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?'
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.
44
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.
