Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

Finnie nodded.

'This,' said Wee Hamish, poking his couch with a finger, 'is not some bloody third world country. Guns are for professionals, not rank amateurs. Don't you agree, Logan?'

Logan glanced at Finnie, but got no help there. 'I think Aberdeen doesn't need this kind of trouble.'

'Well put, Logan. Well put. You see, your Chief Constable was right — I heard him on the radio the other day — people look at Aberdeen and they see a fat hog, swollen with oil money and ready for slaughter.' He leaned forward in his chair. 'The funny thing about pigs though, is that they'll devour anything. Hair, skin, bones. And if you're not very careful, you can end your days as a big pile of pig shit.'

Silence.

Logan cleared his throat. 'Is that what happened to Simon McLeod? He wasn't careful enough?'

Finnie nearly choked on his whisky.

'That was a terrible, terrible thing. Blinded like that…' The old man stared across the coffee table. 'According to the papers you're looking for a serial killer who doesn't kill people?'

The DCI glowered at Logan. 'You'll have to excuse Sergeant McRae, he-'

'Nonsense,' Wee Hamish waved a liver-spotted claw, never taking his eyes off Logan, 'I want to hear what Logan has to say. I read that your psycho doesn't like Polish people. Which is a pity; personally I think they're marvellous. I've got one of them retiling my bathroom right now.'

'Why would Oedipus attack Simon McLeod? He's not Polish, he's one of Aberdeen's biggest-'

'Entrepreneurs,' said Finnie. 'Biggest entrepreneurs.'

Wee Hamish laughed. 'Oh don't be so sensitive, Chief Inspector. We all know what Simon is.' Then the old man turned his glittering grey eyes back towards Logan. 'Go on.'

'I think this was business related.'

This time the silence went on for an uncomfortably long time, and then Finnie broke it with, 'I want to apologize on behalf of-'

Wee Hamish ignored him. 'So, you think this was someone trying to muscle in on the McLeods' territory?'

'Yes.'

'Maybe someone who saw what happened to those poor Polish people, and decided this was a perfect opportunity to take care of a rival?'

'Wouldn't you?'

There was another uncomfortable silence.

Then Wee Hamish flashed his dentures again. 'You've got balls, Logan, I like that.' He drained his glass and stood. 'Now, if you'll excuse me gentlemen, I have some business to attend to.' Out in the sunshine Reuben was leaning against the garage wall smoking a roll-up. A pimply youth with green hair appeared at his shoulder, handed him a mug of tea, then they both stared at Logan and Finnie until they were off the premises.

Logan looked back over his shoulder at the small office block with its row of dark windows. 'What did he mean, he'd heard all about me?'

Finnie didn't reply, just marched straight-backed across the grassy patch to the pool car. He waited for Logan to unlock the doors, then climbed into the passenger seat.

'OK…' Logan got behind the wheel and started the engine. 'Where to?'

'Exactly what part of "keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking" did you have difficulty with, Sergeant?'

'I was-'

'What the hell did you think you were doing?' Finnie turned in his seat, face pinched, jowls trembling. 'Accusing Wee Hamish of blinding Simon McLeod? Did you really think that was a good idea? Or were you dropped on your head as a child?'

'But he-'

'Let's get something perfectly straight here, Sergeant: Hamish Mowat isn't like Simon McLeod, or any of the other two-bit crooks you deal with. Wee Hamish Mowat will chew you up and spit out your bones!'

'It was a legitimate question. He-'

'That lovely little story about pigs isn't a metaphor, Sergeant. Mowat's got pig farms all over the North East. If he wanted rid of Simon McLeod, Simon McLeod would disappear.' He dragged his seat belt out and rammed it into the buckle. 'You do not mess with that man, understand?'

Logan started the car. 'OK, so he can make people disappear, but maybe he didn't want that? Maybe he left Simon McLeod alive as proof of what happens when you get in his way.'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'Really?' He pulled away from the kerb, heading back towards the centre of town. 'You said it yourself: Simon McLeod's terrified. Simon McLeod. Who else is he going to be scared of?'

'One,' said Finnie, holding up a finger, 'if Wee Hamish wanted to teach the McLeods a lesson we'd never find their bodies. Two: the McLeods and the Mowats go back two generations. Wee Hamish lets the boys operate in peace because he had a soft spot for their mum.'

A third finger joined the other two. 'Three: YOU'RE AN IDIOT!' He dropped the hand. 'You're lucky he likes you.'

Somehow Logan didn't feel all that lucky.

'Well?' Finnie looked up from his newspaper as Logan climbed back into the car.

'Cheese and pickle, or egg mayonnaise?' At half twelve in the afternoon Victoria Road was more like a slice of southern France than a street in Torry. The warm granite glowed in the sunshine, a pleasant breeze off the North Sea keeping it from getting uncomfortably hot.

'Egg.' The Chief Inspector held out his hand and Logan passed him one of the sandwiches, a packet of pickled onion crisps, and a can of Irn-Bru — the metal surface glistening with dew. 'Thanks.' Finnie broke into the sandwich's plastic triangle case, and chewed in silence for a while, staring down the road at the blue frontage of the Krakow General Store. He swallowed, slurped at his can, then said, 'I meant what I said about Wee Hamish.'

Logan peered suspiciously at the sandwich he was left with — all cheese and no bloody pickle. Which just about summed things up as far as he was concerned. 'If he's so dangerous, why'd we go see him?'

'Because… because the world isn't black and white, Sergeant. Sometimes you have to work with shades of grey.'

'Is that what Wee Hamish Mowat is?'

Shrug.

Logan tried his sandwich. It was every bit as dry as it looked. 'Ack…'

Finnie smacked the open newspaper with the back of his hand, making it crackle. 'We're getting another bloody golf course. Can you believe they gave Malk the Knife planning permission? Bloody idiots. The whole thing'll be one big money-laundering operation…' He took a mouthful of Irn-Bru, swilling it through his teeth as if it was fine wine. 'Mind you, surprised anyone wants to come play golf here these days.'

The DCI stuck the front page under Logan's nose. 'Read that.'

Page one of that morning's Aberdeen Examiner: 'STREETS NO LONGER SAFE AS POLICE LOSE CONTROL' with a subheading of 'SERIAL KILLER BLINDING VICTIMS PAEDOPHILE MISSING DRUG VIOLENCE WORSE THAN EVER • WOMAN RAPED IN PARK'.

Finnie chewed for a while. 'Imagine what it's going to be like when they find out about all those machine guns…'

Logan had one more go at his all-cheese-and-no-pickle. It was still dreadful. He jammed it back in the plastic triangle, crumpled it up, and stuck it on the dashboard. 'You got Kevin Murray to make a statement.'

'It's all a matter of leverage, Sergeant. Soon as he saw our little friend from Manchester outside the interview room he was screwed.'

Logan stared straight ahead through the windscreen. 'What about his kids? His mum? What about-'

'Oh, don't be so melodramatic. Your Manchester hoodies turn up to collect their protection money this afternoon, we arrest them. Parole violations, assault with a deadly weapon, threats against minors, resisting arrest — there's no way they're getting bail. So tell me, Sergeant: who's going to hurt Kevin Murray's children? The revenge fairies? Tinkerbell with a grudge? Hmm?'

Logan didn't answer that.

'Exactly.' Finnie ruffled his newspaper back to the sports section. Logan snapped back into consciousness, sitting bolt-upright in the driver's seat. Blinking. Mouth opening and closing on a taste of stale cheese. 'What? What is it? I'm awake…'