The Polish Detective by Hania Allen

Author:Hania Allen [Allen, Hania]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781472125477
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2018-01-10T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 17

‘You got caught in a gin trap?’ Laurence said, a look of horror on his face. ‘Those things are lethal. So what happened to your leg, Sergeant? Can I see?’

‘There’s nothing to show. A few teeth marks and a yellowing bruise. Marek bandaged it up. We didn’t have that gel, as it happens.’

‘So what did you use on your leg?’

‘Vodka, of course,’ Dania said, keeping her face straight.

He stared at her, and she could see he was trying to figure out whether she was joking. But all Poles know about the medicinal properties of vodka. And not just for rubbing. Drinking a glass or two helps the circulation and promotes the body’s natural healing process. Or so Poles tell themselves …

‘What were you doing in Backmuir, anyway?’

‘I wanted to see it,’ she said, not prepared to say more. She knew how her suspicions about the laird of Backmuir would sound. Interestingly, Laurence had shown no reaction when she mentioned Euan Campbell. Perhaps Campbell was a common enough name that he didn’t associate it with one of the missing girls.

Her mobile rang. She listened without interrupting and then disconnected.

Laurence was grinning. ‘Chopin’s “Funeral March”? Nice ringtone.’

‘Get your coat. We’re meeting the DI there.’

‘Where?’

‘At Backmuir Hall.’ She grabbed her jacket. ‘It’s happened again.’

Laurence made no attempt to slow down on the road to the hall, and they lurched on the potholed track so violently that Dania was in danger of losing her breakfast. He stared straight ahead, ignoring the giant sculptures and, because he drove as though he were competing in the Monte Carlo rally, they arrived before Chirnside.

They passed through the gateposts on to the gravelled area.

She saw it before Laurence did. ‘Dear God,’ she murmured.

He screeched to a stop. Without waiting for him to cut the engine, she opened the door and scrambled out. As she looked up, she felt the small hairs on the back of her neck rise.

A figure was hanging from the flagpole. His arms were outstretched and his legs dangled limply, the leather shoes gleaming in the sun. His head drooped forward in a way that hid his face but allowed her to see that he was mounted on two crossed wooden planks.

Below the figure, a man stood staring at the crumpled saltire on the ground. He was wearing dark denims and a worker’s jacket, green with age. He lifted his head, giving Dania a view of dishevelled brown hair and a weather-beaten face. There was an expression of numbness in the eyes.

She pulled out her warrant. ‘DS Dania Gorska. West Bell Street Station.’

He clasped his grimy hands together, making no attempt to take the card. It did nothing to prevent their tremor.

‘Are you the person who called the police?’ she said.

‘Aye. I saw the corbies from a distance.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘That number of birds means only one thing.’

‘So you came to investigate,’ she said when he seemed reluctant to continue.

His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m the estate manager. Aleck Docherty. It’s my responsibility to check whether there are dead animals on the land.

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