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?'
'You can tell me who did it.'
'Four men, they come in here. Loud, shouting at each other, laughing. They throw bottles across shop, smash on the floor. Then they tell me I have to pay them for 'damages'. That if I don't, more things will get damaged.' The shopkeeper stuck out his chest. 'I tell them I am not afraid! And they show me knives.' He looked away, sliding the cash register drawer shut again. 'I tell them I already pay for shop to be safe…'
'So they trashed the place.'
'They say I have to pay them or I am never safe. Five hundred pounds every week.'
Logan pulled out his notebook. 'What did they look like?'
Shrug. 'Those tops with hoods. One have tattoo on his hand. Thin face, big nose? Fancy knife that folds up. Not sound Scottish.'
'English?' Logan pulled on his best Manchester accent, 'Did dey sound a bit like dis, den?'
Another shrug. 'All English sound the same to me.'
The shopkeeper produced a broom and pushed a chinking clump of broken glass across the linoleum. 'Everything is violence these days. Everyone want money, but no one want to work for it.'
Logan watched him sweeping up his broken merchandise, the pickle juice turning the spilled breakfast cereal into a brown vinegary mush. A red-top tabloid was pulled from the rack and thrown down to sop up the mess. The cover photo of a girl in an unfeasibly small bikini slowly disappeared into the saturated newsprint. Now they'd never find out what 'PERKY POLISH PETRA'S PARTY PIECE' was. It looked as if Zander Clark wasn't the only one importing attractive women.
There was a bottle of Polish brandy lying underneath a stack of soggy paperbacks. Logan pulled it out; it wasn't even broken. 'Ever heard of a company called Kostchey International Holdings?'
The man froze. 'No. Never.'
'You sure?'
'Yes. Now you have to leave, I have lot of cleaning to do.'
'But we were-'
'Please, I am very busy.'
Logan put the bottle back on the shelf. 'OK… One last thing before I go.' He unfolded three printouts from his pocket and held the first one up. It was the Oedipus victim they'd found that morning, the IB technician had done a pretty decent job painting in the eyes. 'Do you know this man?'
The shopkeeper took the printout, stared at it for a bit, then handed it back. 'No.'
'What about these two?' Logan showed him the e-fits he'd put together with Rory Simpson of the men who'd blinded Simon McLeod.
This time there was a flicker of recognition in the shopkeeper's eyes. 'This one,' he said, pointing at the old man's picture, 'I know him!'
Ha — Finnie would have to put him up for that DI's job now. 'Who is it?'
'Is Clint Eastwood.'
Logan turned the sheet around and stared at the face. The shopkeeper was right — it was Clint Bloody Eastwood.
If Logan ever got his hands on Rory Simpson, he was going to throttle him.
22
The pool car smelled horrible. Booze, bad breath, and BO, all underpinned by the eye-nipping odour of old vomit. Steel was snoring away beneath her makeshift blanket, the sleeves dangling down into the footwell.
Logan slammed the car door, and she shot up in her seat, jacket still draped over her head. 'Mmphhh? What? Eh?'
'Bloody Rory Bloody Simpson! He lied about the e-fit.'
Steel yawned, squinted, then ran a hand through the electrocuted mop on top of her head pretending to be hair. 'Why does my mouth taste of sick?'
'Clint Eastwood!' Logan dragged the car key out of his pocket and rammed it into the ignition.
'I'm thirsty…'
'That's what you get for drinking a whole bottle of whisky on your own.'
'No I didn't…' She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her head. 'Oh God, yes I did.'
'There's a big thing of Irn-Bru at your feet. I can't believe that tosser Simpson lied to me!'
'He's a kiddie fiddler, not George Washington.' There was the distinctive hissssss of the top being unscrewed from a plastic bottle of fizzy juice, and then the distinctive swearing of it going all over someone's lap. 'Aaaagh! Rotten bastarding… it's everywhere!'
'Well, hold it out the window.'
'I'm all sticky!'
Logan turned in his seat. 'We have to find Rory. Make the lying little sod give us a proper description.'
The inspector took a deep swig from the bottle, then belched.
'Maybe,' said Logan, 'we should get onto Tayside and Edinburgh? If he's not here, he's got to be somewhere.'
'Give it a rest, would you?'
'He lied to us!'
