Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

He did as he was told, and Logan slapped the handcuffs on.

'Ow! Do you have to be so rough?'

Logan slammed the driver's seat back into place, then climbed in behind the wheel as Rory struggled upright again. 'Where are we going?'

'Skipping bail, failing to appear, and resisting arrest. Where do you think?'

'No.' He shuffled forwards, eyes wide in the rear-view mirror. 'You can't take me back to the station! They're waiting for me!'

Which was stating the bloody obvious.

'Of course they are: with jelly and ice cream, because you're so fucking popular.' Logan started the engine — it sounded like a washing machine full of ball-bearings — then fought with the groaning gearbox. 'Now sit still and shut up.'

Rory managed to do as he was told for a whole two minutes. Then he was leaning forwards again, his head poking between the front seats, bottom lip trembling. 'Please! I'm begging you. You can't take me back there. Please.'

Logan pulled up at the junction, waiting for the lights to change. 'Not going to happen, Rory.'

'Please… It was… A policeman tried to kill me.'

'Bollocks.'

'That's why I ran: I swear on my sainted mother's grave. A policeman and that Russian you were after: they tried to kill me!' The wind had picked up. Logan sat in the driver's seat, watching the North Sea churn against the beach, smoking another cigarette he didn't really want. A seagull lurched past on the pavement outside, giving him the evil eye on its way somewhere important.

There was a knock on the passenger window and DI Steel peered in. 'Where'd you get this piece of junk? A skip?'

Logan got out of the car. 'You took your time.'

'Don't you bloody start — I get enough of that from DCI Frog-Face.' She pointed at the cigarette still smouldering in his hand. 'Thought you'd given up the demon cancer sticks?'

Logan shrugged and took another drag. 'You going to give me a hard time?'

'No' if you lend us one.'

He did and she lit up, then blew a long stream of smoke across the roof of the car. 'You know this stuff'll kill you, yeah?'

'It can join the queue.' Logan walked round to the Fiat's boot. 'Got a present for you.'

She followed him, stepping forward as Logan unlocked the lid and swung it open. She looked inside. Looked at Logan. 'Why is there…?' Looked back inside again. Rory Simpson lay on his side in the boot, tucked in beneath the parcel shelf, next to the threadbare spare tyre. Hands still cuffed behind his back. He blinked up, eyes squinted against the light.

Steel poked him. 'Rory, you daft sod: normal people ride up front in the seats. The boot's for dead bodies.' She puckered up for a moment. Then said to Logan, 'Mind you, we could always drive him out to the middle of nowhere: do the world a favour? I've got a shovel in my car.'

Rory blinked, grumbled something about pins and needles, then tried to sit up. Steel pushed him back down again and slammed the hatchback shut.

'Laz, why have you got a kiddy-fiddling scumbag handcuffed in the boot of your crappy car?' The inspector slumped back into the passenger seat, brushed the rust and dust from her hands, and said, 'This better be good.'

Rory Simpson's voice whined out behind them, 'I'm getting cramp in here.'

Logan turned, staring through the gap where they'd put one of the back seats down so they could see into the boot. 'Shut up and tell the inspector what you told me.'

The old man wriggled, probably trying to get comfortable. 'Can you at least take these things off?'

Steel popped a pellet of nicotine gum in her mouth, talking and smoking and chewing all at the same time. 'Clock's ticking Rory.'

'Fine…' Big sigh. 'They were waiting for me when I got home. You know, from court. The building's front door was kicked in. "Oh-ho," I thinks, "bloody kids up to no good again." And then I go upstairs and someone's broken into my flat.' He shuddered. 'If I hadn't gone past the shop on the way…'

'Should've called the police.'

That got her a dirty look. 'I could hear two men talking in the lounge, and I'm about to leg it — just in case it's… you know, concerned parents or something — when I realize they're talking about how to get rid of my body. My body! Like I'm already dead… One of them sounds Russian, but the other's a policeman.'

'Who?'

Rory went silent, staring down at the grubby surface of the back seat.

'Rory, who was it?'

'I didn't see him.'

'You're such a liar.' Steel stretched her gum with the tip of her tongue, then popped it. 'If you didn't see him, how do you know he was a police officer?'

'Because the other man said so, OK? That's how I know. He said, "You call yourself a policeman and you can't even catch one little…" He called me the "P" word. And the other one said he'd get patrol cars looking for me. So I snuck back out and ran for it.'

Rory started fidgeting again. 'Are you sure you can't take these handcuffs off?'

Steel said, 'Positive.'

'But my nose is itchy.'

'So I'm supposed to believe some anonymous Russian and a bent copper are trying to kill you?'

'He's not anonymous: I saw him. When I got back outside I looked up, at the flat. The Russian was standing at the window, talking to someone on the phone. It was him — the man from the house when that gangster got blinded. Grey hair, eyes like a rapist.'

There was a thunk on the bonnet and Logan looked around. A fat seagull was glaring at them through the windscreen. Logan honked the horn, but the bird didn't even blink. 'You lied when we put together that e-fit, didn't you.'

'Didn't want to get involved. And now look…' He sagged, until his head was resting on the spare tyre. 'If you take me back to the station, they'll kill me.'

Steel chewed in silence for a minute. Then turned back to face the front. 'Sounds like a load of old bollocks to me.'

Logan cleared his throat. 'Actually… I think he's telling the truth.'

'You soft git.' She pulled the gum from her mouth, rolled down her window, and pinged it at the seagull, then did the same thing with her cigarette butt. Missed both times. 'Fine, we'll give him the benefit of the doubt.' Steel turned back to scowl at Rory. 'Looks like it's your lucky day. But if you're lying to me, you'll be digging your own shallow grave, understand?'

The rear podium car park was nearly empty, just the Chief Constable's flash new Audi, DI Steel's MX-5, and a couple of patrol cars. Logan pulled into one of the free parking spots and turned off the engine. As it coughed and spluttered to a halt, a muffled whisper came through from the back. 'Where are we?'

'Force Headquarters.'

'What?' The whisper turned into a panicky yelp. 'No! You said! You promised!'

'Shhhhhhh! We're just stopping here till Steel has a word with the head of CID.'

'WHAT?'

'You want someone to hear you?'

And he was whispering again: 'She shouldn't be talking to anyone. What if he's the policeman I heard?'

Logan turned and stuck two fingers up at the man in the boot. They'd put the back seat up again, so Rory couldn't actually see, but it was the thought that counted. 'Detective Chief Superintendent Bain was not in your flat, plotting to kill you with a Russian gangster, OK? He's…' Logan drifted to a halt, watching as Steel stuck her head out of the back doors and made come-hither motions. 'We're on.' He unbuckled his seatbelt. 'Stay where you are and keep quiet.'

'But-'

'No. And stop moving about: someone'll see.'

Logan climbed out of the car, locked it, then followed DI Steel inside.

Drunken singing echoed up from the cell block, punctuated by someone shouting, 'SHUT UP YOU NOISY BASTARD!'

'Right,' said Steel, marching down the corridor, 'took a bit of convincing, but Bain's going to let us keep Rory at a secure location: your place.'