Broken Skin

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘What about the scar?’

  PC Rickards hit fast forward again, much to DI Steel’s displeasure. Pink, more pink, figures whooshing about, and play: the priest-henchman thrusting away at the back-end of the nun while the front end was busy with Mr Bondage’s erection. In, out, in, out, in, out – freeze. Caught mid-stroke the crescent-shaped scar was easy to spot. Rickards looked expectantly at them. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  Logan checked the post mortem file: the victim’s scar was identical to the one currently filling the television screen. ‘It’s definitely him.’

  ‘So who is he?’

  Logan didn’t think it was possible, but Rickards actually went redder as he said, ‘According to the credits he’s called Dick Longlay.’

  ‘Aye, that’ll be bloody shinin’. “Dick Long Lay”? Porn star name if ever I heard one. Might as well call himself “I’ve got a huge cock”.’ She squinted at the DVD case again. ‘You got an address for this lot?’

  Rickards nodded, and Steel stared at him for a moment, before saying, ‘I’m not bloody clairvoyant: where are they?’ Rickards told her and she smiled. ‘Well, get a shift on then! I fancy a trip to Crocodildo Films.’

  ‘You sure this is the right place?’ Steel took two steps back and stared up at the small industrial unit, hidden away down a small alley off Hutcheon Street. The sign on the wall said CLARKRIG TRAINING SYSTEMS LTD.

  PC Rickards checked his notes again. ‘Should be. It’s their registered office anyway.’

  Inside it was all potted plants and framed shots of oil rigs and people posing with safety equipment. Two large, ancient-looking projectors sat on mahogany plinths in the middle of the floor, locked away in matching glass cases, like an exhibit at the Natural History Museum. The receptionist – a bloated woman in her sixties – put down her copy of Hello and smiled at her visitors. ‘Can I help you?’ Like someone’s mum putting on a posh voice for the telephone.

  Logan flashed his warrant card. ‘We need to speak to someone about…’ he paused, not quite sure how to ask her about Crocodildo Films. She looked like the type that would shock easily. ‘Er …’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake,’ said Steel pushing past him. ‘We want to talk to someone about the porn.’

  ‘Aye?’ said the receptionist, dropping the posh voice. ‘Hud oan and I’ll give the boss a bell.’ She punched a number into her switchboard, listened to it ring for a while, then a pop and crackle came from the speakerphone and a less than happy voice said, ‘Oh for God’s sake: what now? I told you we’re filmingi’

  The receptionist puffed up. ‘Alexander Lloyd Clark! Don’t you dare talk to your mother like that!’

  A pause, then a long-suffering, ‘What can I do for you, Mother?’

  ‘You’ve got visitors.’

  ‘Can you tell them to sod off? I’m busy. If they—’

  DI Steel leaned over the desk and shouted, ‘It’s the police.’

  Another pause. ‘Mum, have you got this on speakerphone again? How many times do I have to tell you—’

  ‘We need to talk to you, Mr Clark.’

  ‘Is it about the breakin? Because it’s about bloody time!’

  Steel mouthed ‘breakin?’ at Logan, but he just shrugged. ‘No, it’s about—’

  ‘Look, come back tomorrow. I’m busy today. Make an appointment. I—’

  Steel cut in before the receptionist could get out the diary. ‘Listen up Sunshine, you can either assist us with our enquiries, or I can arrest your pornmongering arse and drag it down the station. Up to you.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell. OK, OK, I’ll come back to the office.’

  A broad smile slid across the inspector’s face. ‘No, you stay where you are and we’ll come to you.’

  ‘Fine, OK, whatever …’ He gave them the address – a container yard in Altens – then hung up.

  Steel beamed. ‘Always wanted to see a porn film getting made. Think they’ll let me audition?’

  Altens wasn’t exactly scenic: a collection of industrial units on the southern edge of the city; hideous oil company buildings; storage yards; vans selling fast food; and the abandoned back ends of articulated lorries, some stacked with lengths of drilling pipe, others carrying nothing more than a couple of greasy coils of blue rope. They found the film crew set up by a stack of the huge metal containers used to transport goods offshore. Lights, cameras, and not a lot of action.

  ‘Which one of you’s Clark?’ Steel shouted. Nearly everyone pointed at a large bloke in a massive padded jacket, woolly hat and greying goatee beard, drinking something from a polystyrene cup – the steam coiling up around his strange little rectangular glasses. He wasn’t quite as big as DI Insch, but it was close. The man froze, as if he’d been caught doing something naughty, then pulled on an ingratiating smile.

  ‘Zander Clark, with a Z,’ he said, sticking out a gloved hand. ‘Hi. You must be … ?’

  ‘The police. So …’ she looked at the camera, the lights, and then the small cluster of people huddling round a script, ‘when does the shagging start?’

  A spray of coffee exploded from Zander’s lips. ‘Shh!’ He grabbed Steel by the arm and led her away. ‘We’re shooting a safety training course, OK? I don’t want my client finding out I do adult films on the side.’

  ‘No’ proud of them, eh? I can understand that: I’ve seen one.’ She hauled out the James Bondage DVD.

  ‘Actually,’ said Zander, straightening up to his full height, which had to be at least six three, ‘my films have won awards all over Europe, thank you very much. I just like to keep my businesses separate.’

  ‘Worried your client’s going to ditch you if he knows you do stuff about nuns buggering secret agents?’

  He scowled, looking more petulant than angry. ‘You said you wanted to see me.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ She held the DVD up again. ‘This bloke, Dick Longlay: who is he?’

  Zander took the case off her and squinted at it. ‘Jason,’ he said at last. ‘Jason Fettes, I gave him his big break.’

  ‘Spit-roasting a nun?’

  ‘Look, do you have a problem with something? Erotic films too “real” for you? Just because you’ve never had sex in your life it doesn’t mean—’

  Logan cut him off before things got ugly. ‘When did you last see Mr Fettes?’

  The large man treated Steel to a scowl, then turned his back on her. ‘A couple of weeks ago: had to get him in to do some foley work on his last film. Bloody sound was appalling.’ He waved at a cadaverous man with a boom mike and a bored expression. ‘I swear to God I’m going to fire his skinny arse if he doesn’t pull his socks up.’

  ‘Jason.’

  ‘Oh, right, right. Yeah, I use him quite a bit. He was in James Bondage, the sequel: From Rubber With Love, a couple about a plumber – well, you have to, don’t you? It’s tradition. Harriet Potter and the Chamber of Filth, Jamie and the Magic Crotch, and, of course, Crocodildo Dundee. I won the XRCO Best Film for that.’ Glowing with pride. ‘In fact, he’s going to be in my new one too: Down-Hole Tools. It’s about this accident investigator who goes offshore, only to discover that Amazonian Viking women have come back from the past and are making all the guys on the rig have sex with them until they die! It’s going to be huge.’

  ‘I see…’ said Logan, trying to keep a straight face. ‘And do you have an address for Jason?’

  ‘Not on me ….’ Frown. ‘Cults I think … No, wait, he’s just moved. Blackburn. His mum and dad bought one of those new houses.’

  Logan tried not to swear.

  ‘So are you telling me,’ said Steel, twisting round in the passenger seat so she could glare at Logan in the back, ‘that you daft buggers were at the guy’s address yesterday morning and didn’t say anything?’

  Up front, Rickards went bright red, but kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut. So it was down to Logan. ‘It’s not our fault! The woman wasn’t even sure she recognized him! And anyway, what was all that about back there? Yo
u didn’t have to antagonize him.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ Steel shrugged, ‘I was all fired up to see some steamy, explicit sex, instead of which they’re all buggering about with bloody forklift trucks.’ She turned back to face the front. ‘Besides, he shouldn’t have been such a big fat bastard: reminded me of Grumpy Insch.’

  The blue sky was a thing of the past by the time they arrived at the housing development. A pall of grey-purple cloud hung overhead, a cold wind whipping through the half-built houses, their roof joists sticking out like ribs picked clean of meat. ‘Bloody hell, it’s freezing!’ said Steel, clambering out of the car and onto the dusty road. ‘Rickards: go find out if the neighbour’s seen Jason Big Dick since Monday – We’ll look like a right bunch of tits if it’s not him.’

  As the constable scurried off next door, Steel lit a cigarette, stuck her hands deep in her pockets and trudged up the path to the silent house.

  The place was just as deserted and locked up as last time, but the inspector insisted on peering in every window, leaving boot-prints in the empty flowerbeds and finger marks on the glass. They’d got as far as the garage before Rickards returned with the news that no, the neighbour hadn’t seen Jason again and would they all like to come in for a cup of tea?

  ‘Too bloody right I would!’ said Steel, sooking the last puff from her cigarette before grinding the butt out on the pale brick walls. ‘Freezing me nipples off here.’

  Logan tried not to picture it. ‘I’ll go see the site office, they might …’ He trailed off as a large red Citroën pulled into the drive, the back full of suitcases and boxes.

  The driver killed the engine, took one look at Rickards standing there in his police uniform, and climbed out. ‘Bloody hell!’ He was in his early fifties with lots of pink scalp showing between the grey hairs. ‘It’s those little vandals from the village again, isn’t it? I’ve told the builder they need to get some bloody security sorted out, but will they listen to me? No! We go away for two bloody weeks … What have the little bastards done now?’

  Logan and Rickards looked at DI Steel. This was one of those times where rank was a burden rather than a privilege. Senior officer on site got to break the bad news, those were the rules. But the inspector wasn’t playing by them. ‘Go on then, Sergeant,’ she whispered, ‘you’re up. Be gentle though, eh?’

  Wonderful. ‘We’re not here about vandalism, sir.’ Logan pulled the IB’s touched-up morgue photo out of his pocket and handed it over. ‘Do you recognize this man?’

  That got a long-suffering sigh and a weary, ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you.’

  10

  They left PC Rickards in the lounge with Jason’s mother. She was just sitting on the couch, silent and still, as if she wasn’t really there. Mr Fettes was doing slightly better: bustling around the kitchen, apologizing for the smell as a small terrier did ecstatic circles about his legs, barking and wagging its tail. He picked the dog’s dish off the mat by the washing machine and rinsed it under the tap, telling them what a good boy Wee Jock was for only going in the kitchen, when he could have crapped all over the house if he’d wanted. Left here alone for two and a bit days. Really it was remarkable, when you thought about it. What with Jason not being here to feed him, or let him out. What with Jason being … The tin opener clattered to the floor. Mr Fettes curled in on himself and cried.

  DI Steel wrapped an arm around the sobbing man’s shoulders and steered him to one of the chairs at the kitchen table. ‘Here, why don’t you let me feed the wee lad, eh? You sit there, and afterwards I’ll get us a nice cup of tea.’ She threw a glance in Logan’s direction, silently mouthing the words ‘go have a poke about’.

  Jason’s room was easy enough to find: a double bedroom on the second floor with a computer desk in the corner and an Ikea bookshelf full of science fiction and fantasy novels. No posters on the walls, but a lot of framed photographs – Jason with friends, Jason at the beach, Jason in America with a pretty dark-haired girl … There wasn’t a single photo in here that didn’t feature his face. Posing for posterity. Logan slipped on a pair of latex gloves and eased the wardrobe door open. The clothes looked as if they might have been expensive once, now becoming slightly tatty with wear.

  There was nothing much in the pockets: a few receipts from Burger King, a handful of nearly illegible notes scribbled on the back of napkins, some lint and three ribbed condoms. He tried the bedside cabinets: socks, underpants, handkerchiefs, more socks, a small silver key, a collection of cheap-looking pornographic magazines, and a handful of Crocodildo DVDs. Logan stuck them on top of the computer desk and peered under the bed. A small set of free weights, a plastic storage thing full of Tshirts, and a long metal chest. Padlocked. The key from the bedside cabinet fit perfectly.

  Logan took one look inside. Whistled softly. Then locked it up again.

  The computer desk was a mess of CDs and bits of paper. There were a couple of letters from Equity, the actors’ union, regretfully informing Jason that his application for membership was being declined as he’d not been employed for his ‘adult films’ on a suitable contract. A handful of pages ripped from the Stage with auditions circled in red ink. And right at the bottom of the pile: a parking ticket. Logan gave it a cursory glance, about to stick it back where he’d found it when he saw the number plate. It was far too old to be the red Citroën parked in the driveway, and he knew it wasn’t in the garage. He called Control, asking for a lookout report to be put on the vehicle. There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, complete with the clickity clack of a keyboard being pounded, and then, ‘OK, so that’s a lookout request for a blue Volvo estate, registration number—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The number plate, it belongs to a blue Volvo estate.’

  Logan sighed. Of course it did.

  He found DI Steel standing outside the back door, having a fag and staring out at the lowering clouds, her breath indistinguishable from the cigarette smoke in the cold morning air. She looked tired and old. ‘Sorry, Laz,’ she said, as he stepped out into the cold, ‘I just couldn’t face telling someone else their kid’s dead. Some DI, eh?’ She sighed, then took another deep drag on her cigarette. ‘One hundred and sixty-seven. That’s how many times I’ve broken the news. I was working it out just now. A hundred and sixty-seven people.’ Another sigh. ‘What a bloody job. We must be mad …’

  ‘I found something in Jason’s room. The car he was dropped off in – looks like it was his.’

  ‘Shite.’

  ‘Yup. There’s a computer as well. I’ve told Mr Fettes we’re going to need to take it and a couple of other things down to the lab for analysis.’

  ‘The poor sod had no idea his wee boy was making porn films. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You want Rickards to stay here with them?’

  ‘What?’ She frowned, dragged back from a thoughtful pause. ‘Better no’. He’s no’ been trained, so Christ knows what he’d come out with. Get a Family Liaison officer out here. We’ll nip back to the station soon as they arrive.’

  They drove back to FHQ with Jason’s computer, the long metal chest from under his bed and his collection of pornography all stuffed in the boot of the car. Mr Fettes sat in the back with DI Steel – coming in to formally identify his son’s body. Down in the morgue viewing room, he took one look at Jason, said, ‘He looks so small …’ and asked to be taken home. All in a voice that was little more than a whisper. Steel got Alpha Six Nine to give him a lift.

  Upstairs, the incident room was nearly empty, just a couple of PCs answering the phones while everyone else was off to the canteen for lunch. Logan had signed everything they’d taken from Jason’s room into evidence, then out again, so they could go through it on one of the desks by the window. Steel went straight for the porn, examining the DVDs and reading out choice quotes from the cover blurbs in her best theatrical voice. Then came the magazines. They weren’t exactly high class
, but they were explicit. And they all featured Jason Fettes.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Steel, holding up a two-page spread of their victim, two unidentified women and a man in a rubber mask, ‘he’s got a porn collection full of his own face. Narcissistic little onanist, isn’t he?’ She stuck the magazine back on the pile. ‘What’s in the box?’

  Logan unlocked it and showed them.

  ‘Fuck me!’ The inspector reached in and pulled out a full-length rubber suit with built-in arms, legs, gloves, and booties, all in matt black. She poked a latex-gloved finger through a little hole in the crotch. There was an identical one round the back. ‘Think he got this at Marks & Spencer?’ There was a matching moulded, black rubber hood with tiny little holes for the nose and eyes in the box as well as a collection of bats, paddles, gags, and strange pink things: most of which were battery-operated.

  Logan peered at a weird, mushroom-shaped object. ‘What the hell’s this?’

  ‘Butt plug,’ said Steel and Rickards, both at the same time. Then the constable went bright red.

  ‘OK, Sherlock,’ the inspector grinned at him and pulled a small black plastic case out of the box, ‘seeing as your specialist subject is sexual deviancy: what’s this?’ She clicked it open, exposing a jumble of wires, pads and a controller.

  Rickards went from red to deep scarlet. ‘It’s an electrostim set.’

  ‘Yeah?’ she looked genuinely surprised.

  ‘You … it gives you … the electricity … for heightening … ahem.’

  ‘Good is it?’ She pulled the controller out and started poking at the buttons.

  ‘It … well, it depends … I …’

  Logan came to the constable’s rescue. ‘At least this explains the strap marks we found on Jason’s body.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Steel put the controller back in its case and snapped the thing shut again.

  ‘Well, he’s obviously heavily into the bondage scene. Someone picks him up, takes him home and ties him up, only it goes too far – the guy panics and dumps him outside A&E. It was an accident.’