The children blurred and she blinked back tears, biting her bottom lip. She wasn’t going to cry, she wasn’t going to – a sob escaped. A low, keening noise, full of pain. Gavin. . .
She stood at the kitchen sink and cried, mourning her marriage and her husband, while the children played. Children they would never have together.
Clutching the edge of the sink she lurched forward and was sick, splattering the spotless, stainless steel with Fruit ‘n Fibre, retching up mouthful after mouthful until there was nothing left.
She was upstairs in the bathroom, washing her face, when the doorbell went. Probably the press again. Reporters had been ringing her phone day and night, banging on her door, wanting to get their grubby little hands on the story of a grieving widow. As if there wasn’t already enough pain and misery without rubbing a little more salt in the wound. ‘Mrs Cruickshank, is it true your husband was having an affair?’ ‘Mrs Cruickshank, have they found your husband’s head yet?’ ‘Mrs Cruickshank, how does it feel to know your next-door neighbour dismembered the man you loved?’
The doorbell again, this time accompanied by a voice. ‘Mrs Cruickshank, it’s DS McRae. Can you open up please?’
She swirled some toothpaste round her mouth – gargling and swallowing the foam, coating the bitter taste of bile with a thin veneer of mint – then hurried downstairs and opened the door.
DS McRae stood on the top step, with a plain-looking WPC. ‘Can we come in?’
Logan followed her through to the kitchen where the window hung wide open, the sound of playing children drifting in from the school across the road, the harsh stench of floral air freshener masking the acid smell of vomit. There was a copy of that morning’s P&J on the table, the front page dominated by the words COUNCILLOR HAD SEX WITH 13-YEAR-OLD PROSTITUTE! Not one of Colin Miller’s catchier headlines, but it was difficult to type when you were missing half of your fingers. He skimmed the article while Ailsa Cruickshank made tea. There was no mention of the Chief Greenbelt Development Planner, or McLennan Homes, and the whole thing was attributed to ‘a detective inspector on the vice squad, who wishes to remain anonymous. . .’ but it was still enough to get Councillor Marshall suspended from the council and investigated by Grampian Police. DI Steel was spitting nails.
Three delicate china mugs clinked down onto the table, accompanied by a plate of chocolate digestives. Ailsa settled into one of the chairs and looked expectantly at Logan.
‘Mrs Cruickshank,’ he said, wondering how best to phrase this, ‘there’s something that’s been bothering me for the last couple of days. . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Your husband’s remains were found to contain large amounts of antidepressants.’
She looked confused. ‘But Gavin wasn’t depressed – he would’ve told me! I’d have noticed.’
‘So the question remains: how did he end up with all those pills in him?’
Ailsa prodded Clair Pirie’s photo on the bottom of the P&J’s front page. ‘Maybe, she forced him to eat them? Crushed them up and mixed them in something?’
‘You like crime fiction, don’t you, Mrs Cruickshank? You showed us your collection first time I was here, remember? Do you like that bit at the end of the book, where the detective finally sorts through all the lies and unmasks the real killer?’
‘I . . . I don’t understand.’ She put her mug down. ‘What’s this all about?’
Logan looked her straight in the eye. ‘We know.’
She sat on the other side of the table, her face suddenly pale, and stared at him as time stretched like chewing gum. She opened her mouth and closed it, swallowed and tried again. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Why use a bright-red suitcase if you’re going to hide it in the woods? Unless you actually want it to be found. Why dismember a body but leave a huge tattoo with the victim’s wife’s name on it? Even if I hadn’t seen that photo of him with the Hooters girls, we’d have run a search through the database and your name would’ve popped up on Gavin’s missing person report. Gavin, who just happens to be having three separate affairs. And lo and behold your next-door neighbour, who you’ve been trying to get rid of for years, leaves her garage door open the whole time, with the connecting door unlocked, and spends a huge chunk of her life passed out in the back garden. How hard would it be to nip round there, smear some of Gavin’s blood round the bathtub and stash the knife in the garage?’
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Is it? You get rid of your cheating husband and the bitch next door all in one fell swoop.’ Logan smiled. ‘But the pills were a mistake: you should’ve just clobbered him over the back of the head. How was Pirie supposed to get him to eat half a bottle of antidepressants? Bake him an “I’m sorry I smashed you in the face” cake?’
‘He phoned his office—’
‘Text message. He didn’t need to be alive for you to send it from his phone. And Hayley didn’t go away on holiday either, did she? You killed her and hid the body somewhere, but it’ll turn up eventually, they usually do.’
Ailsa stood, the chair scraping back across the tiles. ‘I want to speak to my lawyer.’
Logan shook his head. ‘You read too many detective novels, Mrs Cruickshank. This is Scotland: you get a lawyer when we say so, not before.’
The Fatal Accident Enquiry was adjourned for the evening at half six, to reconvene at eight the following morning. Jackie was waiting for Logan as he slouched out of the conference room. Her broken arm was back in a brand-new case of plaster – shockingly clean after the filthy mess the last one had been in when they’d finally cut it off at the hospital in the early hours of Tuesday morning. ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What did they say?’
Logan forced a smile. ‘PC Maitland died in the line of duty due to unforeseeable events. We’re getting together for a lessons learned thing tomorrow.’
‘You see? I told you it’d be OK.’ Taking a quick check up and down the corridor to make sure no one was watching, she reached up and kissed him hard.
‘Ow!’ Logan flinched back, one hand going to his swollen top lip. ‘Take it easy: loose tooth, remember.’
‘Oh shut up, you big baby.’ She enfolded him in a long, warm kiss. ‘Come on,’ she said, when they finally broke for air, ‘I promised Steve we’d bring him some Kendal Mint Cake and a pornographic jigsaw.’
‘Jackie?’ said Logan as they walked down the stairs. ‘Would you really have shot him? Chib – could you really have done it?’
Jackie just smiled. ‘Oh hell yes.’
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2006
Copyright © Stuart MacBride 2006
Stuart MacBride asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 9780007279456
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BROKEN SKIN
For Fiona
(third time’s the charm)
&nb
sp; Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Without Whom . . .
Sex
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Violence
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Lies
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Darkness
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Blood
Chapter 59
Copyright
Without Whom . . .
Researching a book is always fun – especially when people are prepared to open up and let you into their worlds of expertise. In writing Broken Skin I needed some pretty specialist information about the BDSM scene. The people who shared their secrets with me don’t want to be named, but they know who they are and I thank them.
I also want to thank everyone at Grampian Police who answered all my stupid questions with clever answers: Sergeant John Souter (CCTV); Inspector John Soutar (Control); Chief Inspector Jim Bilsland; Bruce Duncan and Zoe in the IB; and Fingerprint Expert Gary Dempster. An extra special nod goes to PC Derek Bain, who put up with more than most – thanks!
And once again I owe a debt of gratitude to that lovely guru of all things post mortem: Ishbel Gall. She knows more about dead bodies than anyone I’ve ever met.
These are the people responsible for anything I’ve got right: anything I’ve got wrong is my own silly fault.
More thanks go to Philip Patterson – still the best friend and agent a bearded write-ist could have – Luke, Isabella, and everyone else at Marjacq scripts; my editorial team of spoon-wielding Berber ninjas, AKA the brilliant Jane Johnson and Sarah Hodgson; the superb Amanda, Lucy, Andrea, Fiona, Kelly, Clive, Wendy, Damon, Leisa, Dom and the rest of the team at HarperCollins for doing a stunning job; Kelley Ragland at St Martin’s Press for all her help; and James Oswald for everything not nailed down.
I also want to thank Ian Burdis who donated a large sum of money to the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation so that his partner, Debbie Kerr, could be a character in this book. Two other real people who feature are my old friend Alexander Clark (who was invaluable for IT info), and John Rickards who writes excellent crime novels, when not appearing in my slightly twisted ones. Needless to say, Debs, Alex and John have let me get away with murder;}#
And lastly, but not leastly, I have to thank my naughty wife Fiona. Not everyone would put up with this kind of thing. . .
SEX
1
Up ahead the woman stops. She stands on one leg under the streetlight, rubbing her ankle, as if she’s not used to wearing high heels. Number seven: a wee Torry quine on her way home after a night out on the pish, staggering along in her fuck-me heels and miniskirt, even though it’s February in Aberdeen and freezing cold. She’s a looker. Curly brown hair. Upturned little nose. Nice legs, long and sexy. The kind he likes to feel struggling beneath him as he makes the bitch take it. Shows her who’s boss.
She straightens up and teeters off again, mumbling away to herself in a little alcoholic haze. He likes them drunk: not so drunk they don’t know what’s happening, but drunk enough that they can’t do anything about it. Can’t get a good look at him.
Dirty bitches.
She lurches past the NorFish building – spotlit for a moment in the sweeping headlights of an articulated lorry – across the roundabout and onto the cobbles of Victoria Bridge, crossing the dark, silent River Dee into Torry. He hangs back a bit, pretending to tie his shoelace until she’s nearly all the way over. This part of town isn’t his usual hunting ground, so he has to play it carefully. Make sure no one’s watching. He smiles: the dark, grey street is deserted – just him and lucky Number Seven.
A quick jog and he’s right behind her again. He’s fit, doesn’t even break a sweat in his Aberdeen Football Club tracksuit, complete with hood and black Nike trainers. Who’s going to look twice at a man out for a jog?
Torry’s bleak in the late February night – granite buildings stained almost black with grime, washed with piss-yellow streetlight. The woman fits right in: cheap clothes, cheap black leather jacket, cheap shoes, cheap perfume. A dirty girl. He smiles and feels the knife in his pocket. Time for the dirty girl to get her ‘treat’.
She turns left, heading off the long, sweeping curve of Victoria Road onto one of the side streets, where the fish processing factories are. Probably taking a shortcut back to her horrible little bedsit, or the house she shares with mummy and daddy. He grins, hoping it’s mummy and daddy – she should have someone to share her pain with when this is all over. Because there’s going to be a lot of pain to share.
The street’s deserted, just the back end of an empty eighteen-wheeler parked opposite the oriental cash and carry. It’s all industrial units here, silent and dark and closed for the night. No one to see them and call for help.
The woman – Number Seven – passes a skip full of twisted metal, and he speeds up, closing the gap. Her heels go click-clack on the cold concrete pavement, but his Nikes are silent. Past a couple of those big plastic bins overflowing with discarded fish heads and bones, grimy wooden pallets slapped on top to keep the seagulls out. Closer.
Out with the knife, one hand rubbing the front of his tracksuit, stroking his erection for luck. Every detail stands out bright and clear, like blood splashed on pale, white skin.
She turns at the last minute, eyes going wide as she sees him, then sees the knife, too shocked to scream. This is going to be special. Number Seven will get to do things she’s never dreamed of, not in her darkest nightmares. She—
Her arm flashes out, knocking the knife away as she grabs his tracksuit and buries her knee in his groin hard enough to lift him off the ground.
He lets out a little squeal and she closes his mouth with a fist. Black concentric circles chase a hot yellow roar and his knees give way. The pavement is cold and hard as he collapses, curls up around his battered testicles, and cries.
‘Jesus. . .’ DC Rennie peered at the man snivelling away on the cracked pavement among the fishy stains. ‘I think you broke his goolies. I heard them pop.’
‘He’ll live.’ PC Jackie Watson forced the man over onto his face, cuffing his hands behind his back. He groaned and whimpered. Jackie smiled. ‘Serves you right, you dirty little bastard. . .’ She glanced up at Rennie. ‘Anyone looking?’ He said no, so she kicked the guy in the ribs. ‘That’s for Christine, Laura, Gail, Sarah, Jennifer, Joanne, and Sandra.’
‘Jesus, Jackie!’ Rennie grabbed her before she could do it again. ‘What if someone sees?’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘So what’s the problem?’ She stood, glowering down at the crying man in the AFC tracksuit. ‘Right, Sunshine, on your feet.’
He didn’t move. ‘Oh for god’s sake. . .’ She grabbed his ear and hauled him upright. ‘Rennie, you want to. . . ?’ But DC Rennie was busy on the radio, telling Control that Operation Sweetmeat had been a success – they’d caught the bastard.
2
Aberdeen Royal Infirmary was spreading like a concrete tumour. For years it’d been in remission, but lately it had started to grow again, infecting the surrounding area with new wings of concrete and steel. And every time he saw it, Detective Sergeant Logan McRae’s heart sank.
Stifling a yawn he crumpled up the thin plastic cup his vending-machine coffee had come in and dropped it in the bin before pushing through the brown double doors into the heady bouquet of disinfectant, formalin and death.
The hospital morgue was a lot bigger than the one down at Grampian Police Force Headquarters and a lot more cheerful. A small stereo in one corner of the large, brown room pumped out Dr Hook’s greatest hits, the music almost drowning out the sound of running water as it gurgled down a drain on one of the dissecting tables. A woman in a green plastic apron, surgical scrubs and white Wellington boots was packing an old lady’s organs back where they’d come from, to the tune of When You’re in Love with a Beautiful Woman.
Logan’s unidentified male was lying on his back on a hospital gurney, eyes taped shut, skin as pale as wax paper. They’d left all the surgical tubes and lines attached for the inevitable post mortem: it made the body look abandoned. Mid-twenties, short blond hair, thin, but well muscled, as if he’d been addicted to the gym. His lower limbs and abdomen were smeared red, a long row of hurried stitches marking where they’d sewn him back together again after the surgeon finally admitted defeat. Death: one, NHS Grampian: zero.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 78