Blind Eye

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Waiting was the worst bit: hunkered back against the wall, eyes squinting in the setting sun, waiting for the nod. A disused business unit in Torry — not exactly the most affluent area of Aberdeen — downwind of a fish factory, and a collection of huge yellow bins overflowing with heads, bones and innards that festered in the hot June evening.

Half a dozen armed police officers — three teams of two, all dressed in black, sweating and trying not to breathe through their noses — listened for sounds of movement over the raucous screams of Jurassic-Park seagulls.

Nothing.

A big man, nose and mouth covered by a black scarf, held up a hand. The firearms officers tensed.

And three, two, one…

BOOM — the handheld battering ram smashed into the lock and the door exploded inwards in a shower of wooden splinters.

'GO! GO! GO!'

Into a gloomy corridor: grey walls, grubby blue carpet tiles.

Team One took the workshop at the back, Team Two took the front offices, and both members of Team Three hammered up the stairs. Detective Sergeant Logan McRae slithered to a halt at the top: there was a dust-encrusted desk upended on the landing; a dead pot plant; dark rectangles on the walls where pictures used to hang; four open doors. 'Clear.'

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