pointed at Logan. 'Where the fuck you think you're going?'

'I'm-'

'No you're not. You're staying right there.'

Finnie patted Logan on the back. 'Don't go anywhere. Fidget doesn't like people wandering around his yard.'

Logan raised an eyebrow and the DCI pointed towards the dark interior of the garage, where the rectangular head of a Rottweiler glared out of the shadows. 'He's called Fidget, because if you don't stand perfectly still he goes for you.' Logan stood on the forecourt, trying not to make any sudden movements. Bloody hell: Wee Hamish Mowat…

Fidget the Rottweiler lumbered out to the garage door and thumped himself down in the sunshine. He was huge. And unlike the McLeods' second-hand Alsatian, Fidget definitely looked as if he could outrun an out-of-shape Detective Sergeant. And then eat him.

It was probably only ten minutes, but it felt like hours before Reuben the man mountain returned, hooking an oil-stained thumb over his shoulder at the offices. 'You: inside.' And then he went back to his welding. Wee Hamish Mowat's office looked like something straight out of a National Trust catalogue — wood panelling, hunting prints, bookcases, two brown leather chesterfield sofas, and a mahogany desk the size of Switzerland.

Finnie was sitting on one of the sofas, directly across from the office's owner.

Wee Hamish Mowat: grey hair, hooked nose, hands like vulture's feet, and eyes like chips of flint. He looked up at Logan, and a stray beam of sunlight flashed across his rectangular glasses. 'Ah, Detective Sergeant Logan McRae, I've heard so much about you.' The voice was a gravelly Aberdonian with a slight hint of public school. 'Your Chief Inspector was just telling me about his little problem.'

Finnie shifted, making the leather creak. 'Yes, well…'

Wee Hamish stood, crossed to an antique sideboard, and pulled out a bottle of whisky and three glasses. 'Macallan, thirty year old. I take it you'll join me?' He pointed at one of the sofas.

Logan sat.

The old man poured a measure of whisky into each glass. 'Slainte mhar. Or, I suppose we should say "Na zdrowie" now, what with all the Polish people we've got over here.'

They returned the toast and sipped in silence.

'So,' Finnie twisted the crystal tumbler in his hands, 'about that caravan…?'

'Tell me, Logan, what do you think of the whisky?'

Logan put his glass down on the big wooden coffee table. 'Very nice.'

'Good.' Wee Hamish smiled, showing off a set of perfect white dentures. 'I do like a man who appreciates a good malt. I think we're going to get on perfectly.'

Which wasn't exactly the most comforting thing Logan had ever heard.

The old man took another drink. 'From what I understand, your caravan was full of machine guns and bullets.' The smile faded. 'Some people just don't understand how business works here. They watch all these big American movies, with the gunfights and the explosions, and they think that's what the real world's like.'