Little Belmont Street; and a dusty jar of black cherry jam from the back of the cupboard. He laid it all out on the coffee table in the lounge, then whipped the dust sheet off of the sofa and draped it over the stepladder in the corner.
Samantha emerged, wearing knee-length stripy socks and a black T-shirt featuring a dead teddy bear. Rubbing her bright-scarlet hair with a towel. 'I'm impressed. Thought you'd be more of a fry-up kind of guy.'
Logan poured the coffee. 'My body is a temple.'
'Aye, right.' She settled on the couch, legs crossed underneath her.
It wasn't a bad way to spend a morning: eating breakfast, drinking coffee, and reading the Sunday papers. Watching a square of sunlight slowly crawl from left to right across the bare floorboards and empty paint pots. A little canoodling.
And then the phone went.
Logan stayed where he was — lips locked on Samantha's, one hand up the front of her T-shirt. Eventually the ringing stopped and the answering machine picked up. Then the phone started ringing again.
He swore. 'It's probably-'
She pulled him back to her. 'Leave it.'
The answering machine went bleep. The ringing stopped. And then started again. She sighed. 'Go on then.'
'Bloody hell.' Logan grabbed the phone. 'What?'
'How come you never answer your phone the first time?' It was
Big Gary. 'What are you, allergic to the answering machine?'
'I got someone from the Polish police on the line for you-'
'I'm not on duty.'
'And I'm not shagging Keira Knightley, but you don't hear me whinging about it, do you?'
'It's my day off! I'm-'
'Here you go…'
A new voice came on the line: a woman, sounding as if she were speaking into a tin can on the end of a length of soggy string. 'Hello? Hello?'
Bloody Gary.
Logan did his best not to sound as hacked off as he felt. 'Detective Sergeant McRae. Can I help you?'
'You called Warsaw Police Headquarters yesterday?' The accent was lightly flavoured with Eastern European, but her English was perfect, if a little stilted.
'Yes. Is this Staff Sergeant Lukaszewski?'
'Lukaszewski is fifty-six years old. And a man.'
Definitely not Lukaszewski then.
'My name is Wiktorja Jaroszewicz,' she sounded it out for him, 'Yahr-oh-SHAY-veetch. And before you ask: no, no relation.'
Relation to who, Logan had no idea. If in doubt, change the subject. 'Did you find anything out about Kostchey International Holdings?'
'You asked about blindings — men with their eyes gouged out and the sockets burned? We have victims here too.'
And Logan started paying a lot more attention. 'Really?'
'Do you want to come and speak to them?' Detective Chief Superintendent Bain sat behind his desk, listening as Logan went over everything Senior Constable Wiktorja Jaroszewicz had said on the phone. Finnie had one of the visitor's chairs, DS Pirie the other, all dragged in on their day off, dressed in casual clothes instead of the standard cheap suits.
'Let me get this straight,' said DCS Bain, Sunday afternoon sunshine glinting off his shiny head, 'you're saying it's the same MO: eyes gouged out and burnt?'
Logan checked his notes. 'The last one was in 2004. According to Jaroszewicz, the attacks started around 1974, but it could be earlier. She says when the Communists were in power the police were more interested in rooting out political subversives than actually solving crimes. And a lot of the records disappeared when Poland got its independence.'
'Covering their tracks in case of repercussions,' said Finnie.
'I see…' DCS Bain steepled his fingers, tapped them against his lips, then turned to Finnie. 'Tell me, Chief Inspector, why didn't anyone bother contacting the Polish police until now?'
'McPherson was supposed to do it weeks ago. Pirie's been chasing him up two, three times a day.'
Pirie nodded. 'Kept coming up with excuses, he-'
'Besides, with Ricky Gilchrist in custody it's immaterial. There's no way he could have been blinding people in 1974 — he wasn't even born in 1974. No, this is something else.'
'Maybe it's a family thing?' Pirie looked around the room for support. 'His father worked in the fish, who knows where he sailed to?'
'Or,' said Logan, 'he's been using the Polish attacks as a template.'
'What does our pet psychologist say?'
Finnie scowled. 'Can't get hold of him, sir. Apparently playing cricket is more important.'
'I see…' The head of CID was silent for a while. 'Well, we have a confession, and you say Gilchrist's cooperating?'
'Fully. Doesn't even want a lawyer. He's proud of his accomplishments.'
'Still, I want someone to go out there and interview these victims. See if we can either make a link with Gilchrist, or rule one out. The last thing we need is some slimy defence lawyer muddying the waters when it comes to court.'
Finnie hauled himself out of the seat. 'I'll be on the first flight to Warsaw tomorrow morning and-'
'I need you here looking into that caravan full of guns. With Oedipus out of the way it's our number-one priority. Whatever's going on, I want it stopped before we've got running gun battles up and down Union Street.'
'But-'
'You're needed here Chief Inspector. Send someone you can trust.'
Pirie sat forward. 'I'll go. I can-'
'No,' said Finnie, 'you've got those drug dealers in Bucksburn to find, remember?' He folded his arms across his chest and nodded in Logan's direction. 'McRae caught Gilchrist, and he came up with the Polish lead. He should go.' 'Warsaw?' Samantha stood in the doorway, watching him pack. 'Jammy sod. Furthest they ever sent me was Thurso, and that wasn't exactly a bag of laughs.'
'It's only for a couple of days.'
He went through every drawer in his bedside cabinet: what the hell had happened to all his clean socks?
Samantha settled onto the edge of the bed. 'Some farmer walked into his local Post Office with a shotgun and blew this old guy's head off. Then he did the same thing to the cashier. Then he stuck the barrel in his own mouth. Blood and brains all over the ceiling.'
Logan tried the wardrobe. 'And Poland's in the EU, so it's not like I'm even getting duty free out of it.'
'Two old ladies, a single mother and her kid were standing right there. Saw the whole thing. Got covered in most of it…'
'You haven't seen a pile of socks anywhere, have you?'
'Apparently the only thing he said was right before he topped himself. Said, 'Told you it wasn't funny.' And then bang.'
How could three dozen socks just disappear?
'Took us days to scrape up all the bits.'
Logan found them lurking under the bed, hiding from the dust and paint. Four pairs went in the little suitcase, followed by just enough clothes to see him there and back. ''Scuse me…' He squeezed past Samantha, made for the bathroom, and started packing a toilet bag.
'Come on then,' she said, watching him rummage for the spare toothpaste, 'it's half six already. What we doing for tea?'
'Carry out?'
