Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

The constable hooked a thumb over his shoulder. 'Living room, watching a Sponge Bob Square Pants marathon. Are you taking over, paedo-sitting? Coz I got places to go, things to do, people to arrest.' He grinned. 'You know I've been watching all those CCTV videos? Well you see-'

Logan didn't care. 'You've got till three. If you're not back by then, I'm telling Steel you've been trying on Susan's underwear. She'll kick the crap-'

'I don't wear women's underwear!' The constable coughed. 'Well, you know, not… with the… Emma says…' He clamped his mouth shut.

'Just get your arse back here by three.' Logan made sure the front door was locked, then went to check on Rory Simpson. Sure enough the old man was sitting in the living room, watching kids' cartoons. When asked if he wanted anything for lunch, Rory just shrugged. His black eye hadn't improved any, and neither had his sulk.

'My tooth hurts.'

'Then microwave some soup.'

'I don't want soup.'

Logan sighed. 'You going to pout all day?'

'I'm not pouting.' He went back to staring at the television. 'And you hit me.'

'I said I'm sorry.'

Rory shuffled his backside, worming his way deeper into the couch. 'DI Steel never hit me.'

'Fine,' said Logan, closing the door again, 'sod you then.'

He stopped off in the kitchen to collect a pair of shot glasses, and the bottle of Wyborowa from the freezer, taking everything back out into the garden. The vodka was thick and slippery as he poured out two measures.

He handed one to Wiktorja. 'Well?'

She raised her glass, said, 'Na zdrowie!' and tossed it back. Closed her eyes. Then smiled. 'That's better.'

Logan downed his own vodka, then topped them up again.

She picked up a sheet of paper from the pile on the patio table. 'This,' she said, 'is an army report about six aid workers suspected of being Mujahideen spies. Kravchenko cut off their ears and fed them to a stray dog.' Wiktorja picked up another. 'In this one he tortures an old man for information on local Muslims.' She pointed at a third. 'They suspected one of his troops was selling military supplies on the black market. Kravchenko gouged out the man's eyes and poured petrol into the sockets. The staff sergeant lived just long enough to be dragged outside and shot.'

'Jesus.'

It was warm in the garden, the cold vodka bottle steaming in the sunlight. They drank, and Logan filled their glasses again. 'What about the modern stuff?'

'Nothing is conclusive. Some say he is working for the Russian mafia. Some say he is working for a Polish gang.' She puffed out her cheeks. 'It is very hot. Are you hot?' She tried to get out of her jacket, but the sling made it nearly impossible. Logan helped her, revealing a T-shirt, stretched tight across her chest. 'But,' she said, 'it does not matter who Kravchenko works for, the end result is the same. He is interested in two things: fear and power. If he is in Aberdeen it is because his masters want to move in and take over.'

Logan stuck the note about the Buckie Ballad and its hold full of guns on the table. 'It comes in tomorrow night.'

'Then you have a war on your hands.'

Time for more vodka.

DI Steel was home first: half past five, and by then DC Rennie had returned, scrounged a cup of tea, and gone again. The inspector slumped through the back door into the garden, then froze, staring at Wiktorja. 'Who the hell's this?'

Logan did the introductions and offered Steel a shot of vodka.

'Aye, go on then.' She settled into one of the garden chairs as Logan went inside to raid the freezer again. By the time he got back, Steel was deep in conversation with Wiktorja, heads together over the scattered contents of the Kravchenko file.

As soon as Logan reappeared they both shot upright.

'Am I interrupting anything?'

Steel: 'No.'

Wiktorja: 'We were just talking.'

Pause. 'OK…' He stuck a clean glass in front of the inspector and filled it to the brim. The bottle was well on its way to being empty.

Steel picked up her drink, sniffed at it, threw it back, then clunked her glass back on the table. 'Same again.'

Logan did the honours.

'Tell you,' she said, 'won't believe the sodding day I've had. Finnie's been a right pain in the backside: they've got to let Creepy Colin out on bail and suddenly it's my fault?' She downed her second shot. 'Frog-faced git needs taken out and given a stiff sodding kicking. Any more in that bottle?'

Another refill. 'Right,' said Logan, gathering up the file, 'we'd better get going, I'll phone you tomorrow morning and-'

Steel slapped a hand down over his, pinning his fingers over a photograph of one of Kravchenko's victims. 'No' so fast. Susan and me are off out tonight, some woman's-support-group-knit-your-own-tampons thing. You're watching Rory.'

Logan groaned. 'Can't you get Rennie to-'

'Oh don't be such a sodding girl. All this top secret rubbish is your fault in the first place, least you can do is take your turn. We'll be back about ten. Till then,' she pointed at the kitchen window, where a pale face with a black eye peered out at them, 'Git-Features is all yours.' 'I'm no' comfy.' DI Steel wriggled in place, hauling at the armpit of a blue silk shirt.

'Would it have killed you to brush your hair?' Susan dipped into her handbag and came out with a comb. 'Here.'

Logan watched them both through a slightly fuzzy haze of vodka. They'd abandoned the garden in favour of the kitchen when Logan's forehead started to go red. Now the skin was stretched tight as an over-inflated balloon, greasy from a liberal smearing of after-sun. It stung a bit, but he was anaesthetised enough not to care. Especially after Steel had broken out the ten-year-old Highland Park.

Wiktorja had taken to whisky almost as quickly as Logan had taken to Polish vodka. She was still out there, at the garden table, her mobile phone clamped to one ear telling her sergeant back in Poland about the Kravchenko file, and the boatload of guns.

'Honestly,' said Susan, fussing around her wife, 'you're a disaster area. And eat a mint or something: you smell like a brewery…'

Rory sat at the breakfast bar, still wearing his 'OUT, LOUD, GAY AND PROUD!' sweatshirt, munching away on a packet of Mini Cheddars, popping each disk into his mouth and sucking them to mush before having another. 'Well, I think you look fabulous, Susan.' His tongue was covered in a thin film of cheesy sludge. 'First impressions are so important, that's what… that's what my Barry used to say.' He wiped away an imaginary tear.

'Oh Rory, I'm so sorry…'

Steel hauled at her trousers. 'Can I no' just wear jeans?'

'No.' Susan stepped back and examined her handiwork. 'Suppose you'll have to do.'

'But I hate these trousers, they bunch right up the crack of my-'

'You look nice in them.'

Rory hopped down off his stool, helping himself to a couple of chocolate biscuits. 'You should listen to Susan, those trousers do wonderful things for your bum. Trust me: as a gay man, I know these things.'

She scowled at him. 'I'll do wonderful things for your bum with the toe of my sodding boot!'

Susan blushed. 'Roberta! You be nice to our guest!'

'Ah,' Rory took Susan's hand, 'if only everyone was as understanding as you.' He spun her into a fast waltz around the kitchen floor. She was giggling as he started singing Thank Heavens for Little Girls in a high, wobbling tenor.

Little bastard.

Nasty, little, child-molesting bastard.

Logan swallowed the last half-inch of whisky in his glass, stood up and blocked their way.

'I say, old chap,' Rory winked at him, 'this isn't a gentleman's excuse me, you find your own-'

Logan slapped him across the face. Hard.

Everything stopped dead. Rory clutched a hand to his cheek, stumbled back against the working surface and stared up at Logan with tears in his eyes. 'What was that for?'