Broken Skin

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Your mum and dad must be so proud. Hold him.’ Logan started with the jacket: an iPod, a portable game station, a bag of crisps, and a mobile phone. ‘What have we here?’ Logan flicked it open and clicked it on, the screen lighting up with a picture of a naked woman. The keypad wasn’t locked. ‘You got a receipt for this, Peter? Not stolen is it?’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  Logan called up the built-in phone book and scrolled through it till he found what he was looking for: SEAN – MOBILE. The phone his parents had sworn blind he didn’t have. He punched ‘call’ and held the thing to his ear, listening as it rang, and rang, and rang, and—

  ‘Pete?’

  ‘No. You remember me, Sean?’

  The kid in Rickards’ hands squirmed and writhed, shouting, ‘It’s the pigs! Sean, it’s the fucking police!’

  Silence from the other end. Not the sound of a dead line, but of someone very scared, trying to breathe softly.

  ‘Sean, the policewoman’s going to be OK. You can come home.’

  ‘Don’t fucking listen to him, Sean! Don’t—’ Rickards clamped a hand over the kid’s mouth.

  More silent breathing.

  ‘Your mum and dad are worried about you, Sean.’

  ‘I …’

  Logan waited for him to say something else, but that was all he got. ‘Come on, Sean, tell me where you are and we’ll come get you. It’ll be OK.’ He left a long pause. Still nothing. Time to try something else. ‘You’ve kept it inside for a long time, haven’t you, Sean? What happened six months ago?’ A sharp intake of breath on the other end. ‘Don’t you want to talk to someone about it?’

  And the line went dead.

  Logan closed the phone and told Rickards to un-gag Sean’s mate. ‘Where is he?’

  A furious scowl. ‘I’m telling my dad! I’m telling the teachers! You’re fucked! They’ll fire you and—’

  ‘He’s gone, hasn’t he: London? Edinburgh?’

  Something cunning passed across the kid’s features, then he said, ‘Yeah. Yeah, he’s gone. London. You’ll never find him.’

  The first peal of bells from St Nicholas Kirk rang through the cold morning air, sounding nine am and the kids began to drift away to class. Logan took a note of Sean’s number and tossed the phone back to the sour-faced child, telling Rickards to let him go. The eight-year-old scrambled for the mobile, catching it just before it hit the pavement.

  Back in the car, Logan settled into the passenger seat and told Rickards to do a quick one-eighty at the roundabout, keeping his eye on Sean’s friends. Expecting one of them to make a break for it, bunk off and go see the eight-year-old murderer. But one by one they shuffled in through the gates and were gone.

  ‘Damn.’ Logan frowned, watching the school go slowly by. Insch or Steel? Insch or Steel …’ Right,’ he said, not really liking either alternative, ‘back to the station.’

  Constable Rickards looked appalled. ‘But the inspector—’

  ‘I know. He’ll blow a gasket. You drop me off, then go round the carpet places. Not like you can’t handle it on your own, is it?’

  ‘Well, no …’

  ‘And you can check out Macintyre’s alibi too.’ Logan dug out the notes he’d made at the footballer’s house yesterday – the pub and the takeaway – and handed them over. ‘But if you find anything, you call me first!’ And with any luck Insch would never know Logan had dumped him for DI Steel.

  22

  ‘What do you mean, you spoke to him?’ Steel looked as if someone had tried to comb her hair with a ferret. She sat behind her desk, feet up, cigarette dangling out of the side of her mouth, a small drift of ash falling from the tip down the front of her blouse, like dandruff.

  Logan smiled. ‘Searched one of his little friends – he had Sean’s number programmed into his mobile.’

  Steel scowled. ‘His bloody parents swore blind he didn’t have one!’

  ‘And he’s still in Aberdeen too. The kid claimed Sean had run off to London, but he’s not as good a liar as he thinks.’ He pulled out the hastily scribbled note with Sean Morrison’s mobile number on it, and passed it over.

  ‘Ya wee beauty …’ She picked up her phone and started to dial. Listening in silence as it rang, then hung up. ‘Voicemail.’

  ‘My guess is he’s only going to take calls from numbers he knows. But now we can—’

  Steel was already dialling again – getting on to Control to set up a GSM trace on Sean’s phone. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. ‘Get on to the incident room, I want all search teams converging on …’ Silence for a moment, as she waited for the information. ‘Cragiebuckler …’ A small area on the west of the city, between Rubislaw and Mannofield. ‘Hazledene Road!’ She slammed the phone down. ‘We’ve got him!’

  Tracking someone through their mobile phone wasn’t one hundred per cent accurate, but at least they had Sean Morrison pinned down to within fifty metres. A patrol car sat at either end of the quiet road, and more blocked off the surrounding streets, just in case Sean tried to leg it through the back gardens, while a team of twenty uniforms went door to door. He wasn’t going to get away this time.

  Steel marched up and down the pavement, scratching away nervously at her shoulder as the search teams reported in. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing— ‘Inspector!’ A PC, waving from the open front door of a house just up the road.

  She hurried over, looking hopeful. ‘You found the little bastard?’

  He shook his head, holding up a clear evidence pouch with a mobile phone in it. ‘He’s not here.’

  Inside, the house was a mess: crisp packets, comics, unwashed plates and mugs, half-empty tins of beans, the discarded shells of microwave ready meals, the drained contents of the drinks cupboard stacked up under the window … and no Sean Morrison. They turned the place upside down, searching every cupboard and wardrobe, under the beds, the attic, then did the same thing to the large garden shed.

  Steel stood in the middle of the garden and swore. ‘Where the hell is he?’

  ‘Looks like he broke in through the upstairs bathroom window.’ Logan pointed to where the woodwork was scuffed, the paint scratched around the catch. ‘Been living on duty-free booze, microwave pizzas, and anything else he could find in the freezer.’

  ‘FUCK!’ Steel kicked a plastic tipper truck the length of the lawn, sending it crashing into the fence. ‘If you’d just taken the bloody number instead of calling him this morning, he’d still bloody be here!’

  ‘I didn’t know he’d run!’ Logan backed away towards the house but she followed him, ranting and swearing all the way.

  ‘Course he’d bloody run! What the fuck’s wrong with you?’

  Logan had got as far as the kitchen door. ‘If it wasn’t for me we wouldn’t even know he’d been here!’

  ‘Don’t you dare try and twist this round!’ she followed him into the house – the fully fitted kitchen smeared with spilled food and empty cartons.

  A granite worktop stopped Logan’s retreat. ‘Look, it’s not like I did it on …’ He stopped, looking down at a full, partially congealed Seedy Sanchez Pot Noodle, sitting next to the toaster. He picked up the plastic container. It was still warm.

  ‘Four bloody days we’ve been looking for this wee shite, and you—’

  ‘He’s only just gone.’ Logan pressed the Pot Noodle on Steel, then upended the kettle into the sink. The hot water steamed as it hit the piles of unwashed dishes. ‘When you called he didn’t recognize the number. He dumped the phone and legged it.’

  Steel looked down at the container of noodles in her hand and all the wind seemed to go out of her sails. There was an embarrassed silence. ‘Aye … well …’ She dumped the carton into the filthy sink and slumped back against the fridge. ‘Sorry,’ rubbing her forehead, ‘shite … I really thought we were going to get him this time …’ Sigh. ‘Tell you Laz, every case I’ve got is going nowhere. I am the queen of crap.’ She groaned. ‘How the hell am I going to explain this
to the CC?’

  As the PCs trooped out of the house, Logan took one last look at the lounge. Sean Morrison had been living like a feral animal, breaking into someone’s home and making himself a nest. Whoever’s house it was, they were going to be in for a nasty shock when they got back. There was a large framed photo over the fireplace, husband, wife, two point four children and a golden retriever. The kids were wearing the familiar dark blazers and grey flannel trousers of Robert Gordon’s – the same school Sean went to. ‘How did he know?’

  ‘You still in here?’ DI Steel, standing in the hallway, looking depressed and fiddling with her shoulder again, muttering, ‘Sodding nicotine patches … don’t work for shite …’

  ‘How did Sean know he’d be safe? Look at this place: he’s been living here for days. What if the family came home?’

  ‘What?’

  Logan grinned. ‘I think I know how we can find him again.’

  They stood outside in the sunshine, Steel fidgeting impatiently while Logan listened to Big Gary listing off names and addresses on the other end of the phone. Logan thanked him and hung up, telling the inspector ‘Mr and Mrs Struther.’ He pointed at the house they’d just left. ‘They’ve taken the kids to Alicante for a fortnight. Their eldest is in Sean’s class. According to the school there’s three other families on holiday during term time: MacKenzie, Duncan and Burnett. Sean’s breaking into places he knows are empty, where he can raid the booze cabinet and the freezer.’

  Steel closed her eyes, raised her face to the high, blue sky, and said, ‘Oh, thank God.’

  Logan checked his watch. ‘We’ve got one address in Rosemount, one in Cults and one in Kingswells. Kingswells is too far without transport, and all the buses have his picture up anyway. Cults is possible, but it’s a hell of a hike. Rosemount’s only a fifteen-minute walk.’

  ‘Aye, unless he’s nicked a bike.’ Steel pulled out her phone and called Control, telling them to get a couple of unmarked cars to each of the addresses. ‘Laz,’ she said, when it was all organized, ‘if I ever turn straight, you’re getting a freebie!’

  Two hours later and DI Steel’s stomach was growling from the passenger seat. ‘Where the hell is he?’ She rummaged through her pockets, swore, and slumped back in her seat. ‘Nip out and get us some fags, will you?’

  Logan groaned. ‘He’ll be here, OK? Where else is he going to go? Anyway, thought you were cutting back.’

  ‘Don’t you bloody start.’ She puffed up her cheeks and let out a long, slow breath. ‘You had your assessment yet then?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Lucky bastard.’ She did her puffer fish impersonation again. ‘I’m bloody starving …’ The house on Whitehall Place was silent and empty, curtains partially drawn. ‘Maybe we should check the place again? Maybe he’s already inside?’

  ‘He can’t be – we’d have seen him.’

  She pulled an Airwave handset out and demanded an update from the team watching the back gardens, getting nothing but complaints from the PCs about having to stand around in the cold. She stuffed the thing back in her pocket. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Maybe he’ll wait till it gets dark?’

  Steel swore. ‘I’m not sitting in this bloody car till the sun goes down. Come on,’ she climbed out into the cold afternoon, ‘let’s go find a nice public-spirited citizen to make us a cup of tea.’

  Mrs McRitchie lived right across the road and wasn’t the kind of woman to leave it at just a cup of tea. She backed into the lounge, carrying a tray loaded down with macaroni cheese. ‘Hope you’re hungry!’ she said, clattering it down on the coffee table.

  ‘Did you …?’ DI Steel raised an eyebrow, staring at the plates. ‘Chips! Alice, you’re a star!’ She slathered the lot in black pepper, salt and vinegar, before shovelling it into her mouth. Mumbling, ‘God, I needed that,’ as she chewed.

  They had a perfect view of the house opposite, the one Mr Burnett and family had abandoned for a fortnight in the Seychelles. ‘You see,’ said Steel, taking a slurp of tea, ‘much better than sitting in that bloody car.’

  Logan checked his watch. ‘Going to be another four hours before sundown. Five till it gets really dark.’

  ‘And?’ Mouth full of chips.

  ‘Well, I’ve got stuff I need to do for Insch.’

  Steel waved her fork dismissively. ‘Screw him: we’re out in the field, the CC thinks we’re doing something “proactive”, we’re warm, comfy, got good food, and nothing to do but relax till Sean Morrison shows up. It’s no’ often we get a chance like this.’ She scooped up another glistening mound of pasta and cheese sauce. ‘Enjoy it while you can.’

  She probably had a point, but Logan was already beginning to feel guilty about abandoning Rickards to chase up the carpet places on his own. As soon as he’d finished lunch he’d call and see how the constable was getting on.

  When the macaroni cheese was all gone, followed down by a slice of Dundee cake and more cups of tea, DI Steel settled back into an old leather armchair with a copy of the P&J. And five minutes later she was fast asleep.

  Logan dug out his mobile phone. ‘Rickards? Yeah … no, no sign of him yet. How you getting on?’ Not very well by the sound of things. According to the constable, half the places he’d visited were bleating about the Data Protection Act and the other half took forever to get anything useful out of their ancient, creaking computers. So far nothing matched the list of B&Bs.

  Logan told him to stick with it, hung up, and went to get himself another cup of tea.

  The phone call he’d been dreading came not long after three. DI Steel snored gently in an armchair, the paper draped over her like a newsprint blanket, an afternoon matinee of High Noon on the television while Mrs McRitchie sat on the couch, scribbling away in a Sudoku book. Logan excused himself, and took the call in the bedroom upstairs, where he could keep an eye on the street while DI Insch shouted at him.

  ‘Where the hell have you got to? I told you to go round the carpet places!’ God alone knew how he’d found out. Logan passed on Rickard’s update in the hope it would mollify him. It didn’t. ‘Get your arse back in gear – I want a completed list by the close of business today!’

  ‘I can’t, sir, we’re on stakeout—’

  ‘Stakeout? Get some bloody uniforms to do it – we’ve got Garvie to put away!’

  ‘ But Steel’s ordered me to—’

  ‘Oh, I see, when she gives the orders you jump to it, but when I—’

  ‘How did the hearing go this morning?’ Trying to distract him, but the inspector wasn’t having any of it. Instead Logan got a two-minute rant on how he was letting Jason Fettes and his family down. Logan sighed, put the phone on mute, and tried to think pleasant thoughts while Insch complained.

  ‘And for your information,’ said the inspector at last, ‘the greasy little sod got bail. He’s out there now!’

  ‘You’ve got someone following him?’

  There was a pause, then, ‘Of course I’ve got someone following him: I might be a Teuchter, but I’m not a bloody idiot!’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘He’ll go back to where he had Fettes sooner or later. He knows we’re on to him: he’ll want to get rid of any evidence.’ He was starting to sound a bit calmer. ‘Tomorrow I want you in my office first thing, understand? You’re supposed to be working for me, not Steel.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ As if he had any say in the matter.

  ‘And if you hear from Watson – I want to see her too. Soon as there’s any bloody work to be done round here, everyone disappears.’

  And the line went dead.

  Half-four and the light was beginning to go. The sky slid into sunset, grey clouds laced with violent pink, looking like hot coals against the glowing blue. Children meandered home from school, some in groups, some on their own, breath streaming out behind them in the cold evening air. None looked like Sean Morrison.

  ‘What d’you think?’ asked Steel, standing at the living room win
dow, staring out at the street.

  ‘Soon.’ At least Logan hoped it would be soon. ‘If I was him I’d wait till everyone was settling down to dinner. They’re all distracted, not paying attention as he breaks into their neighbours’ house … Over there!’ A young boy, dragging his heels, meandered up the street, dressed in the familiar grey and dark blue school uniform.

  Steel squinted, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening to heavy folds. ‘He’s no’ wearing jeans or an AFC hoodie.’

  ‘He changed – Sean knows we’re looking for him, we’ve got his description up all over the place. So he steals a school uniform from the Struther place. Just another kid on his way back from a hard day’s learning.’

  ‘I suppose so …’

  They watched the little boy stop to tie his shoelace, then wander straight past the Burnett place and on up the road. ‘Maybe he’s casing the joint? Just—’

  ‘It’s no’ him.’

  ‘No, wait, he’ll be back in a minute …’ Logan drifted to a halt. The wee boy had stopped four houses up. The front door opened and a woman’s voice called out – something about fish fingers – the kid scuffed his way inside. Clunk, and he was gone. ‘Damn.’

  Six o’clock and the sky was dark as a bruise. The occasional car drifted past the window where Logan and Steel waited, but other than that the street was quiet. ‘He’s got to show soon,’ said Logan, shifting from foot to foot, trying for optimistic.

  ‘I dunno …’ Steel sighed. ‘Knowing my luck he’s buggered off for good this time. I’m beginning to think I’m fucking jinxed—’ A light blossomed in the windows across the road and the inspector stood transfixed. Someone was in the Burnett house. ‘Got ya, you dirty wee bastard!’ She grabbed her phone and started calling round the teams. ‘Who saw him? How’d he get in? … What you do: fall asleep? … Yes … I know it’s cold … No … Look, it’s no’ exactly been a picnic for us either … No! Wait till I give the word.’ She closed her phone, cutting whoever it was off. ‘Moaning bastards.’

  ‘They didn’t see him then?’