Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

Marek shrugged. 'If I can help, is good.'

The priest gave the old man's shoulder a squeeze. 'Thank you Marek, you've been a great help.' And then the two of them shared an exchange in Polish, ending with what sounded like a dirty joke.

The priest stood and watched the old man leave, still chuckling. Logan scanned the list of locals who didn't like Polish people. There was a depressingly large number of them.

'This is going to take forever.'

'Not exactly welcoming is it?' Father Burnett wandered over to a small door in the apse of the church. It opened on a little room with a threadbare burgundy carpet, a safe, an old kitchen table, and a rickety wardrobe. The priest pulled his vestments over his head and hung them up. 'You asked if anyone had stopped coming to Mass. Well, I couldn't think of anyone off the top of my head. It wasn't until I spoke to Marek that I remembered.'

He closed the wardrobe door. 'Once upon a time, about twenty years ago, there was a man called Daniel Gilchrist. Daniel worked in the fish. He wasn't a particularly nice man: he drank too much, and was occasionally a bit free with his affections and his fists, but he came to church every Sunday with his wife and son.'

'This isn't going to be one of those stories where you say it reminds you a bit of Jesus, is it?'

'Daniel got cancer and had to stop working on the boats. By the time he died there was nothing left but bitterness, and tumours. I administered the last rites.'

Logan leant against the wall. 'Then I think we can safely eliminate him from our enquiries.'

'His son kept up the family tradition. Every Sunday he'd be there at Sacred Heart with his mother.' Father Burnett picked up a big spiky gold and silver thing — like a sunburst topped with a cross — from the table and wrapped it in a silk cloth. 'Of course, I went off to Poland for a few years, but when I got back, there he was: still at his mother's side, every Sunday. Then one day he just stopped coming.' The priest opened the safe and slid the bundle inside, then locked it. 'I think his mother fell ill, or something. Haven't seen her since.'

'That's nice.' Logan took another run through Marek's list. Probably best to start with the complaints of actual violence: get a team to identify the individuals and haul them in for questioning. Poke into their backgrounds.

'Daniel's son has red hair and freckles.'

Who knew there would be so many racist shitheads in Aberdeen? 'Can't really arrest him for that.'

'He's the one who was following people home after Mass.'

And now Father Burnett had Logan's undivided attention. 'When did he stop coming to church?'

'Six months ago. Not long before we closed Sacred Heart for refurbishment.'

Right about the time the Oedipus letters started.

Logan listened to Finnie's mobile bleeping over to voicemail. He left a message as he marched across the Castlegate, making for FHQ. He tried the DCI's office phone instead. No luck there either. According to the clock, perched high on the Town House tower, it was nearly half past six. By now the dayshift had been over for almost ninety minutes, and given the afternoon's fiasco at the Krakow General Store, Finnie had probably given up and gone home.

Or to the nearest pub. He'd been first in with Superintendent Napier and the other trolls from Professional Standards. God knew Logan would have needed a stiff drink after that.

Maybe he should phone Pirie?

But that DI's position was coming up and it might not be a good idea to share the credit with someone after the same promotion. Assuming it wasn't all just a waste of time. So he gave DI Steel a call. Let it ring three times. Changed his mind and hung up.

Finnie wanted initiative. Logan could do initiative.

He hurried back to Force Headquarters.

Big Gary was on the front desk, chewing on a blue biro as he perused the duty roster. 'Sodding sod-monkeys of Sod…' He scribbled something in the book, then looked up to see Logan. 'Oh no: tell me you're just back because you forgot to sign out!'

'I need a couple of uniform, got anyone spare?'

The huge sergeant rolled his eyes. 'You got any idea what you're doing to my overtime calculations? I'm supposed to be-'

'Rennie'll do if he's about.'

'No. You can't have anyone. We're throwing a surprise party for some Yardies later, I need everyone making paper streamers and blowing up balloons.'

'Come on, Gary. Just one. Don't care who it is, as long as they can walk, talk, and chew gum at the same time.'

'All three at once?' His eyebrows shot up. 'Jesus, you're not asking for much, are you?'

'An hour. Two, tops.' Logan put on his best lost puppy face. 'Please?'

The big man sighed, his huge shoulders rising and falling, making his white shirt creak at the buttons. 'All right, all right. You can have Guthrie. Just try to bring him back in one piece this time, OK?'

'Cheers.' Logan gave the reception area a shifty once over. PC Karim's favourite tramp, Dirty Bob, was slumped in one of the corner seats fast asleep, a line of dribble disappearing into a thick mat of bushy black beard. Other than that they were alone. 'You heard anything about this DI's position coming up?'

Big Gary scribbled something down in the roster. 'Think you're in with a chance, do you?'

'Might be.'

'With your reputation?'

'Oh ha, ha. Come on, what've you heard?'

The sergeant leant across the desk, a roll of stomach annexing one corner of the day book. 'Pirie's odds on favourite, if you fancy a flutter? Or I can give you two to one on Beattie?'

Logan wasn't about to throw his money away. DS Beattie had more chance of being elected Miss World than making Detective Inspector. 'What about me?'

'Eighteen to one.'

Logan pushed away from the reception desk. 'You're all a bunch of bastards, you know that?'

'We do our best.' Guthrie poked his head over the balustrade and peered down at a bicycle chained up at the bottom of the stairwell. 'How far you think it is?' he asked. His voice still had a slightly bunged-up edge to it, but at least they'd taken the staple out of his nose. 'Fifty feet? Sixty?'

He howched, then spat. Watching the drop dwindle in size.

Logan told him to stop spitting on other people's bicycles.

'Was just checking.'

'Well, just don't.' Logan made sure they had the right address. A top-floor flat in a little block on Balnagask Road, part of a group of seven identical buildings overlooking off-green playing fields, East Tullos Industrial Estate, and the bracken-covered hill behind it.

They'd sneaked into the block using the services button, convincing a pregnant woman with a sticky child that they were there to check the fire extinguishers.

Guthrie took one more peek over the handrail. 'You sure we shouldn't have a warrant? Armed backup? That kind of thing?'

'We're just going to ask a few questions.' Logan pressed the bell. Nothing seemed to happen. 'Besides, all we're doing is following up a lead.' And there was no way they'd have given him a firearms team after this afternoon's disastrous showing at the Krakow General Store.

Someone downstairs was listening to EastEnders: cockney accents drifting up the stairwell. The window-ledges were covered in drifts of junk mail advertising Stanna Stairlifts, over-fifties' life insurance, and things to help you get in and out of the bath.

Logan tried the bell again.

Still nothing.

Guthrie said, 'Maybe he's not in? We could-'

'Shhhhh!' Logan held up a finger. He stuck his ear to the door and after a short pause, the constable did the same. There was music playing inside, something with too much bass and not enough melody. The two of them stood like that for about a minute, and then a loud voice behind Logan made him jump.