60
There was a slightly bleary edge to Force Headquarters at seven in the morning: constables, sergeants and inspectors slouching around like half-shut knives, bent under the weight of a night in the Illicit Still, celebrating DCI Finnie's recent drug bust.
Logan asked around and finally tracked the DCI down in the canteen, tucking into a fry-up.
'Mmmph.' Finnie looked up, mouth full, a bean juice cold sore on his top lip. He chewed and swallowed. 'What happened to you last night?'
'I… ahem…' Logan sat, and tried not to watch as the Detective Chief Inspector got stuck into a glistening disk of black pudding, little flecks of oatmeal and fat peppering the cooked blood.
Finnie stuffed down a forkful, talking while he ate. 'Got a table booked at Toni's tonight: you, me and Pirie. Celebrate you getting back on the job after your accident.'
Accident…
Logan tried a smile. It wasn't easy with his stomach churning. 'I had a visit from Hilary Brander yesterday.'
'Oh aye?'
Logan told him about the affair, the other claw hammer, and the call to Kylie's sister Tracey.
Finnie stopped eating, his voice a strangled whisper: 'Why the bloody hell didn't you call me? You knew how important this was!'
'I…' Logan scanned the rows of breakfasting police officers, but no one seemed to be looking in their direction. 'I thought Brander was just taking the piss. How was I supposed to know it would pan out?'
'So now you're exempt from the chain of command, is that it? You're too damn special to tell me when there's a major screw-up on my investigation?'
'What was I supposed to do, stick the hammer back where I found it? Pretend it never happened, just because we can't get Colin McLeod for anything else?'
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?'
