Blind Eye. Stuart MacBride

lying on the floor by the bed, ‘it was drink related.’

      ‘Oh…’ Logan stared at that bloated face again. ‘Any chance you could take a look at the eyes, you know, while you’re here?’

      ‘I’ve taken off my gloves.’

      ‘Quick look. Two minutes tops. We haven’t got a clue what he’s using to gouge their eyes out. Or burn them. We need to know what we’re looking for.’

      Doc Fraser furrowed his hairy eyebrows. ‘I’m not a detective or anything, but I would have thought the obvious answer would be to ask the victims who’re still alive.’

      ‘They won’t talk to us. Terrified of reprisals.’

      He shifted from foot to foot. ‘All right,’ he said at last, ‘two minutes.’ Doc Fraser pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and went back to the body again. He peered at the flesh around the eyes. ‘Skin’s been cut away and stitched back … most of the upper and lower lids missing … presumably that was the hospital getting rid of any burnt tissue. Can’t see inside.’

      He stuck his finger in one of the eye sockets and started flicking out little wiggly things. ‘Off you go…’ More followed. Then Fraser pulled out a pen-sized torch, shone it in the hole, and hummed and hawed for a bit. ‘No,’ he said at last, ‘this is totally pointless. Any evidence was erased by the surgical team. The whole site’s been cleaned and sterilized.’

      He tried to stand, but didn’t manage. ‘Little help please?’

      Logan hauled him to his feet.

      ‘Thanks.’ Fraser clicked off his torch and slid it back into the pocket of his SOC oversuit. ‘If you had a fresh victim, I mean before they wheeched him off to A&E, I might be able to tell you something…’ Shrug. ‘Get this one back to the mortuary, post mortem will be half twelve, one-ish? Depends what’s for lunch.’

      Logan watched the IB roll the bloated, stinking remains of Lubosław Frankowski into a body-bag. Somehow lunch had lost its appeal.

      His appetite still hadn’t returned by the time he made it back to Force Headquarters. Half eleven and the canteen was gearing up for service; the smell of sausage, beans and chips wafting through the building just made him feel even more queasy.

      Steel was sitting in her office, rummaging through a stack of printouts.

      Logan slumped back against the wall. ‘You seen Finnie?’

      The inspector didn’t look up. ‘If I had I’d be bankrupt by now. That flipping swear box is costing me a fortune.’

      ‘Did you just say, “flipping”?’

      ‘Oh shut up.’ She stuffed the printouts back in her in-tray. ‘What do you want that … Finnie for?’

      ‘We found one of the old Oedipus victims dead this morning. Doc Fraser thinks he probably drank himself to death.’

      ‘Can’t say I blame him. If some bast… If someone gouged your eyes out, would you no’ want a wee bit of alcoholic oblivion?’

      ‘Poor sod was face-down on the carpet for a week and a half before anyone found him.’

      ‘In this heat?’ She stared at Logan, then at his clothes. ‘Thought I smelled something rank, but I was too polite to mention it. Might have been your new aftershave.’ She sniffed. ‘What is it with you and mouldy corpses?’