Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

She helped herself to bread and lard. 'Just make sure you tell him not to mention me. If they think a freaking yuppie is using Aberdeen to put pressure on them, they will deny everything.'

The room was too hot to concentrate, sunlight streaming through three huge, dirty windows into the airless space. Stifling and soporific. A big lunch of beetroot soup and potato dumplings hadn't exactly helped. Krakow's municipal records hall was undergoing some sort of refit, the huge stacks of files and documents relocated to a grimy four-storey building, sandwiched in the middle of a row of other grimy four-storey buildings that overlooked two construction sites and a tram stop.

The City Council obviously didn't believe in air-conditioning: a single electric fan sat in the middle of the room, oscillating back and forth — hummmmmmm click, hummmmmmm click, hummmmmmm click — doing little more than stirring up a cloud of dust in the oppressive summer heat. The only other sound was the low murmur of American tourists, tracing their ancestors through stacks of old town records.

Logan's head snapped back to the upright position. Blink. Shudder. Yawn.

Jaroszewicz didn't look up — she was pouring over a stack of newspapers from 2004, looking for coverage of the Lowenthal blinding. If they were lucky it would at least give them an area of the city to start looking. Cross reference it with the listings for Lowenthal in the Krakow phone book and they might actually be on to something.

Logan stretched out in his chair, making the ancient wood creak. 'Are you sure I can't do anything?'

'Why,' she turned to the next page of yellowing newsprint, 'have you learned to read Polish since the last time you asked? Or the four times before that?'

Logan sighed. 'I'm not doing anything here.'

He could see her gritting her teeth. 'Then go do something else. Please. And let — me — work — in — peace!' He found a little internet cafe, just off the main square, paid his twenty zloty, and checked his email. There were the usual memos; directives; calls for witnesses; a couple of missing persons; a leaving do for DI Gray in Archie's next Friday; something from the Witness Protection people saying Kylie and her sister Tracey were doing remarkably well on the rehab programme; something from Big Gary saying if Logan didn't get his expenses in by the end of the week there'd be trouble; and a huge email from Staff Sergeant Lukaszewski with attached background reports for all the Aberdeen victims. Logan spent five minutes wading through the data, then forwarded it to Finnie. Let him do some work for a change.

Last up was one from Rennie, complaining about being dumped with DI Steel's 'Sperminator' inquiry and finishing off with an invite to join half of CID to watch the football on Saturday, followed by dodgems, curry, and lots of beer.

No messages from DI Steel or Finnie. And nothing from DCS Bain either… Mind you, nominations for DI Gray's replacement didn't have to be in until tomorrow, so Bain probably wouldn't make the announcement until next week.

Logan hit the 'NEW EMAIL' button and wrote a message to Samantha. Deleted it. Started again. Deleted that one too. Replied to Rennie's invitation instead.

Two minutes later he had a response:

Were you been? No footy for us, been another blingding! Just got out the breifign ~ another polish bloke!!! ACC going mental: All leave canselled. Oops, got to go, Finny's on the warpath. Can only see Pirie's feet now, he's so far up the DIC's arse!!!! LOL;-)

Logan read the email three times. Trying to convince himself that Rennie was just having a joke. There wasn't really a new Oedipus victim. There couldn't be another Oedipus victim: Ricky Gilchrist was in custody, he'd confessed, the threatening notes were on his sodding computer.

Logan pulled out his mobile and called Finnie. 'Is it true? Someone else's been blinded?'

'No, I made it up for a laugh. Of course it's true. Where are you?'

'Krakow.' He told the DCI about the lack of living victims in Warsaw, and Senior Constable Jaroszewicz's opinion of the local police. 'They're not really cooperating.'

'And what, exactly, do you expect me to do about it? Do you not think I've got enough to worry about, without you adding to it? Is that it? Not enough excitement in my life with the wrong man in bloody custody?'

'Wrong man?'

'Ricky Gilchrist, who did you think I meant, Ronald Mc-Sodding-Donald?'

'Well… it…' Logan slapped his hand on the table. Eureka. 'This new victim, it could be the people who attacked Simon McLeod.'

'God, that's brilliant, Sergeant! I hadn't thought of that. Gosh, what a good idea, maybe it was the same person. Only victim number seven is a Polish roughneck with BP. And he was found on a disused building site in Torry. We even got the gloating phone call. It's definitely Oedipus.'

'Damn.'

'That's an understatement. The press haven't got hold of it yet, but when they do…' Finnie went quiet for a moment. 'What a cock-up.'

'We're not letting Gilchrist go, are we?'

'Do I look like an idiot? Goulding's already started paperwork to have him sectioned. He's either going to prison or a secure psychiatric facility for the rest of his unnatural, twisted, little life.' Logan could hear the background noise change. The babble of voices giving way to an echoey silence. Probably Finnie leaving the incident room for the corridor outside. Now the DCI's voice sounded almost desperate. 'I need you to find something out there, OK? I don't care what, but you find me something I can use to catch this bastard.'

'We're trying to chase up alternatives sources of info: see if we can track down our two possible survivors. But like I said, local plod aren't cooperating. Wouldn't hurt if you could put in a good word…?'

'Anything else?'

'Might be best if you leave Senior Constable Jaroszewicz's name out of it. Apparently Krakow and Warsaw can't stand each other.'

'I'll call them now. Just make sure you find me something, understand?'

And then the DCI hung up.

According to the computer, Logan still had another five minutes before his money ran out, so he called up a fresh email and forced himself to write something to Samantha. Apologetic, but not crawly. At least this time he managed to send it.

Then he grabbed his jacket and wandered out into the afternoon.

Just after five and the streets were beginning to liven up: locals tramping past on their way home from work; yet more tourists with their cameras; little old ladies standing on the street corners selling smoked cheeses in bizarre, slightly phallic shapes. He was wandering back towards the hotel, pausing to read the menu outside every restaurant he passed, when his phone went off — Jaroszewicz.

'I found somebody! I cannot believe it!'

Logan listened to her babbling on about how difficult it was and how many newspapers she'd had to read, and how many phone calls she'd had to make.

'So,' he said, when she finally paused for breath, 'who is it?'

'Lowenthal's brother. And do you want the good news? He is meeting us tonight. Nine o'clock!' Quarter to ten and there was still no sign of him. Logan and Jaroszewicz waited in a little basement bar on Florianska — just up from the hotel — a brick catacomb with red table cloths and white napkins. Candles. Red-stained pine booths, the wood going pale at the edges where the varnish had worn off. A big oil painting of a bald man in militaristic clothes with a green cockade hat, moustache and vast mutton-chop sideburns.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke.

Jaroszewicz was slumped over a half-empty pint of Guinness, poking a lonely peanut across the tabletop. 'He said he would be here.'

Logan finished his beer and pointed at her glass. 'You want another one while we wait? Half, or something?'