Blind Eye (30 page)

Finnie sent a box of herbal toothpaste flying. Then went back to his phone call. 'Hello? Hello? Of course I'm still here, what did you think: I was
abducted
by aliens?'

Logan left him haranguing whoever was on the other end of the phone, and returned to the shattered window.

A black-clad figure was wheezing its way up Victoria Road, helmet clutched in one hand, face bright red and dripping with sweat. The firearms officer Finnie had sent after Hoodie Number One.

The officer staggered to a halt outside the Krakow General Store and collapsed against the wall. 'Ah ... Jesus...' Puff. Pant. He dragged out a handkerchief and scraped it across his glistening forehead.

Logan looked around, but there was no sign of Hoodie Number One. '
Please
tell me you didn't let him get away.'

'I didn't ... I didn't let anyone ... anything...'

'How could you let him get away?'

'He ... he was ... he was wearing trainers...'

'Oh you're...' Logan closed his eyes and swore. 'Trainers? That's it? He was wearing
trainers
?'

The firearms officer slapped his bullet-proof vest, jiggled his Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. 'You got any ... any idea ... how much this ... crap ... weighs?' Wheeze, cough. He waved his helmet in Logan's face. 'And it's all black! I'm ... sodding melting here...'

'Oh ... bloody hell.' Logan grabbed a bottle of Polish mineral water from the upturned chiller cabinet and handed it to the sweaty officer. 'Here.'

The man unscrewed the top and drank deep.

'Better?'

'The little sod disappeared on Abbey Place - tried to follow him, but there was no sign. Must be miles away by now.'

Logan glanced back at Finnie; the DCI was still on the phone, moaning about how long it was going to take the Identification Bureau to get its grubby Transit Van up here. Then he snapped his mobile shut, and Logan gave him the bad news.

Finnie kicked a packet of washing powder. 'Why am I surrounded by morons? Did I tick the wrong bloody box for room service? I
wanted
scrambled eggs on toast, but they delivered a family-sized bag of
idiots
!'

The firearms officer threw his empty plastic bottle on the floor. 'It wasn't my fault! He was--'

'Why the hell didn't you just shoot him?'

'I--'

'Do you think we give you lot guns for a
laugh
? And you,' Finnie jabbed a finger in Logan's direction, 'why did I hear automatic fire from your team?'

Logan nodded at the officer who'd accompanied him on the chase. 'Ask Rambo here.'

'Yeah?' The constable stuck out his chest. 'At least I managed to get a shot off. Unlike
some
people.'

'My gun was jammed!'

'Your head was jammed. Jammed right up your arse!'

Finnie threw his hands in the air. 'ENOUGH!'

Silence.

'And what
exactly
do we have to show for this afternoon's little fiasco? Two officers in hospital; one shopkeeper with a knife in his belly; two hoodies I can't question because they've got concussion; and you...' Finnie's whole face twitched. 'You useless bunch of
pricks
let everyone else get away!'

No one would look him in the eye.

The DCI pointed at the shop door. 'Get out of my sight.' But when Logan made a move Finnie grabbed him. 'I'm not finished with you yet.'

The two firearms officers sloped out of the shop, across the road, and back to their unmarked Transit Van. A seagull had decorated the windscreen. So Finnie wasn't the only one shitting on them from a great height.

As the van pulled away, the Chief Inspector sank back against the counter and folded his arms. 'I expected better of you, McRae.'

'And what
exactly
was I supposed to do?'

'Shoot the bad guys! Why is that concept so difficult to understand?'

'There was a kid in the line of fire. Can you imagine what the press would do to us if he'd got hit by accident?'

Finnie opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. 'Fair point.' He scuffed the toe of his shoe through a small drift of washing powder. 'Going to be bad enough as it is...' A look of hope flickered across his face. 'Don't suppose you're still friends with that journalist scumbag?'

Logan shook his head. 'They're on holiday: three weeks in the Maldives. I'm watering the plants.'

The hopeful look vanished. 'Then we're buggered.'

30

Back at the station things didn't get any better. Half an hour after returning from the crime scene, Logan was summoned by Professional Standards. He sat outside Superintendent Napier's office on a squeaky orange plastic seat, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Wondering how on earth he could put a positive spin on events.

At least no one got shot this time. Maybe he could--

His phone went into a fit of electronic apoplexy and he dragged it out. Frowned at the number. Then answered it. 'McRae?'

'Hello? Yes, right: you said I should call if anything came up?'

Logan frowned. 'I did?'

'Father John Burnett? Used to be at Sacred Heart, now helping out at Saint Peter's in the Castlegate? I've been worrying about your eternal soul.'

Oh God.

'That's very kind of you, Father, but I really don't--'

'I think you should come to confession.'

'But I'm not a Catholic, I--'

'Now would be a
really
good time, Sergeant. Trust me...'

Logan loitered in the day chapel, examining a stained-glass interpretation of Aberdeen's patron saints - most of whom now had a shopping centre named after them - while he waited for the handful of people to filter out from Thursday evening Mass. His mobile had gone off twice already, Inspector Napier's depressingly familiar number appearing on the screen. Probably wanting to know why Logan wasn't sitting outside the Professional Standards office, waiting to be shouted at.

Logan switched the thing off and dropped it in his pocket.

One wall of the day chapel was panelled in dark wood to about waist height, with lancet windows of clear glass above, and from here he could see straight into the main body of the church. An altar sat at the far end, in front of an ornately carved structure of gold-encrusted mahogany, spotlit against the plain white walls.

The three banks of pews might sit four hundred but right now they were mostly empty. A grey-haired man sat in the centre row, head bowed in prayer, while Father Burnett and a little old lady sat off to one side. She was dressed in a thick winter jacket and woolly hat, even though it had to be at least twenty degrees outside, her hands working their way around a string of prayer beads.

Finally the priest rose and made a religious-looking hand gesture. He was wearing a white robe, with what looked like a big inverted CND symbol on the front in red. Very fancy. He helped the little old lady to her feet. She patted his arm, then crabbed her way along the pews, bent nearly double under the weight of a Punch-and-Judy hump.

Logan stepped through the door and into the body of the church.

He passed the little old lady as she reached the aisle and started to shuffle towards the exit. She had the sour smell that came with clothes left in the washing machine for too long.

Father Burnett stuck out his hand and Logan wasn't sure if he was supposed to shake it or kiss it. He went for the former. 'Thought you said they were packed to the rafters?'

The priest shrugged. 'Come back tomorrow. Today's Mass is always in English, so we don't get many Poles. Just the regulars, like Gladys.' He pointed at the old lady lumbering slowly down the apse. 'Poor old dear...' He sniffed.

'So ... why the sudden interest in my soul?'

Father Burnett pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, polished them on the hem of his vestments, then popped them on. 'I want you to meet someone.' He led Logan across to the centre bank of pews, then stood there until the man with the grey hair looked up. 'Sorry to disturb your devotions, Marek, but this is Detective Sergeant Logan McRae.'

The man stood, a crooked-teeth smile just visible through his thick grey moustache. 'Please to meet you, Sergeant.'

Logan looked at the priest, then back at the old man. 'Er, likewise. I mean,
dzien dobry
.'

'I was asking Marek here if anyone had complained of being attacked, or abused recently.'

Marek nodded. '
Tak
: yes, there is man, tall with red hair and...' He frowned at Father Burnett. 'What is "
pieg
"?'

'Freckle.'

'Yes, is red hair and freckle. He wait outside after Mass sometimes, follow people home. I know one man who chase him away. Punched him on nose. He has not been back since this.'

Logan got him to give a full description, copying it down into his notebook. 'OK, well, I'll need you to come down to the station and we'll do an e-fit, so--'

'And there is other man, who is sing in pub on machine?' The old man checked with the priest again. 'What is word?'

'Karaoke.'

'Oh ... is same in Polish. Anyway, Karaoke man like to cause fight. Many, many people. Very drunk.'

Logan made another note. 'So he's--'

'Then is woman who work in shop for coffee. We know she spit in our drinks. We complain but no one does anything.'

'Really? Are you sure she's actually--'

'Then is taxi driver who will not take Polish people. Says we are filthy. We drink too much and make sick in his car.' Marek pulled a sheet of paper from his inside pocket. 'There are others. I make list.'

'Ah, right...' Logan took it. 'Thanks.'

Marek shrugged. 'If I can help, is good.'

The priest gave the old man's shoulder a squeeze. 'Thank you Marek, you've been a great help.' And then the two of them shared an exchange in Polish, ending with what sounded like a dirty joke.

The priest stood and watched the old man leave, still chuckling. Logan scanned the list of locals who didn't like Polish people. There was a depressingly large number of them.

'This is going to take forever.'

'Not exactly welcoming is it?' Father Burnett wandered over to a small door in the apse of the church. It opened on a little room with a threadbare burgundy carpet, a safe, an old kitchen table, and a rickety wardrobe. The priest pulled his vestments over his head and hung them up. 'You asked if anyone had stopped coming to Mass. Well, I couldn't think of anyone off the top of my head. It wasn't until I spoke to Marek that I remembered.'

He closed the wardrobe door. 'Once upon a time, about twenty years ago, there was a man called Daniel Gilchrist. Daniel worked in the fish. He wasn't a particularly nice man: he drank too much, and was occasionally a bit free with his affections and his fists, but he came to church every Sunday with his wife and son.'

'This isn't going to be one of those stories where you say it reminds you a bit of Jesus, is it?'

'Daniel got cancer and had to stop working on the boats. By the time he died there was nothing left but bitterness, and tumours. I administered the last rites.'

Logan leant against the wall. 'Then I think we can safely eliminate him from our enquiries.'

'His son kept up the family tradition. Every Sunday he'd be there at Sacred Heart with his mother.' Father Burnett picked up a big spiky gold and silver thing - like a sunburst topped with a cross - from the table and wrapped it in a silk cloth. 'Of course, I went off to Poland for a few years, but when I got back, there he was: still at his mother's side, every Sunday. Then one day he just stopped coming.' The priest opened the safe and slid the bundle inside, then locked it. 'I think his mother fell ill, or something. Haven't seen her since.'

'That's nice.' Logan took another run through Marek's list. Probably best to start with the complaints of actual violence: get a team to identify the individuals and haul them in for questioning. Poke into their backgrounds.

'Daniel's son has red hair and freckles.'

Who knew there would be so many racist shitheads in Aberdeen? 'Can't really arrest him for that.'

'He's the one who was following people home after Mass.'

And now Father Burnett had Logan's undivided attention. 'When did he stop coming to church?'

'Six months ago. Not long before we closed Sacred Heart for refurbishment.'

Right about the time the Oedipus letters started.

31