Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

She shrugged and he went back to the bar, watching goldfish swimming around a tiny beer-sponsored aquarium while the barman poured him another pint of Tyskie and a half of draft Guinness.

Voices behind him.

Logan turned to see Jaroszewicz on her feet, talking to a man with the kind of moustache a walrus would be proud of.

Jaroszewicz introduced him. 'This is Henryk Lowenthal.'

They shook hands, and Logan said, 'Good evening.'

The man looked puzzled, and Jaroszewicz shrugged. 'He does not speak English.'

Oh… OK,' Logan tried again, 'Dobry wieczor.'

'Ah!' Smile, nod. 'Dobry wieczor.'

They sat at the table, under the watchful gaze of the military man in the painting. Lowenthal cleared his throat, took a deep breath, then rattled out a long speech that Logan couldn't understand a word of.

Jaroszewicz: 'He says we have to remember that no one in his family had any idea what his brother was doing. None of them have ever been in trouble with the police before. They are good people and are very ashamed.'

'Ask him where his brother is now.'

She stared at him. 'What did you think I was going to do?'

'OK, OK. Sorry.'

She fired off the question, and got another speech in reply.

'He says he does not know.'

'Oh for God's…' Sigh. 'Ask him if he's got a telephone number, or an email address.'

Stony silence. 'Now why did I not think of that?'

'I didn't mean-'

But she was already talking over the top of him. Lowenthal's brother said something back and then they both laughed.

'What? What did he say?'

'He said that all you British are the same — you never bother to learn anyone else's language. You think you can still rule the world by shouting slowly at the natives.'

'What did he say about the number?'

More Polish.

'He says they cut off all ties with his brother years ago. He was drunk all the time, violent, on drugs, he stole things.'

The evening got worse from there. Jaroszewicz and Lowenthal's brother talking for longer and longer in Polish, leaving Logan to sit on the outside drinking lager and waiting for a translation. Pressing her to ask more questions.

In the end she turned to him, eyes flat as knife blades and said, 'Sergeant McRae: I am perfectly capable of questioning a witness without you pointing out the obvious every two minutes. Now sit there, shut up, and concentrate on looking pretty. OK?' She gave him a nasty smile, then turned her back on him, sharing another joke with Lowenthal in Polish.

So much for international cooperation.

Seven thirty, Wednesday morning. Logan lay on his back and stared up at the hotel-room ceiling. What a great idea this trip was. He killed the alarm on his phone and slumped back into his pillows. She was a nightmare. The evening had gradually deteriorated to the point where Logan might as well have been on his own in a strange pub in a foreign country. Only a lot less pleasant, because he was pretty sure Senior Constable High-And-Mighty Jaroszewicz and Lowenthal's brother were laughing at him. And they weren't even doing it behind his back — they were doing it to his face.

'I am a professional,' he told the bedside lamp, 'I promise I will not sulk.'

Like hell he wouldn't.

He dragged himself through the shower and down to breakfast, disappointed to see that Jaroszewicz was already there, tucking into another bowl of muesli. For a brief moment he thought about giving her the cold shoulder and grabbing another table, but he'd made a promise to his bedside furniture.

The scrambled eggs were going to be every bit as alternative as yesterday's, but he ordered them anyway.

Jaroszewicz watched him eat in silence for a minute. 'I was thinking, I was unfair to you yesterday.'

'Really.'

'It's not your fault you do not speak the language.' She shrugged. 'But you cannot read the documents, and you cannot question witnesses. So…' She reached into her cavernous handbag and dug out a pile of tour brochures. 'Go do something. See Krakow. Lowenthal's brother gave me some addresses to try, I will call you if I get anything.'

Logan was feeling too petty to argue with her. The bedside light could go screw itself. The sun was a chip of gold, shining between slivers of white cloud. Logan sat on a park bench and grumbled and swore: Who the hell did she think she was, telling him to go see the sights, as if he was a child who needed to sod off so the grown-ups could talk? Detective Sergeants should be seen and not heard.

He ripped another chunk from the bread he'd bought from a brown-faced old woman on a street corner, and hurled it at a bunch of stupid-looking pigeons. Doing his best to hit one of them and failing miserably. Bloody Jaroszewicz.

A group of nuns tottered past, dressed in the traditional black and white penguin outfits you never saw in Scotland any more. No, in Aberdeen it was all grey twinsets and sensible shoes.

What was the collective noun for nuns? Flange? Flock?

Logan watched as they stopped to harangue a young man for dropping his McDonald's wrapper on the path. The guy held out for a whole thirty seconds, before grabbing up the wrapper and hurrying away to the nearest bin.

A Terror of nuns.

Logan had another go at braining a pigeon with a chunk of crust.

The park would have been a nice place to sit and watch the world go by, if he'd been in a better mood. A two-mile-long avenue of dusty green that encircled the Old Town, lined with huge trees, their leaves dappling the sunlight, making it almost cool on Logan's bench as he tried to concuss birds.

The next lump of bread bounced off a pigeon's head and Logan awarded himself twenty points. This was such a waste of time. He was a police officer, surely there was something he could-

His mobile phone rang. Probably Jaroszewicz checking to see if he was away sightseeing like a good little boy. But it wasn't her, it was Finnie: 'Where were you? I've been trying for an hour.'

'Twiddling my bloody thumbs. Jaroszewicz won't let me-'

'I've spoken to the Krakow police and they don't have anything on Gorz-kie-wicz?' Sounding it out. 'Too long ago — as far as they know he's pushing up Polish daisies somewhere. But they know all about Lowenthal.'

Logan jammed his phone between his shoulder and his ear, pinning it there while he dug out his notebook and pen. 'Go ahead.'

'They fished him out of the river eight months ago. Turns out he crossed someone over a shipment of rocket-propelled grenades heading for France. Beat him to death with his own white stick.'

'Oh.' So Logan had put up with all that humiliation last night for nothing. 'Then we're out of victims. Everyone's either dead or gone.'

'Well that's just perfect. We spent a fortune sending you out there and what do we have to show for it? Nothing. Finish up and get yourself on the next flight home. We'll try and pretend this whole disaster never happened.'

'There isn't anything to finish, I-'

But Finnie had already hung up.

Logan snapped his phone shut, scowled at it for a bit, then stuck it back in his pocket. Wonderful. This was going to look so good when they were deciding who got the new DI's job. I know: let's give it to Logan who's just wasted a couple of thousand pounds with a pointless trip to Poland.

Gibowski was in America. Wisniewski was dead. Bielatowicz — missing for years. Lowenthal — dead. And Gorzkiewicz was anyone's guess.

Sodding hell.

Logan tore the last of the bread up and hurled it at the birds, feeling petty and vicious. And then guilty. He stood, apologized to the pigeons, and mooched back towards the Old Town. At least he wouldn't have to put up with Senior Constable Jaroszewicz for much longer. A quick goodbye, pack his bags and off on the next train back to Warsaw. She could stay here and sod about if she liked: he was going home.