Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

They repeated, 'Rot in jail,' then drank.

Pirie smacked his lips. 'Not bad at all.'

Finnie topped them all up then sat back down, feet up on the desk again. 'You know what, I fancy a curry tonight. Anyone? My treat.'

Logan took another mouthful of champagne. Stifled a burp. 'Aren't you going to interview Mrs McLeod?'

'Nope. The old battleaxe can stew in her own juices till tomorrow. She's already been charged, so there's no rush. She's not going anywhere till Monday. A weekend in the cells will do her the world of good. Be practice for when she gets sent down.' He grinned. 'Oh, and before I forget: we have another reason to celebrate. Baz Hartley, our escaped Manchester hoodie, tried to kill Kevin Murray's mum last night. Broke into the family home and had a go at her with a butterfly knife. Revenge for her Kevin grassing them up.'

'Oh Jesus.' Logan sank into one of the chairs. 'What about the kids?'

'Didn't wake up till the ambulance got there. Seems our mate Baz was off his face at the time: slipped on the way in through the kitchen window and banged his head on the working surface. Mrs Murray finds him staggering around on the linoleum and beats him unconscious with a stainless steel breadbin. Wonderful woman.' Finnie held up his glass, twisting it to catch the fluorescent light. 'Oedipus is no more, the McLeods are behind bars, God is in Her heaven, and all's right with the world. Well… except for that caravan load of guns.'

Finnie raised his glass again. 'To Detective Sergeant Logan McRae. Believe it or not, you've actually made my week.'

The alarm went off at six fifteen — as usual. Logan slammed his hand down on the off button, rolled over, and burrowed deeper into the duvet. A Saturday off was something to be treasured. He only dragged himself out of bed when the double call of headache and straining bladder ganged up on him. They'd finished off the champagne, then hit the Light of Bengal: king prawn jalfrezi and four pints of Cobra beer. Filthy McNasties: two pints of Stella. The Bells: another two pints, and a whisky chaser… After that things started to get a little fuzzy.

Did they go to the Howff next, or the Grill? Probably both from the feel of things: a pair of overweight rhinoceroses were skateboarding around the inside of Logan's skull to very loud rap music, and his stomach wasn't much better.

Two aspirin, a carton of orange juice, two paracetamol and an unsuccessful rummage in the fridge later, Logan winced his way out of the front door, heading up to Archibald Simpson for breakfast.

The pub was relatively quiet, just a few old men in for their Saturday-morning pint. Logan ordered the vegetarian fry-up and a huge mug of tea.

He was wiping up the last remnants of egg yolk with a chunk of veggie sausage when PC Karim crumpled into the seat opposite.

'God, it's murder out there…'

He wasn't in uniform, so Logan didn't tell him to sod off. 'Shopping?'

Karim grimaced. 'Wedding present for Her Indoor's sister. "Oh," she says, "why don't you hit the shops when you get off night shift?"' He sighed. 'Tell you, never get married. I thought I was getting a life partner to love and cherish, she thought she was getting a taxi driver, private bank, and personal shopper.' He hauled a plastic bag from John Lewis onto the table. 'Keep an eye on that while I go for a slash, eh?'

Logan thought about taking a peek, but pulled his phone out instead. He switched it on and called Samantha. Listened to it ring for a bit. And then a muzzy voice came on the other end.

'Emmmph?'

'Did I wake you?'

'Wmmmm?' Yawn. 'What time is… oh Christ…'

'Sorry. I can call back later if you-'

'It's not you. I'm supposed to be at the sodding lab in twenty-five minutes. Didn't get home till three. Urrrgh, sambuca…' Another yawn crackled through the phone. 'What happened to you last night? Tried to call.'

'Teambuilding with Finnie and Pirie. How about tonight? I've got the day off and-'

'Done… Oh God, look at the time!' And she was gone.

Karim came back to the table, carrying two mugs of coffee. 'Here.' He handed one over. 'Look like you need it.'

'Ta.'

The constable sank back into his chair. 'God what a night. Bloody Union Street's like Beirut after the pubs shut.' He shuddered, then dunked his biscuit in his coffee. 'Oh, and by the way, word to the wise: if you see Steel coming, run. She's in a bloody horrible mood. That bloke she was after? He turned up last night with his arms, legs, and jaw broken.'

Logan rattled his mug back in the saucer, stood, said thank you for the coffee and legged it for the station. Sergeant Eric Mitchell was on the front desk, slumped over a copy of that morning's Aberdeen Examiner with a ballpoint pen, drawing moustaches on people. But however much ink he used, it was never going to come close to the huge furry creature lurking on his own top lip: a full-blown Joseph Stalin job.

He looked up as Logan puffed and panted to a halt.

'Thought you were supposed to be off this weekend?'

Logan grabbed the edge of the reception desk and tried to get some oxygen back into his lungs. 'I… ahh… it…'

'Jesus. Where did you run from, Inverness?'

'Arch… Archies.'

'That's just round the corner! How unfit do you have to be to-'

'Karim told me… Rory Simpson… turned up… last night.'

Blank look.

Logan tried again, 'Beaten up? Broken arms… and legs?'

Sergeant Mitchell pulled out the day book and flicked through it. Frowning. 'Nope… No one's seen your child-molester friend since he did a runner.'

That bastard Karim had been winding him up.

'What we do have,' said Mitchell, running a finger across his facial topiary, 'is a Duane Cowie. Anonymous call from a pub payphone: said they'd seen a man being assaulted on the Kings Links, down by the beach. Alpha Sixteen found him about two hundred yards from the petrol station.'

'Duane Cowie? Who the hell is Duane Cowie?'

'No idea.' Sergeant Mitchell punched away at a keyboard beneath the level of desk. 'Says here Steel had a lookout request on him. Something about a Polish girl getting raped in a porn film?'

'Damn. Knew it was too good to be true.'

'Aye, well I'm sure Duane Cowie shares your disappointment.' He went back to vandalizing the paper. 'And speaking of Steel: she wants a word, if you're about?'

'I'm not. You've not seen me.' Logan turned to leave. Stopped. Then went back to the desk. 'What's the book at now for the new DI's position?'

Sergeant Mitchell smiled. 'You should've put money on when you were eighteen to one. Steel did.' He raised an eyebrow. 'Speaking of which…'

The side door banged open and DI Steel marched into reception with a face on her that would curdle linoleum. 'Where the hell have you been?'

Logan sidled towards the exit. 'It's my day off. I just came in to-'

'My office. NOW!' Steel slumped behind her desk and glowered at Logan. 'This is all your fault.'

'What? How is it my-'

'Don't interrupt. You sodded off yesterday and I had to take DS Beardy Sodding Beattie! Continental drift moves faster than that fat git. Duane Cowie did a runner.'

'Yes, but Eric said he was-'

'Which part of "don't interrupt" are you having problems with?'

Logan shut his mouth.

'If you'd sodding well been there, Duane Cowie wouldn't have got away, someone wouldn't have battered the crap out of him, and I'd have another suspect to sodding question!' She dug a folder out from her in-tray and tossed it across the desk at him. 'Read it.'

Inside was an interview transcript: present DI Steel, DS Beattie, and Allan Rait. The other dog-mask rapist. Logan skimmed through it. 'That's one pound fifty: "sodding" still counts as a swearword.'

'No it sodding doesn't.'