Blind Eye. Stuart MacBride

to a slice of coconut sponge. ‘They had Manchester accents, if that helps?’

      ‘It doesn’t.’ The inspector spooled the tape forward a bit, and Logan watched Kevin Murray go down in a spray of blood. Hoodie Number One bounced in front Logan, then he and his fellow thugs were off and running. The picture tilted to follow them, then jumped to another camera. Then another one… And then they were gone, vanishing into one of the little side roads off George Street. Swallowed by granite and shadow.

      Logan finished his mouthful. ‘Thought Britain had more CCTV cameras per head of population than anywhere in the world?’

      ‘Don’t you bloody start – I get enough of that from the wife.’ The inspector pointed at a stack of VHS videos in their black cases. ‘Got about forty hours’ worth of drug-related stabbings and fights there, if you want it?’

      Logan patted him on the shoulder and said he’d think about it.

      DI Steel was slumped in her office with her feet up on the desk, a cup of coffee sitting in front of her, while she fiddled about in her cleavage. Logan settled down into the only visitor chair that didn’t look as if it was covered in pee-stains. ‘Is it just me,’ he said, ‘or is Pirie a total wanker?’

      ‘Yup…’ The inspector kept on rummaging.

      ‘I mean, can you believe all that rubbish? “The profile says this, the profile says that.” Idiot.’ There were copies of the e-fits on the inspector’s desk, Logan picked them up, staring at the two faces. ‘We know Oedipus isn’t in his early twenties – Rory saw him – he had grey hair… And what kind of serial nut-job goes after Simon McLeod?’

      ‘Suicidal one?’ She managed to get two hands down the front of her shirt.

      ‘Would you stop doing that?’

      ‘Lost a bit of nicotine gum…’

      Logan took another good long look at the e-fit of the older man. Short grey hair, chiselled jaw, stern eyes… ‘Does he not look a bit … familiar to you?’

      Steel snatched it off him, one hand still well and truly rammed down her cleavage as she squinted at the composite photo. ‘No.’ She handed it back. ‘Susan and me watched that Indiana Jane and the Temple of Dildos last night. Brilliant. Tell you, she can raid my forbidden palace any time she likes.’ Steel gave up on the rummaging, stood, and untucked her grey blouse.

      ‘If you’re getting naked, I’m leaving the room.’

      ‘Don’t flatter yourself…’ She jiggled up and down until a small white rectangle of gum fell out onto the carpet. ‘Aha! Knew it was in there somewhere.’ She bent to retrieve her spoils.

      ‘What if Rory screwed us over?’

      ‘Nah,’ said Steel, brushing the fluff off her nicotine gum, before popping it in her mouth, ‘the wee shite only likes little girls.’

      ‘No – I mean what if this isn’t the guy who attacked us in the house? Rory didn’t want to ID them in the first place, was scared in case they found out. What if Rory fiddled the description so he’d be in the clear?’

      ‘I’ll bloody kill him!’

      ‘Maybe that’s why no one’s recognized the pictures yet?’

      Steel grabbed her coat and tucked her blouse back into her trousers. ‘Well, come on then: let’s go pay Mr Rory Simpson a visit. Dirty wee bastard should still be in the cells.’

      ‘And that’s one pound fifty you owe the swear box.’

      ‘No I don’t.’

      ‘Yes you do. One “bloody” one “bastard” and a “shite”. Fifty pence each.’

      The inspector opened her mouth, then closed it again. ‘You are such a…’ Scowl. ‘Well, you called Pirie a wanker!’

      She had him there.

      Down in the cell blocks, the sound of someone yelling echoed around the concrete and breezeblock walls. ‘POLICE BRUTALITY! HELP! SOMEONE CALL A LAWYER! FUCKING BASTARD FUCKERS! HELP!’

      Steel stopped on the stairs. ‘Maybe we should come back when things are a bit less shouty?’

      ‘You want me to do it?’ asked Logan, one hand on the stairwell door.

      ‘Oh aye, and take all the credit? No thank you.’ She pushed past him into the depressing grey corridor.

      ‘POLICE BRUTALITY!’

      One of the Police Custody and Security Officers was standing in the middle of the cellblock, grinding her teeth.

      ‘What’s all this then?’ said Steel. ‘You been beating up our prisoners again? How often do I have to tell you that’s CID’s job?’

      ‘POLICE FUCKING BRUTALITY!’

      The PCSO gave cell number six a filthy look. ‘Says he found a pubic hair in his tea. As if! Lucky we give the bastards breakfast at all. Next time he’s brought in I’m farting on his rowie.’

      ‘Come on then, Celebrity MasterChef, which one’s Rory Simpson in?’

      ‘He’s not—’

      ‘WHAT ABOUT MY BLOODY HUMAN RIGHTS?’

      The PCSO banged on the cell door with the palm of her hand. ‘WILL YOU SHUT UP!’ There was a moment of blessed silence. ‘Rory Simpson’s been here since Friday afternoon so he got dibs on an early court hearing. They took him first thing. Got released on bail – trial date’s been set for three weeks.’

      ‘Oh for fff…’ Steel ground to a halt. ‘I mean, oh dear.’ She turned and marched back towards the rear doors. ‘Rory’s a creature of habit: he’ll go straight home from court, pausing only to pick up a wee bottle of brandy and a packet of custard creams to make himself feel better. We’ll pick him up there. Not a problem.’

      Wrong.

       12

      According to the Police National Computer, Rory Simpson rented a top-floor flat in a seventies development in Ruthrieston – not too far from Great Western Road, but just far enough from the local primary school to avoid breaching the exclusion zone required by his registered sex-offender status. The block was three storeys of bland, white-painted concrete – about two dozen flats in total – the walls streaked with grey and patches of green mould.

      Logan abandoned their CID Vauxhall in the empty car park out back, then they worked their way round to the front of the building, avoiding the collection of broken wheely bins. The contents were being artistically spread all over the tarmac by a pair of cackling magpies.

      ‘So,’ said Logan, ‘why the sudden desire for a swear box?’

      ‘Told you, language in the department is appalling. Supposed to be professionals…’ The inspector drifted to a halt. They’d reached the building’s front door. The lock had been ripped right out of the wooden frame. She placed a hand against the door and pushed – it swung open on a tatty stairwell.

      DI Steel peered inside. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’

      Logan reached out a hand and pressed the buzzer marked ‘R SIMPSON’. An electronic grinding noise sounded from somewhere above.

      No answer.

      ‘Maybe we should call for backup?’

      ‘You always want backup.’

      ‘Yeah? Well look what happened last time.’

      She stepped across the threshold and started up the stairs. ‘We’ll just take a quick peek.’

      Logan watched her disappear into the