‘I’m a freak, is that what you’re saying?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘But you’re thinking it.’
Logan pulled the duvet up, covering himself to the nipples. ‘Every time we’re naked you play with them. I’m beginning to worry about it, OK?’
‘You are such a shit, McRae.’ She wiped a hand across her face and clambered out of bed. ‘I can’t believe you.’
He snapped on the bedside light. She was struggling a leg into her pants. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Sam, don’t be like that, I—’
‘Where’s my bloody bra?’
‘Oh for God’s sake. I’m sorry, OK?’
‘I can’t believe I actually thought you were different.’ She grabbed her T-shirt from the bedroom floor and dragged it on over her head. Then she scooped up her leather trousers and boots, turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
Logan slumped back on the bed, put his hands over his face and went, ‘AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ He couldn’t find someone nice and normal to go out with, could he? No, he had to pick the ones who’d make him miserable.
The bedroom door flew open and she was back.
‘You want to know? Do you?’ Samantha dumped her leather trousers on the floor and marched over to the bed. She grabbed his hand and slapped it on the jagged tribal spider tattoo that wound its way from the inside of her left thigh all the way up onto her belly. ‘There, feel it. Go on! Right there.’
‘What? I’m not feeling—’
‘Not there, here, you idiot.’
A collection of little ridges, four to six inches long. Curves, straight lines, zigzags. Scar tissue, hidden beneath the tattoo’s black ink – the ones Logan thought were stretch marks. Then she slapped his hand away and got back into her trousers. ‘That’s why.’
This time when she slammed the door, she didn’t come back.
39
Most of the Monday morning briefing was spent going over the caravan-full-of-guns inquiry: codenamed Operation Tailback. Then came the usual updates and warnings about gang violence, and a bit of gloating from Finnie about Agnes McLeod being in the cells all weekend. They finished with the day’s assignments and the announcement that Logan was off on a jolly to Poland for three or four days.
DI Steel grabbed Logan as he tried to slip out. ‘What the hell do you think you’re…’ She caught the head of CID watching her, stopped, smiled, nodded a greeting, then bustled Logan out into the corridor. ‘Poland? You forgetting we’ve got bloody work to do?’
‘Look, Bain said—’
‘What about those Kostchey idiots: did you get an address yet?’
‘Yup.’
There was a pause and Steel stared at him. ‘Well? Are you going to tell me, or am I supposed to sodding guess?’
Logan gave her the address Zander Clark had emailed through – a business unit on Greenwell Road, East Tullos Industrial Estate.
‘Right.’ She hauled up her trousers. ‘Get a pool car organized, we’ll stake the place out and—’
‘I can’t. My flight’s at five to eleven; got to be at the airport an hour before that.’
‘Fine. You go to Poland, see if I care.’ Steel poked him with a nicotine finger. ‘But if I have to take Detective Sergeant Beardy Sodding Beattie, I’m holding you responsible, understand?’
Rennie winced his way into the CID office; face, neck, and ears bright shiny pink. Even the backs of his hands were sunburnt. That, and the blond crown of spiky hair, made him look like an unsqueezed spot. He perched himself, gingerly, on the edge of Logan’s desk and said, ‘Ow…’
‘Nice tan.’
‘It’s not funny.’
‘Should have put on some suntan lotion then, shouldn’t you?’
Rennie loosened his collar, wafting his scarlet face with a burglary report. ‘Fancy an ice-cream or something? I’m boiling.’
Logan sent Dr Goulding’s latest report to the printer in the corner and shut down his computer. ‘Can’t: have to go home and get my suitcase; Finnie’s got a patrol car taking me to the airport in twenty minutes.’
‘Ah well… Bring us back some vodka, eh?’
‘Speaking of Finnie,’ Logan grabbed the printout, ‘he about?’
Logan could tell Rennie was thinking: he could smell the burning dust.
‘Nope,’ the constable said at last, ‘got a phone call and went scurrying out of here. Back door I think?’
Logan said his goodbyes, signed out, then sauntered outside, making for the keypad controlled door that led onto Lodge Walk.
The door was ajar. Logan pushed it open, going from bright sunshine into the blue shadow of the alley.
DCI Finnie was just turning back towards the station, stuffing a brown envelope into his inside jacket pocket. He looked up and saw Logan standing there, then frowned. ‘What are—’
‘Going to get my suitcase.’
‘Oh, right.’ Finnie said something about interdepartmental cooperation with the Polish police, but Logan wasn’t listening. He was looking over the Chief Inspector’s shoulder at a spotty youth marching away down the gloomy alleyway and out onto Union Street. The sunlight caught in his bright green hair, making it shine like electric grass. And then he was gone.
A hand thumped down on Logan’s shoulder breaking the spell. ‘Good luck, I’m counting on you.’
‘Oh, right … thank you, sir.’
‘Soon as you’re back I want you on Operation Tailback. It’ll probably be a couple of days before we can make the announcement – about the promotion I mean – but I want you heading up a team ASAP. OK?’
And then Finnie’s phone rang. The DCI dragged it out and headed back towards the station: ‘What? … No, of course I don’t mind waiting three days for a warrant. He’s only wanted for armed robbery after all, not like it’s anything important…’
Logan stayed where he was, staring down the alleyway to the patch of glowing street at the far end. Green hair. Spots. And a brown envelope.
No doubt about it: background radiation could be a dangerous thing.
40
At least he’d managed to get a window seat. Logan was halfway across the North Sea, with a strange cheese and pesto sandwich and a tiny bottle of white wine. The wheezy old woman sitting next to him had lasted a whole fifteen minutes before falling asleep, twitching as she dreamed, like a cat.
The report he’d printed out before leaving the office didn’t make very scintillating reading – Goulding went on and on about ‘behavioural indicators’ and ‘stress-point escalators’, none of which made any sense to Logan.
Gilchrist continues to refuse to discuss his victims, or even acknowledge their existence. By removing their eyes he has removed the very essence of their humanity; many cultures believe the eyes to be the gateway to the soul, and Gilchrist has removed that gateway, rendering them spiritually inert (an important distinction for someone with Gilchrist’s strong, though twisted, religious convictions {see Appendix B, section 3.2}), as such they have no meaning to him.
It would not surprise me if Gilchrist later admits to consuming the eyes. Possibly as part of a ritual based on his somewhat individual views on the sacrament, designed to absorb his victim’s immortal soul.
However, this remains conjecture at this point.
Blah, blah, blah … Logan skimmed forward a couple of pages. The whole thing was a great steaming pile of conjecture as far as he could see.
Certainly Ricky Gilchrist represents a very real danger to the public, and while there are no current indications that he may be suicidal, I recommend that he be kept under close observation.
Which seemed to be a long-winded way of saying what they’d known all along: Ricky Gilchrist was a nut-job.
Logan put the report down and stared out at the glittering blue surface of the North Sea.
Should have brought a book with him.
The woman sitting next to
him had stopped twitching and started snoring, the noise barely perceptible over the plane’s engines.
Logan polished off his wee individual bottle of white wine, then asked for another one, and settled down for some industrial-strength brooding. First about Samantha. And then about Detective Chief Inspector Andrew ‘Brown-Envelope’ Finnie.
And then he went back to brooding about Samantha again.
Playing with his scars, then acting as if he was the one with the problem. Logan shifted in his seat. OK, so he had a problem… But that didn’t mean she had to yell at him and storm off.
Away on a trip to Poland, two high-profile arrests under his belt, a promotion to DI coming up – God knew he’d been waiting long enough – and then this had to happen. Tainting it all.
He placed a hand on his stomach, pressing until he could feel the old familiar tug of knitted tissue, the stitches, the months in hospital.
Bloody Angus Robertson: even after all these years he was still screwing up Logan’s life.
Za Naszą I Waszą Wolność
[FOR OUR FREEDOM AND YOURS]
41
Logan stifled a yawn and joined the shuffling queue for passport control. The place was even more soulless than the one back at Aberdeen airport. Plus all the security guards were wearing drab-olive military uniforms, complete with side arms. Even after doing his firearms training, there was something about seeing policemen with guns that gave Logan the willies.
He picked up his suitcase and slouched into the arrivals lounge – a big empty room with white walls and a glass ceiling. A couple of men held up sheets of paper with indecipherable names scribbled on them. A handful of small children squealed around a businessman, their mother hanging back. Scowling and heavily pregnant.
There was no sign of anyone who looked like a ‘Staff Sergeant Łukaszewski’, or a ‘Senior Constable Wiktorja
Jaroszewicz’.
Typical.
Logan dumped his luggage at his feet, and stood there looking gormless for a minute. Until a balding man in a shabby grey pullover sidled up and said, ‘You tourist? You want taxi, yes?’
Alarm bells.
Logan pulled out his warrant card. ‘Policja.’
The man backed away, stammering, ‘Przepraszam, pomyliłem się…’ and then froze as a hand slapped down on his shoulder.
The woman standing behind him couldn’t have been an inch over five foot five, mid-thirties, blonde hair scraped back in a severe ponytail. ‘Damn right you made a mistake!’ At least she was speaking English.
Mr Shabby Pullover closed his eyes and winced. ‘Cholera jasna…’
She spun him around. ‘How many times have I told you?’
‘Przepraszam: sorry, I am sorry…’
‘You are lucky I am busy, Radoslaw.’ She let go. ‘Go on, get out of here you dirty zboczeniec.’
A smile scrambled onto his face. ‘Dziękuję, dziękuję bardzo!’
And then he all but ran for it, her parting shot ringing around the arrivals hall as he scampered away: ‘Next time I catch you, you will not be thanking me, you will be clutching your balls and crying like a little baby: stay away from the airport!’
There was silence as her threat echoed away, everyone staring at Logan and the woman. ‘Come on.’ She grabbed Logan’s bag and strode for the exit. ‘I am parked outside.’
They stepped through the sliding doors and emerged under some sort of flyover, surrounded by grey concrete on all four sides. Rain poured down a set of stairs. The distant rumble of thunder. Welcome to Warsaw.
Her car was a right-hand-drive Opel hatchback in grubby silver. She threw Logan’s luggage in the boot, and jumped in behind the wheel. It wasn’t until Logan walked around to the passenger side that he saw the damage – it was one long collection of dents and scrapes. The door squealed as he hauled it open, and groaned when he pulled it shut.
The woman shook her head. ‘You have to slam it hard, or it will pop open every time we go over a pothole.’
Logan did as he was told.
‘Piece of shit, yeah?’ She stuck the car in gear, and floored it.
‘Jesus…’ Logan grabbed onto the handle above the door as she roared around the corner and nearly into the back of a bus.
She didn’t seem to notice, just shifted down and swerved round the outside, bumping up onto the kerb on the way past. And then they were out from under the flyover, swapping grey concrete for an even greyer sky.
Rain hammered down, making the tarmac shimmer, reflecting back the car headlights, even though it was only ten to five on a Monday afternoon.
She took one hand off the steering wheel and offered it to Logan. ‘Senior Constable Wiktorja Jaroszewicz. You say it: Yahr-oh-SHAY-veetch.’
‘I know, you told me when—’ Logan tried not to close his eyes as she threw them around the roundabout and onto a tree-lined dual carriageway, but she was still shaking his hand while she did it. ‘Detective Sergeant Logan McRae.’ Forcing his voice down the two octaves it had suddenly jumped.
‘Look at this idiot…’ She leant on the car’s horn and raced up the back end of a mouldy Volvo estate. ‘Move it grandfather!’ BRRRREEEEEEEP! ‘I tell you, rush-hour brings them all out.’
And then she accelerated past, nipping between an articulated lorry and a telecoms van. ‘You were lucky I turned up,’ she said, swerving back into their original lane, ‘Radoslaw would have taken you for everything you had.’
‘I wasn’t going to—’
‘He turns up at the airport, pretends to be this helpful old taxi driver, and if you go with him you end up on the wrong side of the river.’
‘Not a very good taxi driver then?’
‘Not unless you like being robbed at gunpoint, no. We think he gets two or three tourists a month, but we can’t prove anything.’
Lightning flickered across the clay-coloured sky, silhouetting the trees and ugly concrete buildings on either side of the road. Then came the deep, bass rumble of thunder.
Senior Constable Jaroszewicz hunched closer to the steering wheel. ‘Bloody rain. What happened to summer?’
She launched into a stream of weather-related invective, but Logan was too scared to listen to it, holding on for dear life as she leapt from one lane to the other.
A horn blared at them, Jaroszewicz ignored it. ‘I checked the records again. We have twenty-three victims since 1974; most of them happened after we kicked the Communists out. I brought everything I found with me, you can read it on the train.’
‘Train? I thought we were going to—’ He closed his eyes as the rear end of a truck suddenly appeared in front of them. ‘Oh God.’
The tyres squealed on the wet road. Jaroszewicz leant on the horn: BRRRRREEEEEEEEP! ‘Asshole! Are you trying to kill everyone?’
And then she was roaring past on the inside, sticking one finger up at the old lady behind the wheel. ‘There are no living victims left in Warsaw, so we are going to Krakow.’
‘Can we slow down please?’
‘No.’
Logan tried not to think about what his body was going to look like when the Polish fire brigade finally cut it out of the wreckage. ‘What happened to the other victims?’
‘Dead. Some had accidents, some got ill, some died of old age, and some killed themselves.’ Shrug. ‘It must be a hard thing to live with.’
The bland communistic apartment blocks opened up, revealing central Warsaw. It was a vista of skyscrapers: huge chunks of glass and steel reaching up into the downpour. A big Marriott hotel sat in the background, the top seven floors covered in white lights that flashed messages out across the gloomy, rain-drenched city. The other skyscrapers were slightly less vulgar, but everything paled into insignificance next to the huge Palace of Culture: an evil wedding cake in rain-blackened sandstone, dominating the skyline.
Jaroszewicz must have seen him staring, because she said, ‘A gift from Uncle Stalin. Are you hungry?’
> ‘Kind of. Are we—’
‘We will eat on the train.’
The Palace of Culture sat in the middle of a vast square, surrounded by buildings that looked as if they’d been thrown up by some city planner who’d had one too many vodkas. And the closer they got to Uncle Stalin’s gift, the slower the traffic got, until they were crawling along. Rain drumming on the roof, windscreen wipers going full pelt, watching the people stomping past on the pavement.
Everyone looked suicidal.
Aberdeen could be miserable in the rain, but it was nothing compared to Warsaw.
Jaroszewicz jerked the steering wheel and squealed the car across a set of lights and down a little alleyway, threading round behind an ancient-looking hotel. Parking next to the bins.
‘Now,’ she said, reaching through into the back of the car and pulling out a large shoulder bag, ‘train station.’
They got Logan’s luggage out of the boot and tramped back to the main square in the pouring rain, across four lanes of traffic, and down into the station.
It didn’t look too bad from the outside, but inside it was Bedlam. A collection of low-ceilinged concrete corridors, lined with booths selling everything from science fiction novels, to doughnuts, to hardcore pornography. The smell of kebab meat and hot falafel, the smoky tang of grilling sausages and frying onions. Voices. Shouting. People bumping into one another. Yellow and red lights blazing out of every shop front.
Up till now, it hadn’t been too bad – pretty much like any modern European city – but suddenly Poland was a very foreign country.
Jaroszewicz marched up to a booth with a handwritten sign saying ‘NIE INFORMACJA’ Sellotaped to the glass. No information. He couldn’t understand a word of the ensuing argument as Jaroszewicz and the man behind the counter shouted at each other, but eventually she stomped away from the booth with a pair of tickets and seat reservations.
‘Bloody place.’ She wandered through the throngs of people and joined a small crowd staring at a poster covered in a bewildering array of stations and times. Two minutes later she said, ‘Peron five.’ And then headed off for a dirty grey escalator down to a dirty grey platform.
Blind Eye Page 27
