Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

'Then,' said the pathologist, 'once he's done the left and the right, he pours accelerant into the empty sockets and sets fire to it.' Fraser asked Logan to help him stand. 'Take some photos then get this man to hospital.' He turned and tottered from the room. 'I'm done here.' Back at Force Headquarters, the IB technician took one look at the photo in Logan's hand and made a small gagging sound. 'You could've waited till I'd finished my sandwich!' Today her T-shirt said, 'I'VE SEEN YOUR MUM NAKED'. If that was true, Logan pitied her.

He put the picture on the desk, next to a packet of smoky-bacon crisps. 'Finnie wants it touched up so the victim looks like they would… before.'

'Any idea what colour his eyes are?'

'He didn't have them on him at the time.'

'Not asking for much, are you?'

'And I need about a hundred appeal-for-information posters: Finnie wants them up all over Torry, see if we can get an ID.'

'I'm not promising anything.' She dropped the last of her sandwich in the bin. 'And next time you've got a photo of some poor bugger's gouged-up face, try waiting till after lunch.' Two hours and a stack of paperwork later, Logan knocked on DI Steel's office door… waited a second… then walked in anyway. She was slumped across the desk, head on one side, cheek resting in a little puddle of fresh drool. Snoring gently. Very attractive.

He sank down into one of the visitor chairs and went for a sneaky rummage through Steel's in-tray. Mostly it was just expenses forms and witness statements, but right at the bottom was a memo from DCS Bain telling the senior officers that because DI Gray was resigning due to ill health, there was an opening for a new Detective Inspector. They were to think about suitable candidates.

The inspector gave a little grunt and shifted in her sleep. Logan froze. Then put everything back the way he'd found it.

He cleared his throat. 'Ahem?' No response. 'Inspector?' Still nothing. He leant forward and gave her shoulder a shake. 'Wakey, wakey!'

'Grnmmmmph?' Steel opened a bloodshot eye, then peeled her face off the desk, leaving a string of dribble behind. 'What time's it?'

'Back of two. We've got a shout: Polish grocery on Victoria Road's been turned over.'

She ran a hand over her face, pulling it all out of shape. 'Urgh… I feel awful.' She looked it too, but Logan was too polite to say anything.

'I've got us a pool car and-'

'Get stuffed, I'm no' going anywhere. You do it. Take that useless sack of skin Rennie with you.' She yawned, showing off a proper Scottish set of black metal fillings. 'Think I might've still been drunk this morning.'

'Finnie says he wants you to go. He's-'

Steel's voice went up into a squeaky Monty-Python-esque impersonation: '"Finnie says, Finnie says". Why don't you just bloody marry him?'

'Bit of fresh air might do you the world of good?'

'Oh don't be so-'

'And if you're not here, the Assistant Chief Constable can't walk in and find you snoring face-down on your desk.'

She dragged herself to her feet. 'I'll get my coat.' Logan rolled down the windows to minimize the acrid smell. DI Steel moaned and groaned in the passenger seat, clutching a two-litre bottle of Irn-Bru from a petrol station. Where they'd had to make an emergency stop so she could be sick.

'Must've been something I ate.'

The Krakow General Store sat on Victoria Road, Torry, between a dry cleaners and an off-licence. Once upon a time it'd been a newsagents, but the days of top-shelf pornography and stale rowies were long gone. Now the place had been given a cheerful coat of bright-blue paint, the window filled with tempting foreign delicacies and posters of old buildings and winding streets.

Inside was a different matter. Someone had given the place a serious going over: the stands were smashed; the shelves broken; and the display cabinet lay on its back in the middle of the floor, surrounded by broken eggs, dented tins, crushed packets and broken bottles. A chiller cabinet full of meat and cheese was the final resting place for the cash register and the contents of three huge plastic bottles of bleach.

Logan surveyed the damage from the front door, while Steel stayed behind in the car to 'make some important phone calls'. Which seemed to involve locking the doors, rolling the windows up, reclining the passenger seat as far back as it would go, pulling her jacket over her face, and lying very still.

A middle-aged man stood beside the ruined display cabinet, mouth hanging open. He didn't say anything, so Logan had to repeat himself.

'Are you Mr Wojewodzki?'

The man just kept staring at his devastated shop. 'You have to come back later. We are… closed.'

Logan pulled out his warrant card. 'I'm a police officer, I'm here…' He drifted to a halt, watching the sudden look of fear and suspicion that stampeded across the shopkeeper's face. 'It's OK, I'm here to help. Can you tell me who did this?'

A snort. 'Animals. That is who did this. Animals.' He dropped his eyes to the food-covered linoleum. 'I do not know. I was not here. They must have broken in.'

'Right…' Logan picked his way between a bloody stain of smashed beetroot jars and what looked like carrot juice. 'You didn't call the police. We had to hear it from one of your customers. Any reason?'

'What can I say when people do this? I work hard to build this business and look at it.' He leaned back against the wall, running a hand through his close-cropped greying hair. 'First it is papers: Aberdeen Examiner telling everyone that Polish shopkeepers refuse to serve local people. Pah. Is hard enough to make living without turning good money away.' He kicked a carton of milk. 'Small-minded people telling lies. I make everyone welcome. I want local people to buy my things, is why I come here in first place.'

'So who ransacked your shop?'

'Pffff,' Wojewodzki threw his hands in the air, 'what do you care? You Policja. Leave me alone, I have nothing here for you.' He cleared away a small mound of tinned peas, then struggled with the fallen display cabinet.

Logan took hold of the other side and heaved. It weighed a ton, but they managed to get the thing upright. 'I meant what I said: all I want is to catch the people who did this.'

That got him a grunt. Then Wojewodzki began gathering up the unbroken bottles.

'Look, I know you've probably had some bad experiences with the police in Poland, but-'

'I was landlord. Owned nine buildings in Krakow, very nice places. And then big shot from Warsaw comes to say he has business opportunity for me. He has cousin who works in the parliament; big land deal being done, lots of money to be made. So I sell my buildings and invest.'

The shopkeeper picked up a jar of pickled peppers, turning it over in his hands. 'Pfffffff, cracked.' He dropped it to smash against the floor.

'Two months go by and nothing happen: no building, no contract, no land. I ask him, where is my money? And he tells me there is no money, go back to Krakow. Like I am a small child. Of course I go to Policja, but the man's cousin was big in Finance Ministry when Communists are in charge. Policja tell me to forget about my money. Is gone.' He unfurled a black plastic bag and started filling it with crushed loaves of garlic and onion bread. 'That is what Policja do. No one cares. Everyone corrupt.'

'Got any more bin bags?'

The shopkeeper shrugged and handed one over. 'Sometimes I wonder why I come to Aberdeen. Everyone so tight with money, afraid to try new things. Six years I try…'

They cleared up in silence for a while, picking up the shattered glass and sweeping up the breakfast cereal. Then they hauled the cash register out of the chiller cabinet. The drawer was lying open, and the contents were gone.

He sighed. 'You see? They break everything. They take everything. What can I do?'