Broken Skin

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘OK … one, two three … shit.’ Scowling out of the windscreen at the downpour. ‘Best of three?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, OK … bloody hell …’ The driver cracked the door open, letting in the roar of the rain, drowning out the constant background chatter of the radio. He pulled on his waterproof jacket, turned the collar up, pulled his hat down low over his ears, and jumped out of the car, swearing as he ran across to the burnt-out wreck opposite, trying to avoid the puddles.

  The patrol car window wound halfway down, and the PC in the passenger seat shouted, ‘Well?’

  Grumbling, the driver clicked his torch on and peered into the blackened shell. There wasn’t much left: the skeletal remains of seats, their wire frames caked with lumps of grey and black ash; dashboard reduced to a buckled sheet of sagging metal; the tyres a slough of vitrified rubber. All the glass was gone. He ran the torch’s beam round the inside, just in case. Anything in there was long gone. ‘Nothing. Just a crappy old Volvo no one loves any more.’

  Steel was back at her office window, peering out at the cluster of journalists and TV cameras far below when Logan returned from getting everything organized. ‘Briefing’s at four,’ he said, slumping into the threadbare visitors’ chair. ‘You’ve got sixteen uniform, five CID and about eight admin. And I got the IB to take a good head-and-shoulders shot of the body with his eyes open, they’re going to touch it up on the computer so he doesn’t look so dead.’ Logan yawned, but Steel didn’t seem to notice, just sparked up another cigarette and went back to blowing smoke out into the rain. ‘Press release will be ready about …’ he checked his notes, ‘five, but they don’t think they can get you on the news tonight. Not with this Rob Macintyre thing going on.’

  She nodded. ‘No room on the box for two Aberdeen stories eh? Shame …’ She sighed. ‘I’d have loved to show that blonde weathergirl what a real wet front looks like … Still, the circus down there’s getting geared up for something. Want to go watch? If we’re lucky that grumpy, fat bastard Insch will punch someone.’

  It was too damp for a real media frenzy, instead they all huddled under their umbrellas, pointing cameras, microphones and digital recorders at the FHQ car park as a black BMW pulled up and a smug-looking bastard climbed out into the rain and a barrage of questions. Sandy Moir-Farquharson, defence lawyer extraordinaire: tall, well-dressed, with greying hair, a slightly squint nose, and a junior to hold his brolly for him. Rob Macintyre got out of the back seat and bounced along beside him, grinning from ear to ear – despite the swollen lip Jackie had given him – in a very expensive-looking charcoal-grey suit, his trademark ruby earstud twinkling in the camera lights. It was a blatant rip-off of other, much more famous footballers from the English leagues, only Macintyre’s was red, Aberdeen Football Club’s team colour. Finally a large, grey-haired woman emerged from the car wearing a triumphant, satisfied smile – the one who’d been shouting at Big Gary last night.

  Standing beneath an umbrella purloined from the lost and found, Logan grimaced. ‘This doesn’t look good.’

  DI Steel snorted, arms crossed, face screwed up tight. ‘Never does when Hissing Bloody Sid’s involved.’

  The lawyer raised his arms and the crowd of journalists fell quiet. ‘I am delighted to say that the court has agreed to give my client Mr Macintyre the opportunity to challenge these ridiculous charges in a court of law.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Steel dug in her pockets and came out with a packet of cigarettes, ‘we’re prosecuting the little sod, and he’s making out it’s all their idea!’

  ‘Mr Macintyre’s innocence,’ said the lawyer, ‘will be proved beyond a shadow of a doubt, and Grampian Police will be forced to put an end to their hateful campaign to ruin his reputation once and for all. We can only assume that someone up there,’ he pointed at the looming black-and-white hulk of FHQ, ‘really doesn’t want Aberdeen to win the Scottish Premier League!’ That actually got a laugh. And then the questions started, all of them fielded by Sandy Moir-Farquharson before his client could open his mouth: ‘Will you be playing this Saturday against Falkirk?’ ‘What does your fiancée say about all this?’ ‘Is it true you’ve been offered a place with Manchester United?’ Only one journalist asked about this not being the first time Macintyre had been accused of rape, but Sandy ignored her, answering a much more cuddly question about Macintyre’s upcoming marriage instead. The only person who seemed to have noticed was Macintyre’s mum, who spent the rest of the conference scowling furiously at the woman who’d dared to bring up her son’s past.

  The lawyer took a couple more questions, then led a smiling Macintyre – and his mum – back to the waiting BMW. They disappeared in a flurry of flash photography. DI Steel took a long sniff, then spat out into the rain. ‘Slimy wee shite. And we thought Insch was in a bad mood before. He’ll be fucking apoplectic now.’ She set a lighter to her cigarette, the smoke getting trapped inside the brolly. ‘Speak of the devil …’

  Insch strode down Queen Street, coming back from the Sheriff Court, face set in an ugly line, his huge, fat body barely shielded from the rain by a massive golf umbrella. Someone stepped out in front of him – thin, bearded, glasses, looking furious – and the inspector paused, then grabbed the man by the arm and steered him in through the main doors to FHQ. Logan caught, ‘It’s him isn’t it? Why the hell are you letting him go? What’s wrong with you people—’ before the doors shut.

  Steel stayed outside to finish her fag while Logan hurried in out of the rain to make sure everything was ready for the briefing, keeping his head down as he passed Insch and the angry man, not wanting to get involved. Ignoring the inspector as he promised to put Macintyre away for a long, long time.

  Four o’clock and the briefing room was full of men and women in uniform, a handful of detective constables in suits, and an overweight detective sergeant eating cheese and onion crisps. There was still no sign of DI Steel so Logan did the roll call. Then the introduction. Then the background. He was just launching into the CCTV footage when she turned up with the Assistant Chief Constable in tow. Trying not to look as pissed off as he felt, Logan got one of the CID blokes to turn off the lights. ‘Right,’ he said, pressing play as Steel and the ACC found seats, ‘this was taken at twelve minutes past ten last night.’

  The large screen behind his head flickered and the entrance to Accident and Emergency appeared. An ambulance sat in front of the doors, lights off and nobody home. Then a ratty old Volvo estate shuddered to a halt, half mounting the kerb, the driver an indistinct blob behind the steering wheel. The blob unclipped its seatbelt, wrenched the door open and leapt out of the car. Logan hit pause and everything stopped. ‘Blue jeans, black trainers, grey hooded top, dark green baseball cap.’ The face was invisible, hidden in the cap’s shadow.

  ‘The car’s number plate’s been purposely obscured – probably with electrical tape – so all we have is make and model. I’ve put out a lookout request for a blue or green Volvo estate: the details are in your briefing packs.’ He paused and looked around the room, trying to make eye-contact with as many people as possible. ‘The backseat’s soaked in blood, so the killer will either try to hide the vehicle, or get rid of it. We need to find it first!’

  He pressed play again and the hooded figure sprinted round the front of the Volvo, opened the rear passenger door, and dragged the dying man from the back seat. Then jumped back into the car and got the hell out of there.

  ‘This,’ said Logan as the picture became a fuzz of static and white lines, ‘is the camera at the security barriers …’ The screen settled into a shot of a bright orange booth with a uniformed old man in it, reading a newspaper. He looked up, smiled and waved as the Volvo slowed down. The driver wound down his or her window and slipped the ticket into the machine. A brief pause, the barrier slid up, the Volvo drove off, and the guard went back to his paper.

  ‘So we have a witness. If you turn to the back of your pack, you’ll find an e-fit.’ Logan switched off the video
and clicked on the projector. Behind him a computer-generated identikit picture sprang onto the screen: round face, big moustache, glasses and a neatly trimmed goatee. ‘According to our security guard the suspect has an Irish accent—’ A uniformed constable stuck up her hand. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Northern or southern Irish?’

  ‘He says it was like that thick priest on Father Ted, so southern. Our suspect was calm enough to exchange a few words about the weather, even though he’s just dumped someone who’s bleeding to death outside A&E.’

  Logan hit the button and the e-fit disappeared, replaced with a post mortem photo of the dead man’s face. ‘This is our victim. And this is what the killer did to him …’ Click – and everyone in the room squirmed.

  Logan worked his way to the end of the briefing, finishing up with everyone’s teams and assignments, then DI Steel creaked to her feet and told them all the Assistant Chief Constable wanted a word. ‘Now then,’ said the ACC, going for a friendly smile, ‘as you know, the health of our officers is of primary importance to us all …’

  When at long last everyone was gone, Steel slumped into a chair at the front of the room, head back, groaning at the flickering fluorescent lights. ‘God, that man’s hard work.’

  ‘I had to start without you.’

  Steel nodded. ‘I saw. Well done you. Top of the class. I would’ve been on time, but the rotten sod was hanging about outside the women’s toilets. Pervert. Had to tell him what we were up to.’ She worked a hand under her jacket and fiddled about in her armpit. ‘Concerned about the health of their officers … If they think I’m going to take part in their stupid “Fit Like” programme they can kiss my sharny arse!’

  Logan finished tidying up. ‘Where do you want to start?’

  Steel checked her watch, thought about it, then said, ‘A large white wine. And some chips. And some fags. Nearly knocking off time.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look, the papers will run the victim’s photo and the killer’s e-fit tomorrow. All the dentists’ surgeries will be closed by now so we can’t start searching dental records. We’re no’ going to get an ID tonight. The only thing left to do is get the incident room set up, and the admin officer can do that. You and me are going for a pint.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘That’s an order, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Archibald Simpson’s used to be a bank before it became a pub. A huge granite edifice on the east end of Union Street, complete with Corinthian pillars, portico, ornate ceiling, shiny brass fittings, chandeliers, and cheap beer. Being just round the corner from FHQ it was the standard police drinking hole after a hard day’s sodding about in the rain.

  Steel made Logan get the first round in, taking her usual seat in the aisle just off the main banking floor, in the corner, under the television. One large white wine, two portions of chips, and a pint of Stella. What he really wanted was to go home and get some sleep, but if he did that the inspector would sulk and he’d end up lumbered with all the crappy jobs on the investigation. So he stayed and talked shop, listening to her moan on about her other cases, like the dead tramp they’d found in Duthie Park – natural causes, but no one knew who the hell he was – and the series of housebreakings in Tillydrone, Bridge of Don, and Rosemount. And the man flashing his undercarriage on Guild Street. By the time the chips arrived she was moaning about her girlfriend Susan and how she was always on at her to get a cat, but Steel knew it was just the warm-up act for a baby and she wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment.

  They got more drinks and the day-shift started squelching in, the pub slowly filling up with off-duty police men and women. Logan knew most of them by name – well, except for some of the younger ones – but he’d only ever seen one of them naked: PC Jackie Watson, marching towards them, bearing beer, a scowl, and tomato sauce flavour crisps.

  She plonked herself down next to Logan and offered the crisps round. ‘Jesus, what a shitty day.’

  ‘And hello to you too.’ Logan grinned at her: the effects of two pints on a nearly empty stomach. ‘We saw Hissing Sid outside the courthouse.’

  Jackie scowled. ‘Little bastard. How come every bloody case he’s involved in has to have a press conference on the steps outside FHQ? You know anyone else who does that?’

  Logan shrugged. ‘He’s a media whore.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Steel, polishing off her drink, ‘he’s a whore, but we’re the ones getting screwed the whole time. Anyone for another?’ She took their orders and stomped off to the bar, leaving Logan and Jackie alone.

  ‘Can you believe he had the cheek to say I assaulted his rapist bastard client while he was cuffed and on the ground?’ Jackie scowled. ‘And get this – they’re saying he was only out jogging. He approached me to “ask directions”.’ She even made little sarcastic quote-bunnies with her fingers. ‘With a knife. Can you believe that?’

  Logan knew better than to say anything, just sat there and nodded. Letting her rant. ‘And the bloody media! According to them he’s already been found innocent! Bastards. And the bloody search team couldn’t find their arses with both hands and a map. All through Macintyre’s house and not one bloody trophy. No knickers, no jewellery, nothing. Not a bloody thing!’ There was more, but Logan gradually tuned it out. Jackie just needed to let off a bit of steam: get it out of her system.

  Jackie was still going strong when DI Steel wobbled back to the table with a handful of glasses. The inspector clinked them down on the tabletop, with an apologetic, ‘I forgot what everyone wanted, so I got whiskies.’

  And slowly, but surely, they all got very, very drunk.

  5

  Wednesday morning’s half-seven briefing was a lot more painful than Tuesday’s, but at least this time Logan got to slouch in a seat at the back of the class, while DI Steel grumbled her hungover way through the day’s assignments, finishing off with a subdued chorus of, ‘We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!’ The whole team joined in, trying to make Logan’s head split in two.

  Three cups of coffee later and he was beginning to feel slightly less terminal, even if he was bored out of his pounding skull. The incident room was busy, everyone still all excited and determined to get a quick result, the walls lined with maps and pin-boards and post mortem photographs. The local papers had been full of speculation about Rob Macintyre, but Steel’s unknown body had still managed to make the front page of the P&J. They’d printed the touched-up morgue photo, the killer’s e-fit, and a story that somehow managed to make it all sound like Grampian Police’s fault.

  Which wasn’t surprising, considering who wrote it: Colin Miller, the Press and Journal’s star reporter. He certainly knew how to hold a grudge.

  Sighing, Logan folded the paper and dumped it in the bin. So far the response had been lack-lustre, only about a dozen people had phoned in claiming to know who the dead man was. No one had recognized the killer yet. But all that would change as soon as the press conference went out on the lunchtime news; then they’d be swamped. Televised appeals always brought the nutters out in droves. Still, you never knew …

  ‘Hoy, Laz.’

  Logan looked up to see a thin man in a sergeant’s uniform and huge Wyatt Earp moustache. Sergeant Eric Mitchell, peering over the top of his glasses and grinning like an idiot. ‘Your “lady friend” about?’

  Logan frowned, suspicious. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Watson, you daft sod. Is she about?’

  ‘Back shift, won’t be in till two.’

  ‘Aye, well you might want to tell her to call in sick …’ he tossed a rolled-up copy of the Daily Mail onto Logan’s lap, winked, then sauntered off. Whistling happily to himself.

  But before Logan could ask what was going on, DI Steel plonked a pile of files on the table in front of him. ‘This bloody thing’s killing me,’ she said, fiddling with her bra strap. ‘Get a couple of uniforms to go through these, OK? See if we can’t find someone on the dodgy bastards list who matches that e-fit. The
n you can go chase up that dental records lot.’ She gave up on the strap and started hauling at the underwire. ‘And while you’re at it—’

  ‘Actually,’ said Logan, cutting her off, ‘I thought I might go out and follow up a couple of those possible IDs for our victim. You know: show willing for the troops.’ Which had the added advantage of getting him away from the inspector before she could think up any more crappy jobs for him to do.

  Steel thought about it, head on one side, focusing on a spot between Logan’s ears, as if she was trying to read his brain. ‘OK,’ she said at last, ‘but you can take …’ she did a slow turn, pointing at a constable in the corner, scribbling something up on the incident board, ‘yeah, take Rickards with you. Do the poor wee sod good to see the outside world. Might stop the short-arsed bastard whining for a change. He’s—’

  ‘Inspector?’ It was the admin officer, waving some more paperwork at them.

  ‘Oh God,’ Steel groaned and then whispered to Logan, ‘cover for me, will you? I’m dying for a fag.’ She turned and told the admin officer she had an urgent meeting with the ACC to get to, but DS McRae would deal with whatever it was. Then made herself scarce.

  With a sigh, Logan accepted the sheets of paper.

  He signed for a CID pool car – one of the many scabrous Vauxhalls in the FHQ fleet – and made Constable Rickards drive, so he could slump in the passenger seat and doze. At least he was starting to feel a little better now. After the whisky they’d gone onto vodka, then some weird little bloke had tried to chat Jackie up, and they’d all had a good laugh at him, and then it was more beer, tequila, and then … it was kind of blurry until they were standing outside the kebab shop on Belmont Street. And when they finally got home, Jackie had fallen asleep in the toilet.

  Logan ran a hand over his face, stifling a yawn – he was getting too old for this …

  Yesterday’s rain had gone, leaving the city sparkling clean. Everything glowed in the light of an unseasonably warm February sun, glinting back from chips of mica trapped in the pale grey granite. Rickards drove them down Union Street, heading for a small semi-detached in Kincorth – a blob of houses on the south-side of the city – and an old woman who claimed to know the dead man from the papers.