'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.
Back in the main square, wood smoke drifted out in scented wafts from food stall braziers. He stopped to buy a little paper plate of grilled, smoked cheese served with a dollop of cherry jam.
Logan finished the lot before crumpling up his plate and dropping it in a bin — not wanting a row from any passing nuns — then froze. There was a pamphlet lying amongst the litter, advertising some sort of concert. It was all gibberish to him, but one thing did stand out loud and clear — the band had written their name in the same red, blobby, run-together block capitals Solidarity used. They even had a little flag-like scrawl over the 'N' in their name, just like the union.
Gorzkiewicz — his file said he'd been active in Solidarity while Poland was under Communist rule.
Logan looked out across the town square, then down at the poster again. A smile spread across his face. Maybe he could salvage something from this disaster after all.
45
It took longer than he'd thought, but eventually Logan managed to track down the local Solidarity headquarters, just off the main square in Krakow. And best of all, the woman behind the reception desk spoke English.
She gave Logan a seat and a cup of coffee, then told him the person he needed to talk to would be down in about fifteen minutes. And he was.
Gerek Plotkowski certainly looked the part — squarely built, greying hair, massive soup-strainer moustache, handshake like a steelworker. In thickly accented English he invited Logan to follow him to a nearby cafe for a drink. 'Is all herbata and coffee in office. When it is hot like this a man needs something cold. No?'
Yes.
They got a table on the edge of the square, not far from someone who'd painted himself gold and was standing motionless on an upturned bucket, pretending to be a statue. Plotkowski ordered two beers from a waiter, then sat and scowled at the statue-impersonator. 'We fight Communist oppression for years, for what? So idiota like that can exist.' He took a big mouthful of beer, leaving a high-tidemark of foam on his moustache. 'What do you want to know?'
'They told me you were in Solidarity from the very start. I'm trying to find a man who was a member back in the early eighties.'
'Ah…' the big man got a misty look in his grey eyes. 'They were good times. Hard, but we stood shoulder to shoulder. Like this…' He held his two fists up, side by side. 'We mean something.'
'The man I'm looking for is called Gorzkiewicz. Rafal Gorzkiewicz. Did you know him?'
The misty look disappeared, replaced by something much harder. 'Why?'
'I'm a police officer.' Logan pulled out his warrant card and slid it across the table. 'Gorzkiewicz was attacked in 1981 — somebody blinded him.'
'I do not know this man you are talking about.' He wrapped his pint in one huge fist and threw half of it down his throat. 'I must to get back to work.'
Logan grabbed the man's sleeve… took one look at the scowl it got him, and let go again. 'Please, it's
