Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

Finnie screwed his rubbery lips into a scowl, and his eyes into narrow, evil slits. Then he stabbed his last chunk of sausage and jammed it in his mouth. Chewing and glowering. And then he sagged.

'You're right,' he said at last. 'I fucking hate it, but you're right. Just because Creepy's a nasty little bastard, it doesn't mean we can fit him up for something he didn't do.' Sigh. 'Bloody hell, it was going to be such a good day as well.'

Finnie threw back the last of his tea, then stared into the empty mug. 'Better get onto that witness protection lot: I want those prossies back here ASAP.' He scraped back his chair and stood. 'Suppose I'd better go tell the Procurator Fiscal. Bloody hell…'

And then he was gone, leaving Logan and a half-eaten breakfast behind.

Logan pulled out his mobile and put in a call to the Witness Protection Officer he'd spoken to earlier. Finnie's plate was awash with animal fat and little flecks of gristle, smears of blood-red tomato sauce… Logan pushed the plate away, but he could still smell it.

It took a while, but eventually the Witness Protection Officer answered the phone. Loan told her to go get Kylie and her sister packed up — Finnie wanted them back in Aberdeen. Now.

There was some grumbling, an almost inaudible, 'Make up your bloody mind…' and then Logan could hear the officer marching out into a different room, the phone pressed against her chest.

The muffled noise of a conversation in the hallway. 'They're all the same at bloody Queen Street…'

Some knocking.

The Witness Protection Officer's raised voice: 'Kylie? Tracey? Hello?' A moment of silence, then a door opening. 'Oh fuck… Bill: get an ambulance!.. JUST GET A FUCKING AMBULANCE!'

And then the phone went silent. 'Are you deaf or something?'

Logan looked up from the report he was supposed to be writing; Big Gary was standing in the doorway, nursing a mug of tea and a packet of custard creams.

The CID office was deserted, just Logan and a dying pot plant.

'Hospital called.' The huge sergeant sniffed then hauled at the belt straining around his middle. 'Pumped their stomachs, but it's touch and go. Drain cleaner. I mean, you'd have to be desperate, wouldn't you?'

Logan didn't want to think about it. 'Any news on Colin McLeod yet?'

'Last I heard the PF and the Sheriff were in with Finnie and the ACC. Mucho shouto, mucho swearo. Apparently your name's coming up a lot.'

'Very funny.'

'I thought so.' Big Gary grinned, adding an extra couple of chins to his collection. 'Anyway: you got a call on line two. Some Polish bint, been on hold for five minutes. I tried calling, but you never bloody answer.'

Logan swore, then dug his desk phone out from beneath a pile of search reports. Sure enough, the little red light was winking. He reached for the handset.

'Before I go,' said Gary, 'we still on for that meal tonight? Coz if we are, stick a paper bag over your head, eh? All those bruises and scabs'll put me right off my grub.'

For a big lad, he moved fast, getting safely out of the door before Logan hurled a stapler at his departing backside. It bounced off the wall and fell to the carpet.

Logan stabbed the button on his phone. 'DS McRae, how can I help-'

'Logan? This is Senior Constable Jaroszewicz? From Poland?'

'Wiktorja?' Just the sound of her voice was enough to make Logan break out in a cold sweat. 'What-'

'Can we talk?'

'Hold on, let me close the office door-'

'No, not on the phone, I need to talk to you in person. It is important.'

'What?' His bowels clenched. Oh God, he didn't want to go back to Poland. He really, really didn't want to go back to Poland. 'But I can't-'

'I am at Aberdeen Airport. I can get a taxi to your police headquarters?'

'No!' Even though he knew he was alone, Logan glanced around the empty CID offices, then lowered his voice. 'Don't come to the station. I'll give you an address…' The taxi pulled up outside DI Steel's house. The back door opened and a familiar figure struggled out into the hot July sunshine. Wiktorja. Her face was speckled with yellow-green bruises, a patch of white gauze taped to her forehead above a collection of brown-scabbed scrapes. She struggled one-handed with a bright yellow 'DUTY FREE' carrier bag — her right arm useless in a sling — until Logan lumbered up the path and paid the driver.

He hefted her battered brown leather suitcase out of the boot, and they stood there, not saying anything as the taxi pulled away from the kerb. Logan coughed. She looked at her feet. DI Steel's fluffy grey cat slouched past on the garden fence.

'How's the arm?'

Wiktorja grimaced. 'My stupid doctor says I am not fit to return to duty, and my stupid sergeant agrees with him.' She smiled, but her eyes were dead, her voice full of artificial cheer. 'So I decided to take a holiday. I have always wanted to see Aberdeen…'

'For a police officer, you're a bloody lousy liar.'

This time her smile looked more genuine. 'Do you think so?' They rummaged a clear spot in Steel's freezer for the bottle of vodka Wiktorja had brought from Poland, then sat in the back garden, in the sunshine, Wiktorja shivering slightly, Logan trying to light up. The cigarette wouldn't hold still, dancing back and forth away from the flame.

Wiktorja took a sip of instant coffee. 'I did not know you smoked.'

'I don't. Gave up years ago when someone made a pincushion out of my innards with a six-inch knife.' He tried to steady the cigarette. 'Come on you little sod…' And then it caught. He dragged in a lungful. Coughed. Spluttered. Winced.

'You should think about giving up again. You are not very good at it.'

'Think it'll be cold enough yet?'

'No. Twenty minutes.' She picked up the photo of Kravchenko again and frowned at it. 'And you are sure he is here?'

'Yup.' Logan slid the e-fit across the little cast-iron table. 'See?' He spread out the rest of Gorzkiewicz's file on Major Vadim Mikhailovitch Kravchenko.

Wiktorja bent over the photocopies, lips moving soundlessly as she read.

Logan spotted another photograph, stuck between two photocopies. It was in colour, the tones muted and faded; a dour-looking man, a pretty woman, and a little girl. He was canted over to one side, as if there was something wrong with his leg. Gorzkiewicz — after his discharge from the Polish army, and before Kravchenko blinded him. With his wife and daughter. Dead in the furnaces of Nowa Huta's steel works, or sold on to some Politburo stooge in Warsaw.

The little girl's hair really was exactly the same colour as Wiktorja's. And the mother looked a bit like her too. And Wiktorja said she was born just outside Krakow… Nowa Huta was just outside Krakow…

Maybe that's why she'd been so keen to track down Gorzkiewicz?

'You know,' said Logan, trying to think of the best way to put it, 'your hair's the same colour as Gorzkiewicz's daughter.'

Wiktorja didn't even look up from the report she was reading. 'Maybe she uses the same hair dye.'

'Oh.' He let the photo fall back to the tabletop, feeling like an idiot. So much for that theory.

The back door opened, and Rennie sauntered out into the garden, hands in his pockets. He stopped and stared at Wiktorja, his eyebrows going up and down like randy caterpillars. 'Going to introduce me to your friend then?'

Logan balanced his cigarette on the edge of a saucer. 'No.' He excused himself and marched over to the house, shoving Rennie back inside.

'Hey? What'd I do?'

'We're not here, understand? You haven't seen us.'

Rennie looked blank for a moment. Then understanding crawled across his face, leaving a leer in its wake. 'Gotcha.' Wink. 'Playing away from home, eh? Don't want Sam to find out.' He nudged Logan. 'You dog, you.'

Logan stared at him. 'You're an idiot. Where's Rory?'