Blind Eye by Stuart MacBride Page B

spunk-bucket...'
Logan tried the door again. 'Maybe no one's in?'
'Aye, typical Finnie: send us all the way over here on a wild bloody goose chase. "Make yourself useful, Inspector , go check on Harry Jordan, Inspector ."' She made the universal hand-gesture for 'wanker'. 'Give it one more try then we're sodding off for lunch.'
Logan did, and a voice sounded on the other side - female, afraid, 'Who is it?'
'Police. Can you open the door please?'
'I... I'm not... What's it about?'
Steel stopped swearing and kicked the door, making the whole thing rattle. 'Tell Harry to get his crippled arse out here. I'm having a shitty day and I'm in no mood to piss about!'
Two minutes later they were standing in the living room. Inside, the place was surprisingly spacious - three bedrooms, one bathroom, kitchen, and the heart of Harry Jordan's little criminal empire.
The lounge was shrouded in darkness, curtains closed against the sunshine, just a tatty standard lamp to break the gloom. Three painfully thin women in various stages of undress hovered in the background. Dark circles lurked beneath their eyes; it was about the only colour on their emaciated frames. Can't be a pimp without merchandise.
Harry Jordan sat in a wheelchair in the middle of the room, both legs sticking straight out: encased in fibreglass casts from hip to ankle. The rest of him didn't look much better - his nose looked like a squashed prune, and the purple-yellow stain of fresh bruises covered the whole left-hand side of his face. According to his police record he was only twenty-nine, but with the lank hair and spreading bald spot he looked at least forty.
'Harry!' Steel beamed at him. 'A wee birdy tells me you had a falling out with Creepy Colin McLeod.'
A joint smouldered between Harry's lips, the smell filling the lounge: a cross between sweat, herbs, and chocolate. He squinted, then let out a huge lungful of smoke. His pupils were dark and wide. 'It's medicinal, OK? I'm in a lot of pain...'
'Serves you right.' Steel settled herself down on the huge grey couch, and stuck her feet up on the coffee table.
Logan got the feeling it was his turn to play 'Good Cop' again. 'We need to speak to you about Colin McLeod.'
The joint fell from Harry's lips. 'Aye... W...' He looked down at the hand-rolled parcel, smouldering away on the burgundy carpet, then up at one of the stick-thin women. 'Fuck's wrong with you? PICK IT UP!'
She hurried forward, track marks standing out against the pale skin on her arms as she grabbed the joint and returned it to its rightful place in Harry's trembling fingers.
Steel tutted. 'Can't even pick up your own spliff, Harry. Creepy really did you over, didn't he?'
Another deep drag. Harry closed his eyes, letting the delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol ooze its way into his bloodstream. 'Girls,' he said, on a wave of sweet-smelling smoke, 'leave us...'
Steel grinned. 'What's the matter, Harry, scared the poor cows'll find out you're no' invincible after all?' She pointed at the wheelchair. 'Bit late for that, isn't it?'
Harry slammed his hand down on the armrest. 'I SAID LEAVE!'
The girls hurried out and closed the door behind them. Now the only sound was Harry's laboured breathing and some halfwit playing Whitney Houston's Greatest Hits in the flat downstairs.
'So,' the inspector stretched out, knocking a pile of hard-core Swedish pornography off the coffee table with her feet, 'Colin McLeod came round and battered the crap out your knees with a claw hammer last night? That's gotta hurt!'
Harry just went on nursing his joint, so Logan had a go: 'You should be in hospital where they can look after you.'
'Fucking hospitals do my head in, Man. Checked myself out.' Another toke. ''Sides, got me some painkillers and vodka, know what I mean?' He scowled at the closed door. 'Bitches think I'm not up to it any more. Fucking showed them though, didn't I? Nobody screws with Harry Jordan.'
'Except Creepy Colin McLeod.' Steel smiled at him. 'Why'd he do it? That