Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

Maybe Simon McLeod had dragged the inspector back there and put her out of everyone's misery?

The linoleum floor stuck to Logan's feet as he hurried round behind the counter and — WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?

He froze.

A deep bass growl rumbled up from somewhere to his left. The kind of growl that came with lots of teeth and ripping and tearing and running for your life. Logan turned around slowly, until he was facing an ancient-looking Alsatian, lying in a tartan dog bed. 'Nice doggy…' Logan frowned. 'Wait a minute, is that…?'

Simon's voice blared out from the back office, 'Winchester: fuck's sake, shut up!'

Winchester — Jesus, surely the thing was dead by now? It'd been ancient when Desperate Doug MacDuff had owned it. The dog looked in the vague direction of his new master's voice, eyes white and rheumy. Then Winchester yawned — showing off a lot of big brown teeth — and rested his grey muzzle back down on his paws.

It wasn't quite the scene of carnage in the back office that Logan had been expecting. A large desk sat opposite the door, beneath the mounted head of a two-tonne Rottweiler called Killer, the last known resting place of Simon McLeod's missing half ear. A collection of girly calendars dotted the walls, some going back as far as 1987. DI Steel was flicking through them while Simon McLeod made two mugs of tea.

'Bloody hell,' she said, peering at Miss March 1996, 'this one's got nipples like champagne corks. Could hang your coat on those.'

Simon handed her a mug. 'Milk, two sugars.'

'Ooh, ta.' She took an experimental sip. 'So, Simon… why are a bunch of drug dealers having a barney outside your shop?'

'No idea what you're talking about.'

'No?' Steel scratched her head. 'What a strange coincidence. You see, a little birdie told me there was a gang of Eastern Europeans trying to muscle in on your territory.'

'I don't have a "territory", I'm a legitimate businessman.'

'Aye, aye, and Miss Stiff Nipples here is a brain surgeon. I'm no' having a turf war in my city, Simon.'

'You're not listening, Inspector. I don't know anything about it.'

Steel nodded. 'Well, hypothetically speaking, if you or your brother did know anything about it — say you were both into protection, loan sharking, prostitution, supplying class A drugs… hypothetically speaking, would you tell your Auntie Roberta who these Eastern Europeans were?'

There was a pause.

'Like I said, Inspector, I'm a legitimate businessman. Now if you've finished your tea, you can fuck off. I've got work to do.'

'That went well,' said Steel, sauntering back out into the sunshine. 'No biscuits though… You'd think a "legitimate businessman" could rustle up a chocolate digestive, wouldn't you?'

Logan looked back in through the Turf 'n Track's front door at the dark interior. 'How the hell did you manage that? I thought he hated the police?'

'The McLeod brothers like to think they're old-school gangsters… Well, Simon does, Colin's just a bloody thug. You ever met their mum? She'd tan their arses if she found out they'd hit a woman.'

'You remembering what happened to Gabrielle Christie? Broken jaw, cracked ribs, fractured leg-'

'Aye, but she wasn't a woman, was she? She was a hoor.' Out came the inspector's cigarettes, the smoke spiralling up into the bright blue sky. 'It's no' the same to these people. Prostitutes aren't women, they're property. And before you say anything, I know, OK? It's just the way they think.'

Outside the bookmakers, the pre-pubescent mob had dispersed. Now there was just a single grubby child, watching as Mr Meat Paste for a Nose was loaded into Alpha One Four.

Another two patrol cars had arrived, their white paintwork sparkling in the sunshine. Spotty the Baboon was in the back of one, looking woozy and bruised from all that resisting arrest.

The other officer from Alpha One Four was limping back up the road, his black uniform trousers all torn at the knee. It looked as if Low Budget Porn Star had got away.

'Two out of six,' said Steel, leaning on the roof of the empty patrol car, 'no' exactly a brilliant arrest rate.' She smoked in silence for a moment, staring at Spotty and his swollen face. 'Right,' she said at last, pinging her fag end away, 'let's go see what the Clearasil Kid has to say for himself.'

Logan dragged out his phone. 'I'll get them to set up an interview room, we can-'

'Don't be so wet. Here,' the inspector dug into her pocket and pulled out a handful of change, 'go get some ice-lollies.' By the time Logan returned from the little grocers, Steel was lounging in the back of Alpha One Six with Spotty. Logan clambered in on the other side, sandwiching him in.

Steel leaned across the prisoner and looked at Logan. 'What did you get?'

'Strawberry Mivvi, Orange Maid, and a Chocolate Cornetto.'

She stuck her hand out. 'Cornetto — gimmie.' She un wrapped it and took a happy bite, talking with her mouth full, 'What about you, Derek? Fancy an orange lolly? Nah, better no' it'd clash with your ging-er hair. Strawberry Mivvi for Derek here, Laz.'

Logan held it out, but Spotty the Baboon, AKA: Derek, didn't take it. Which wasn't that surprising, his hands were cuffed behind his back.

'Give it here,' said Steel. She took the lolly and held it against Derek's cheek. 'There you go, that'll keep the swelling down a bit.'

Derek's voice was a high-pitched croak, 'It's cold…'

'Aye, well, that's what you get for being stupid. When someone yells, "Police", you either give up like a good boy, or you run like buggery.' She took a bite out of her Cornetto. 'Mmmph mmmf mnn mmnnfmmmmph fmmmnnnt?'

'Think that bloody copper broke my jaw…'

'Then you wouldn't be able to talk, you moron. I said, "who were you fighting with?"'

'I'm in pain!'

'You'll be in a lot more if you don't start talking.' She tossed the lolly back to Logan. 'My sergeant here likes to slam people's hands in car doors. It's his hobby. You want me to take a wee walk and see if you've still got all your fingers when I get back?'

'It was… a…' Spotty licked his top lip. 'They were Rangers supporters; said the Dons were shite. Couldn't let them get away with that…'

'Bollocks.' Steel cracked the door open. 'Start with his wanking hand, Laz, I'm going for a walk.'

Derek peered at Logan. 'You can't-'

'Can I break his thumbs as well?'

The inspector nodded. 'Fine by me.'

'It was just a fight! That's all. Football. You know what it's-'

'Do his toes too.' Steel levered herself out into the sunshine, licked a runaway dribble of chocolate ice-cream off the back of her hand, and slammed the car door.

Derek flinched.

'NO, WAIT! I didn't… I…' He closed his eyes and shuddered as Steel climbed back into the car.

'Make it fast, Derek, my Cornetto's melting.'

'They was trying to tell us we had to… sell stuff for them. You know… instead of… who we usually sell it for.'

'Uh-huh, and who would that be?'

'Don't remember.' Derek scowled out of the car window at the man in the back of Alpha One Four: Mr Meat Paste for a Nose. 'Fucking Polish bastards. Come over here, taking our jobs, screwing our women…'

Logan poked him in the shoulder. 'Ever sent anonymous letters, Derek? You know, lots of different fonts and exclamation marks?'

'Eh?'

'Where were you last night?'

'Went round Harry Jordan's and got wasted. Ask him. We had a party with his… we had a party.'

Steel tutted. 'Hope you wore protection, Derek: you'll get all sorts of nasty diseases partying with Harry Jordan's girls.' She slapped the Strawberry Mivvi back against his cheek. 'So, you going to come clean about who you're selling for? Like I couldn't already guess.' She pointed at the green-and-yellow Turf 'n Track sign. 'Come on, Derek, play it smart for once.'