Logan shut his mouth.
‘If you’d sodding well been there, Duane Cowie wouldn’t have got away, someone wouldn’t have battered the crap out of him, and I’d have another suspect to sodding question!’ She dug a folder out from her in-tray and tossed it across the desk at him. ‘Read it.’
Inside was an interview transcript: present DI Steel, DS Beattie, and Allan Rait. The other dog-mask rapist. Logan skimmed through it. ‘That’s one pound fifty: “sodding” still counts as a swearword.’
‘No it sodding doesn’t.’
According to Allan Rait’s statement, Krystka Gorzałkowska was acting. There was no rape. It was all make-believe. The magic of cinema. Logan stuck the transcript back in the folder. ‘What does Krystka say?’
‘What the hell do you think? Like interviewing Marcel Marceau.’ Steel slumped back in her chair. ‘If she made a complaint I could nail them to the wall, but right now we’ve got fff … sod all.’
She scowled for a bit, drumming her fingers against her forehead. Then: ‘What about the company who hired her out?’
‘Kostchey International Holdings Limited.’
‘Aye, you got that address yet?’
‘Er…’ Logan dragged his phone out and checked for messages from Zander Clark. ‘No.’
‘Oh for God’s sake! You’re now officially in my bad books.’
‘Oh, come on. That’s not fair—’
‘Boo-hoo. Life’s not fair.’
‘It’s my day off—’
‘Want to know how you can get back in my good books?’ She pulled out the empty plastic cup and stuck it on her desk.
Logan groaned. ‘Not again with the sperm!’
‘Aye, again with the sperm. You’ve got millions of the wriggly little buggers, you’ll no’ miss a couple of tablespoons, will you?’
‘Tablespoons?’
‘Oh don’t be such a drama queen.’ She dug a hand into her shirt and started hauling on her bra strap. ‘Susan’s being a complete nightmare. Now she wants to cash in all our savings, sell my car, and go pay for artificial insemination in the States.’
‘Well, maybe that’s not a bad—’
‘If I don’t want Rennie’s sperm, why the hell would I want some American tosser’s? Gene pool’s bad enough as it is.’
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Logan stood. ‘Well, I’d better get going, you know: day off and—’
‘Not so fast. What else we got on Kostchey International Whosit?’
Shrug. ‘Nothing.’
‘What about that mobile number we got from Gary the Toilet Diver?’
‘Pay-as-you-go – no registered details.’
She hauled at her bra for a bit. ‘What did the Polish police say?’
‘Eh?’
‘You were supposed to chase them up! You forgot, didn’t you?’
‘Well … McPherson’s the liaison officer, and he’s still off on the sick…’
Steel spoke very slowly and very clearly. ‘And it never occurred to you to phone them yourself?’
‘Er … well, I—’
‘For God’s sake, you’re supposed to be a Detective Sergeant!’
‘But if Krystka Gorzałkowska won’t make a complaint, how does it—’
‘Don’t be an idiot: half the girls they import are probably from Christ-knows-where-istan. Illegal immigrants. People trafficking. And the mucky film industry’s no’ exactly booming in Aberdeenshire, is it? So what happens to the poor cows who can’t be porn stars?’ She tapped her desk with a finger. ‘Do the words “forced into prostitution” mean anything to you?’
Logan opened his mouth, but the inspector got there first: ‘And before you say anything, you’ll phone them because I sodding well told you to. Me: organ grinder, you: monkey, remember?’
Silence.
‘Now get the hell out of my office.’
Detective Inspector McPherson’s room was a mess of file boxes, sandwich wrappers, and random bits of paper. Coffee mugs lurked on various surfaces, full of brown-green scum, evolving their own life forms in the heat of the radiator: turned up to full. The whole room smelled musty and stale.
Logan cleared a copy of Monday’s Aberdeen Examiner off the chair and settled – carefully – behind the desk, looking at McPherson’s piles of paperwork and plague of Post-it notes. The contact details for the Polish Liaison Officer had to be in here somewhere.
Not that Logan really wanted to touch anything.
There was a half-eaten Mars Bar in the top drawer and a stack of ancient receipts. Next drawer: notebook, paperclips, pens, hundreds of random business cards. He dragged open the bottom drawer. It was meant to be for files, but McPherson seemed to be using it as a paperwork glory hole.
On top of the pile was the same memo Logan had seen on Steel’s desk: the one asking for nominations for a new Detective Inspector. Blah, blah, blah, regret to inform you that DI Gray has tendered his resignation; blah, blah, blah; opportunity to reward performance; blah, blah, blah; suggestions by next Wednesday.
McPherson had scribbled, ‘BEATTIE?’ in the margin in red biro.
Idiot.
Logan stuck the memo back in the drawer. Detective Sergeant Beattie couldn’t arrest his own backside with three patrol cars and a search warrant.
The Polish contact details were nowhere to be found, so Logan fired up McPherson’s computer. Hacking into the inspector’s email wasn’t that difficult – the idiot had left his password on a Post-it stuck to the monitor. DI Gray wasn’t the only one who needed replacing.
McPherson’s computer files were every bit as disorganized as his real ones, but eventually Logan found one marked ‘Staff Sergeant Cyrek Łukaszewski ~ Warsaw FHQ’. Telephone number and email address.
He was tempted to fire off a quick email and escape, but that would just give Steel another excuse to whinge. So he picked up the phone, made sure there was nothing sticky on the mouth or earpiece, then dialled Poland.
Strange foreign bleeps, that went on and on and on and— a bored voice: ‘Posterunek Policji, Kryminalne Biuro Śledcze, słucham.’
Logan did his best. ‘Hello? I mean: dzień dobry, czy pan mówi po angielsku?’
‘Yes, I speak English.’
Thank God. ‘I need to speak to a Staff Sergeant Cyrek…’ He had a stab at the surname, ‘Wookas-view-ski?’
‘Łukaszewski?’
‘Yes, that’s right: Łukaszewski.’ Hurrah.
‘No: is Saturday. Try again Monday.’ Not Hurrah.
‘Oh… Can I leave a message? I need details on a “Kostchey International Holdings Ltd.”’
The officer on the other end laughed. ‘You are joking, yes?’
‘No. Why would I be—’
‘In Poland, Kostchey is lord of the underworld. Kostchey the Deathless.’
‘You don’t have anyone called Kostchey over there?’
More laughter. ‘Criminals and gang-people all want to be Kostchey the Deathless. Think it make them sound tough. Is not real name.’
Another dead end. Logan put his hand over the mouthpiece and swore. Steel wasn’t going to be pleased.
‘Hello?’
‘Give me a minute…’ There was a memo on the cluttered desk from Finnie, telling McPherson to get his finger out and chase up the list of Oedipus victims with the Polish police. McPherson had scrawled ‘DO THIS FIRST THING MONDAY!!!’ at the top of the sheet. And then ‘MONDAY’ had been crossed out and replaced with ‘TUESDAY’. By which time the silly sod would have been flat on his back in the hospital, sleeping off a concussion. Which probably meant it still hadn’t been done.
‘Hello? You are still there?’
‘Yeah, sorry. Look, we’ve had a bunch of blindings recently—’
‘Blin-dings?’
‘Blindings: eyes cut out and burnt?’
Logan could almost hear him shrugging.
‘All the victims ar
e Polish, we need to know if there was any connection between them. Can you get someone to do a background check for me?’ Then he went through the names, making the man on the other end repeat them back to him.
‘OK, I tell Łukaszewski when he come in on Monday.’ And then the officer hung up.
So much for that. Logan shut down McPherson’s computer, switched off the lights, and closed the door on the inspector’s pigsty. Now he’d have to go tell Steel the bad news.
Thankfully she wasn’t in her office, so he scribbled a note and left it on her desk: ‘POLISH POLICE THINK “KOSTCHEY” IS A JOKE NAME. THEY’LL PHONE BACK MONDAY.’
And escape.
38
Sunday morning dawned … and was ignored. It was half past ten before Logan and Samantha surfaced, rumpled and still pleasantly tired from the night before.
He stuck the kettle on while she bumbled about in the shower.
Breakfast: croissants, cream cheese, smoked salmon from Marks & Spencer; freshly ground coffee from a little shop on Little Belmont Street; and a dusty jar of black cherry jam from the back of the cupboard. He laid it all out on the coffee table in the lounge, then whipped the dust sheet off of the sofa and draped it over the stepladder in the corner.
Samantha emerged, wearing knee-length stripy socks and a black T-shirt featuring a dead teddy bear. Rubbing her bright-scarlet hair with a towel. ‘I’m impressed. Thought you’d be more of a fry-up kind of guy.’
Logan poured the coffee. ‘My body is a temple.’
‘Aye, right.’ She settled on the couch, legs crossed underneath her.
It wasn’t a bad way to spend a morning: eating breakfast, drinking coffee, and reading the Sunday papers. Watching a square of sunlight slowly crawl from left to right across the bare floorboards and empty paint pots. A little canoodling.
And then the phone went.
Logan stayed where he was – lips locked on Samantha’s, one hand up the front of her T-shirt. Eventually the ringing stopped and the answering machine picked up. Then the phone started ringing again.
He swore. ‘It’s probably—’
She pulled him back to her. ‘Leave it.’
The answering machine went bleep. The ringing stopped. And then started again. She sighed. ‘Go on then.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Logan grabbed the phone. ‘What?’
‘How come you never answer your phone the first time?’ It was
Big Gary. ‘What are you, allergic to the answering machine?’
‘I got someone from the Polish police on the line for you—’
‘I’m not on duty.’
‘And I’m not shagging Keira Knightley, but you don’t hear me whinging about it, do you?’
‘It’s my day off! I’m—’
‘Here you go…’
A new voice came on the line: a woman, sounding as if she were speaking into a tin can on the end of a length of soggy string. ‘Hello? Hello?’
Bloody Gary.
Logan did his best not to sound as hacked off as he felt. ‘Detective Sergeant McRae. Can I help you?’
‘You called Warsaw Police Headquarters yesterday?’ The accent was lightly flavoured with Eastern European, but her English was perfect, if a little stilted.
‘Yes. Is this Staff Sergeant Łukaszewski?’
‘Łukaszewski is fifty-six years old. And a man.’
Definitely not Łukaszewski then.
‘My name is Wiktorja Jaroszewicz,’ she sounded it out for him, ‘Yahr-oh-SHAY-veetch. And before you ask: no, no relation.’
Relation to who, Logan had no idea. If in doubt, change the subject. ‘Did you find anything out about Kostchey International Holdings?’
‘You asked about blindings – men with their eyes gouged out and the sockets burned? We have victims here too.’
And Logan started paying a lot more attention. ‘Really?’
‘Do you want to come and speak to them?’
Detective Chief Superintendent Bain sat behind his desk, listening as Logan went over everything Senior Constable Wiktorja Jaroszewicz had said on the phone. Finnie had one of the visitor’s chairs, DS Pirie the other, all dragged in on their day off, dressed in casual clothes instead of the standard cheap suits.
‘Let me get this straight,’ said DCS Bain, Sunday afternoon sunshine glinting off his shiny head, ‘you’re saying it’s the same MO: eyes gouged out and burnt?’
Logan checked his notes. ‘The last one was in 2004. According to Jaroszewicz, the attacks started around 1974, but it could be earlier. She says when the Communists were in power the police were more interested in rooting out political subversives than actually solving crimes. And a lot of the records disappeared when Poland got its independence.’
‘Covering their tracks in case of repercussions,’ said Finnie.
‘I see…’ DCS Bain steepled his fingers, tapped them against his lips, then turned to Finnie. ‘Tell me, Chief Inspector, why didn’t anyone bother contacting the Polish police until now?’
‘McPherson was supposed to do it weeks ago. Pirie’s been chasing him up two, three times a day.’
Pirie nodded. ‘Kept coming up with excuses, he—’
‘Besides, with Ricky Gilchrist in custody it’s immaterial. There’s no way he could have been blinding people in 1974 – he wasn’t even born in 1974. No, this is something else.’
‘Maybe it’s a family thing?’ Pirie looked around the room for support. ‘His father worked in the fish, who knows where he sailed to?’
‘Or,’ said Logan, ‘he’s been using the Polish attacks as a template.’
‘What does our pet psychologist say?’
Finnie scowled. ‘Can’t get hold of him, sir. Apparently playing cricket is more important.’
‘I see…’ The head of CID was silent for a while. ‘Well, we have a confession, and you say Gilchrist’s cooperating?’
‘Fully. Doesn’t even want a lawyer. He’s proud of his accomplishments.’
‘Still, I want someone to go out there and interview these victims. See if we can either make a link with Gilchrist, or rule one out. The last thing we need is some slimy defence lawyer muddying the waters when it comes to court.’
Finnie hauled himself out of the seat. ‘I’ll be on the first flight to Warsaw tomorrow morning and—’
‘I need you here looking into that caravan full of guns. With Oedipus out of the way it’s our number-one priority. Whatever’s going on, I want it stopped before we’ve got running gun battles up and down Union Street.’
‘But—’
‘You’re needed here Chief Inspector. Send someone you can trust.’
Pirie sat forward. ‘I’ll go. I can—’
‘No,’ said Finnie, ‘you’ve got those drug dealers in Bucksburn to find, remember?’ He folded his arms across his chest and nodded in Logan’s direction. ‘McRae caught Gilchrist, and he came up with the Polish lead. He should go.’
‘Warsaw?’ Samantha stood in the doorway, watching him pack. ‘Jammy sod. Furthest they ever sent me was Thurso, and that wasn’t exactly a bag of laughs.’
‘It’s only for a couple of days.’
He went through every drawer in his bedside cabinet: what the hell had happened to all his clean socks?
Samantha settled onto the edge of the bed. ‘Some farmer walked into his local Post Office with a shotgun and blew this old guy’s head off. Then he did the same thing to the cashier. Then he stuck the barrel in his own mouth. Blood and brains all over the ceiling.’
Logan tried the wardrobe. ‘And Poland’s in the EU, so it’s not like I’m even getting duty free out of it.’
‘Two old ladies, a single mother and her kid were standing right there. Saw the whole thing. Got covered in most of it…’
‘You haven’t seen a pile of socks anywhere, have you?’
‘Apparently the only thing he said was right before he topped himself. Said, “Told you it was
n’t funny.” And then bang.’
How could three dozen socks just disappear?
‘Took us days to scrape up all the bits.’
Logan found them lurking under the bed, hiding from the dust and paint. Four pairs went in the little suitcase, followed by just enough clothes to see him there and back. ‘‘Scuse me…’ He squeezed past Samantha, made for the bathroom, and started packing a toilet bag.
‘Come on then,’ she said, watching him rummage for the spare toothpaste, ‘it’s half six already. What we doing for tea?’
‘Carry out?’
‘We could go clubbing? Paint the town a bit.’
The toilet bag went in the little suitcase. ‘Can’t really do a late night; I’ve got a briefing at seven.’
‘Oh.’
‘Sorry.’ He zipped the case shut and hefted it off the bed. Then started the hunt for his passport.
Samantha picked at the edge of the makeshift dustsheet draped over the wardrobe. ‘They’re talking about shutting the lab again. Shift everything down to that new place they’re building in Dundee.’
Logan stopped mid-rummage. ‘What idiot thought that’d be a good idea? What are we supposed to do with no lab?’
‘They’ll have to keep some IB techs up here for the crime scenes and stuff, but we’ll just be glorified monkeys. Pick it up, pack it up, and post it off to Dundee.’
‘What about you?’
Shrug. ‘Who knows? They’re not saying anything about redundancies yet.’
Logan gave up on the search and wrapped her up in a kiss.
Later. The sound of drunken singing drifted up from the street below, coming in through the open bedroom window. Logan lay on his back in the bed, the duvet rumpled around his knees, Samantha on her side next to him. Head resting on his chest as she ran a finger through the scars on his stomach. Tracing the pattern.
Logan frowned up at the ceiling as she bent forwards to kiss one. ‘Sam?’
‘Mmm?’ Another kiss.
‘Why do you … This thing … with my scars. It’s kind of creepy.’
She froze. ‘What?’
‘Is it some sort of Goth thing?’
She sat upright. No more kissing. ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’
He looked up at her, silhouetted in the light from the window, her red hair tinged with gold, as if her head were on fire. ‘Well … is it?’
Blind Eye Page 26
