Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

Finnie: 'I am a senior officer in this-'

Bain: 'Then try acting like one! I do not expect this kind of behaviour from-'

Finnie: 'Oh no, I bet you don't. God forbid anyone should stand up to the Almighty Head Of CID!'

Someone tapped Logan on the shoulder and he flinched. It was DS Pirie, curly ginger hair glowing in a shaft of sunlight. 'I'd stay out of his way this morning, if I was you. Soon as he heard about Operation Creel he went ballistic.'

Bain: 'You're on thin ice Chief Inspector!'

Finnie: 'Oh don't give me that, you know I'm right. This whole disaster was mismanaged from the start.'

There was no way Logan was wading into the middle of that. 'I'll come back later.'

'Ah, it'll blow over. It usually does. Just keep a low profile. And it just so happens I've got something that might get us both back in his good books.' Pirie paused. 'Interested?'

Tempting. 'I'm supposed to wait for a summons from Professional Standards.'

The DS slapped Logan on the back. 'Yeah, I heard. But think how much easier it would go if you had a success under your belt? I got a phone call from a Chiz I use, says he's got a lead on the guys behind that boatload of guns.'

'Did you get an address?'

'I was going to tell the guvnor, but he's mid-rant… If you want to tag along instead?'

Damn right he did. All the pool cars were out, so they took Logan's knackered Fiat. Sometime during the night the seagulls had paid a visit, and now the bonnet and roof were polka-dotted with acrid splatters of white and grey.

Pirie held onto the seatbelt strap as Logan ground his way through the gears. 'Tell me you didn't give someone money for this piece of shite.'

'Very funny.' Logan gave the gearstick one last yank and took them around the roundabout onto Wellington Road, the dirty bulk of Craiginches Prison crawling past on their left as he did his best to accelerate up the hill. 'About Finnie-'

'I told you: it'll blow over. You just gotta give it time.'

'No. I mean him and Wee Hamish Mowat.'

Pirie's left eyebrow shot up so fast it looked as if it was about to break free of his head. 'Oh aye?'

'I saw Finnie take a brown envelope from one of Wee Hamish's boys.'

'Ah…' Pirie ran a hand through his wire-wool hair, watching as a scooter overtook them. 'I can get out and push if you like?'

'I'm serious.'

'Finnie gets brown envelopes from Wee Hamish all the time.'

'What?' Logan stared at him. 'You knew about it?'

Shrug. 'Course I did. Power behind the throne, remember?'

'But… Why…?'

'Why didn't I report it? Because they don't have money in them, they've got information. Look at it from Wee Hamish's point of view: someone tries muscling in on his turf, what's he going to do? Yeah, he can fight back, or whatever, but that costs him time, money, manpower, and there's always the risk something will get connected to him. Never been arrested in his life, think he wants to start now?'

Logan slumped, said, 'Fuck,' then banged his head off the steering wheel.

Pirie's voice jumped up an octave. 'Think you'd like to keep your eyes on the road? Please?'

'He's using us.'

'Where did you learn to bloody drive?'

'He doesn't need bent coppers, he gets us to do his dirty work for free.'

'It's a two-way thing, OK? Wee Hamish sends Finnie a wee brown envelope with all the details. We make the arrest — bad guys are off the streets, and no one gets fed to the pigs. It's win, win…' Pirie frowned. 'Wait a minute, it was you, wasn't it? You set Professional Standards on him: told them about the brown envelopes.'

'I thought he was on the take.'

'Do you have any idea how much pain and extra work you caused him? They crawled all over every inch of his record, picked him apart for two whole days. Made his life a living hell.'

Logan sighed. 'I'm sorry, OK?'

Pirie threw his head back and laughed. 'Sorry my arse — it's been great. I owe you a drink!'

Peterseat Drive was a loop of dirty tarmac on the northernmost edge of Altens. Most of the buildings were new or not even finished yet: warehouses and storage depots. Stacks of offshore containers were locked away behind chain-link fences. Piles of drilling pipe. Huge chunks of metal, painted bright primary colours.

Logan pulled the rattling Fiat up to the kerb and killed the engine, before it died of its own accord.

'Right.' Pirie unfastened his seatbelt and popped the passenger door open. 'Got to have a quick word with my Chiz: find out what he knows.'

Logan clambered out of the car, but Pirie held up a hand. 'You know the rules — total anonymity for all Covert Human Intelligence Sources; my guy sees you, he'll run a mile. Hell, I shouldn't even be talking to this guy without Bain's say so.'

'But-'

'I'll only be two minutes, OK? Just chill till then.' Pirie turned, stuck his hands in his pockets and ambled across the road to a yard full of anchor chains.

Logan slumped against the roof of the car and smoked a cigarette. He was grinding it out on the rusty paintwork when his mobile started ringing. He dug the phone out and grimaced: according the display it was DI Steel. Probably wanting to know where the hell he was. He let it ring through to voice-mail. She was back on thirty seconds later. Logan ignored it.

Down the street, Pirie stuck his head out of a gate and beckoned.

Logan hurried across the road. 'Well?'

'Sort of.' Pirie turned and pointed at one of the brand-new warehouses. It wasn't quite finished yet, the construction sign still up by the wire gates read: 'COMING SOON — RIGSPANTECH DOWNHOLE SERVICES'. Dark blue roof and beige walls, attached to a small office block that hadn't progressed beyond the raw breeze block and hollow window frames stage. No sign of life. 'According to my guy, there was a firm called Kostchey International Holdings Limited doing site security there till about a week ago. You wanna check it out, see if we can get a billing address?'

Logan did.

They abandoned the Fiat where it was and walked down the half-finished pavement in the blazing sunshine. This part of the road was quiet, just the occasional clang of metal on metal, or beep-beep-beep of a reversing forklift truck. A radio somewhere inside one of the yards, playing Northsound 2.

Pirie kicked an empty plastic bottle, sending it spinning down the dusty pavement. 'So… did you really get blown up?'

'That why you're helping me get back into Finnie's good books? Pity?' The further down the road they walked the newer the buildings got, until they were just partially constructed shells.

'Nope.' They'd caught up with the plastic bottle, and Pirie gave it another kick.

Logan's phone started ringing. Again.

'You going to answer that?'

'It'll be Steel, telling me I'm supposed to be in with Professional Standards.'

The ringing stopped, there was silence, and then it started again.

'It's kinda irritating.'

Logan pulled the thing out and switched it off. 'Happy now?'

One more kick and the bottle clattered against the fence surrounding RigSpanTech's almost-finished warehouse. A length of chain was looped through both sides of the gate, but the padlock wasn't shut.

Logan followed Pirie into the building site. They hadn't even started laying the road yet — everything was hard-packed dirt and rubble.

Pirie shaded his eyes against the sun, staring at the half-built office unit and the warehouse beyond. 'Look, over there — black BMW. Least we know someone's about.' He took two steps towards it, then stopped. Logan's pocket was making ringing noises again. 'Thought you switched that off?'

'I did…' And then Logan realized it wasn't his phone, it was the one Kravchenko had given him. He fumbled it out and checked the display: 'NUMBER WITHHELD' His innards clenched. 'I have to take this.'