Read Online Blind Eye by Stuart MacBride - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stuart MacBride
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Crime, Detective and Mystery Stories, Police, Police Procedural, Logan (Fictitious character), McRae, Polish people
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to me - you tell him he gets over here with the stuff now, or I'm gonnae kill his ma and fuck the corpse!' Denim jacket, ripped jeans, hair down to the middle of his back, cheekbones sharp enough to slice cheese. Heroin: the ultimate slimming aid.
'Anyway,' said Rennie, 'what's wrong with dinner parties? It's what civil...' Belch. 'Civilized adults do.'
The man on the phone was still going strong. 'I don't fuckin' care if he's havin' a fuckin' heart attack! You tell him to get his arse over here!'
'What makes you think I need you to fix me up with anyone? What am I, a charity case...' Logan trailed off. Four men had just marched round the corner from Union Street. Not meandered, or staggered, but marched. They were dressed in the standard CCTV-avoidance costume: hoodies and baseball caps, their faces hidden in the shadows.
Logan nudged Rennie. 'Look left... Your other left. Four IC-One males.'
'Uh-huh. And?'
'Don't you ever read the day book? Someone got stabbed last night on Thistle Street. They got four hoodies on camera, running from the scene.'
'No, I don't want to fuckin' speak to him! You tell him I'm no' fuckin' around anymore... Aye... Don't be fuckin' stupid...'
The four hoodies were less than a dozen feet away now, making for the front of the kebab queue and the swearing man.
Hoodie Number One pulled something out of his pocket. 'Oi, you, Retard ! Kevin Fookin' Murray!' He had a face like streaky bacon, with a big prominent nose. The accent was pure Manchester. 'What did I Fookin' tell yeh?'
Kevin Murray ignored him. 'Naw, I'm no' gonnae give him another week, I want it now !'
'You Fookin' deaf, Murray?' One flick of the wrist and the thing in his hand unfolded into a butterfly knife.
Logan swore. So much for a quiet night out - he should have stayed at home with a paintbrush. He grabbed Rennie and stepped forward, getting an outraged, 'This is a queue here, you know?' from the person in front of them.
Hoodie Number One shoved Murray. He staggered, scowled. Then told the person on the other end he'd call them back. 'Fuck's your problem?'
Hoodies Two through Four were fanning out, getting ready.
Bloody hell... Logan glanced up the street, looking for the familiar fluorescent yellow and white police jackets of night-shift. Eleven o'clock on a Friday night, there should have been uniformed officers all over the place, but there was no sign of them. Probably breaking up a fight somewhere.
'I Fookin' told yeh, Murray, but you wouldn't Fookin' listen, would yeh? Had to act the cunt?' He was trembling, spittle flying from his mouth.
Logan dug about in his jacket for his warrant card. 'OK, let's all calm down.' He snapped his ID open and held it up. 'No need for anyone to get--'
Murray took a swing at Hoodie Number One. The punch went wide.
The hoodie's blade didn't.
'AAAGGHH!' Kevin Murray fell to his knees, hands clasped over his face. Blood spilling out between his fingers to spatter on the cobbled street.
The queue disintegrated, everyone retreating to a safe distance to watch the fight. Not one of them stepped in to help break it up. So much for community spirit.
Logan shouted, 'POLICE! You're all under arrest!' And then wished he hadn't.
The three back-up hoodies pulled their weapons out - a cleaver, a combat knife and a machete. All Logan had was a drunk Detective Constable Rennie.
'OK, everyone's in enough trouble as it is, don't make it any worse.'
Hoodie Number One laughed. 'You think you're so Fookin' big, don't yer? Well you know wha'? I eat pigs like you for breakfast...' He snaked his knife through the air in front of Logan's face. Back and forth in curving loops, his hand covered in blue DIY prison tattoos.
Logan felt his stomach clench. Why did it have to be a knife? Why did it always have to be a knife?
Well, Logan had a nasty surprise for him: pepper-spray beat a knife any day of the week. He felt in his pocket, then remembered it was sitting on his desk back at FHQ, waiting to be refilled.
Damn.
He held up
'Anyway,' said Rennie, 'what's wrong with dinner parties? It's what civil...' Belch. 'Civilized adults do.'
The man on the phone was still going strong. 'I don't fuckin' care if he's havin' a fuckin' heart attack! You tell him to get his arse over here!'
'What makes you think I need you to fix me up with anyone? What am I, a charity case...' Logan trailed off. Four men had just marched round the corner from Union Street. Not meandered, or staggered, but marched. They were dressed in the standard CCTV-avoidance costume: hoodies and baseball caps, their faces hidden in the shadows.
Logan nudged Rennie. 'Look left... Your other left. Four IC-One males.'
'Uh-huh. And?'
'Don't you ever read the day book? Someone got stabbed last night on Thistle Street. They got four hoodies on camera, running from the scene.'
'No, I don't want to fuckin' speak to him! You tell him I'm no' fuckin' around anymore... Aye... Don't be fuckin' stupid...'
The four hoodies were less than a dozen feet away now, making for the front of the kebab queue and the swearing man.
Hoodie Number One pulled something out of his pocket. 'Oi, you, Retard ! Kevin Fookin' Murray!' He had a face like streaky bacon, with a big prominent nose. The accent was pure Manchester. 'What did I Fookin' tell yeh?'
Kevin Murray ignored him. 'Naw, I'm no' gonnae give him another week, I want it now !'
'You Fookin' deaf, Murray?' One flick of the wrist and the thing in his hand unfolded into a butterfly knife.
Logan swore. So much for a quiet night out - he should have stayed at home with a paintbrush. He grabbed Rennie and stepped forward, getting an outraged, 'This is a queue here, you know?' from the person in front of them.
Hoodie Number One shoved Murray. He staggered, scowled. Then told the person on the other end he'd call them back. 'Fuck's your problem?'
Hoodies Two through Four were fanning out, getting ready.
Bloody hell... Logan glanced up the street, looking for the familiar fluorescent yellow and white police jackets of night-shift. Eleven o'clock on a Friday night, there should have been uniformed officers all over the place, but there was no sign of them. Probably breaking up a fight somewhere.
'I Fookin' told yeh, Murray, but you wouldn't Fookin' listen, would yeh? Had to act the cunt?' He was trembling, spittle flying from his mouth.
Logan dug about in his jacket for his warrant card. 'OK, let's all calm down.' He snapped his ID open and held it up. 'No need for anyone to get--'
Murray took a swing at Hoodie Number One. The punch went wide.
The hoodie's blade didn't.
'AAAGGHH!' Kevin Murray fell to his knees, hands clasped over his face. Blood spilling out between his fingers to spatter on the cobbled street.
The queue disintegrated, everyone retreating to a safe distance to watch the fight. Not one of them stepped in to help break it up. So much for community spirit.
Logan shouted, 'POLICE! You're all under arrest!' And then wished he hadn't.
The three back-up hoodies pulled their weapons out - a cleaver, a combat knife and a machete. All Logan had was a drunk Detective Constable Rennie.
'OK, everyone's in enough trouble as it is, don't make it any worse.'
Hoodie Number One laughed. 'You think you're so Fookin' big, don't yer? Well you know wha'? I eat pigs like you for breakfast...' He snaked his knife through the air in front of Logan's face. Back and forth in curving loops, his hand covered in blue DIY prison tattoos.
Logan felt his stomach clench. Why did it have to be a knife? Why did it always have to be a knife?
Well, Logan had a nasty surprise for him: pepper-spray beat a knife any day of the week. He felt in his pocket, then remembered it was sitting on his desk back at FHQ, waiting to be refilled.
Damn.
He held up
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