Broken Skin

by Stuart MacBride

  All the tables around the open fire were taken, so he made do with the next best thing, hanging his dripping jacket over the back of a chair. Then went up for a pint of Stella, taking it back to the table and staring at it; wondering if it wasn’t too late to chicken out. Maybe he should just go home? This was—

  ‘You came!’ He looked up to see Rachael Tulloch taking off a bright orange waterproof. Too late to back out now. She pulled out the seat opposite and sank into it, little droplets of water falling from her hair to sparkle on the tabletop. ‘Oh, you’ve got a drink, I’ll …’ she went to stand, but Logan shooed her back into her chair.

  ‘It’s OK, I’ll get it. Gin and tonic?’

  She blushed. ‘Please.’

  By the time Logan got back to the table Rachael was putting a lipstick back in her bag. ‘Thanks,’ she said, accepting the drink, ‘you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. Cheers,’ Holding up her glass for Logan to clink his off.

  They drank in silence. ‘Er …’ she said, coughed, and tried again. ‘We got someone in court today for those unlawful removals. In Tillydrone?’

  ‘Yeah? That’s great.’

  ‘Yeah …’ More silence. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’ She played with the glass in her hands, not looking at him. ‘Thought you’d make some excuse, or say no, or something …’

  Logan tried for a laugh, but it came out sounding slightly strangled. ‘Sorry.’ He took a gulp of lager. ‘I’m glad you asked.’ Not sure if he was lying or not.

  She smiled. It made her eyes shine.

  The Indian restaurant on Crown Street was only a five-minute walk away, but they were both soaked to the skin by the time they hurried in through the door. At least eating would give them something to do in the awkward silences. Which were getting fewer. Mostly they talked about work: Logan told her about Zander Clark’s stash of Victorian porn, then launched into an anecdote about DI Steel chasing a prostitute who’d been shoplifting from Ann Summers, leaving a trail of vibrators, crotchless knickers and lubricant as she tried to get away. So Rachael told him about a man she’d prosecuted for trying to abort his girlfriend’s pregnancy with a bottle of bleach.

  As the night wore on, Logan tried hard not to think about what Jackie was up to. It didn’t matter anyway, she was sleeping with Rennie: it was over. First thing tomorrow morning he’d ask her to move out. And that would be that. So he told jokes and stories, and tried to convince himself he didn’t care.

  Outside afterwards, standing on the restaurant steps, waiting for the taxi. ‘You know,’ said Rachael, her voice coming out in a plume of steam, lightly scented with cardamom, cumin and garlic, ‘I’m really glad you came.’ She stared down at her woolly gloves, cheeks flushed and shiny pink.

  ‘So am I.’ And this time he meant it.

  ‘Would you …’ Deep breath. ‘Ah sod it.’ She grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him, her lips soft and warm and slightly spicy … And that’s when Logan’s phone rang.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he mumbled, and she backed off laughing as he checked the number. It was FHQ. ‘Sorry.’ He hit the call button and Sergeant Mitchell’s voice burst into his ear, ‘… No I do not, now get your backside in gear …’

  ‘What can I do for you, Eric?’

  ‘What? Oh halleluiah, it’s got its phone switched on for once! You sober?’

  ‘Yes.’ He’d been on pints of water since they arrived at the restaurant, not wanting to make a complete tit of himself. ‘Why?’

  ‘DI Insch isn’t. You’ve had Alpha Thirteen wasting time all day checking on an address in Danestone – a Frank Garvie – ring any bells?’ Logan admitted that it did. ‘Right,’ said Mitchell, ‘we’ve got reports of a disturbance at that address.’

  Logan didn’t see what that had to do with him. ‘And?’

  ‘And Insch says you’ve got to go—’

  ‘But—’ Rachael was making ‘cup of coffee’ motions at him.

  ‘Hey, if you want to tell Insch to sod off, you’re on your own. I’m staying well out of it.’

  Logan screwed up his eyes and wished a painful and embarrassing death on Detective Inspector Bloody Insch. ‘OK, OK, I’ll need a car.’

  ‘Fine, Oscar Foxtrot Two’s going that way. You can cadge a lift.’

  He hung up. ‘Sorry—’

  ‘You’ve got to go, haven’t you?’ she said, as the taxi pulled up behind her.

  ‘Yes. You know what DI Insch’s like these days.’

  ‘I’ve heard.’ She opened the taxi door. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift to the station.’

  Logan lurched out onto the rain-swept forecourt of FHQ, hoping he didn’t look like a drag queen, clarted in lipstick. He hurried through into the reception area as the taxi drove off into the night. Oscar Foxtrot Two – a small, grubby van with wire mesh over the rear windows – was sitting out back, waiting for him with the engine running, the sound of opera seeping out into the downpour. Logan jumped into the passenger seat, and immediately started coughing and spluttering. The whole thing stank of wet dog.

  ‘You’ll get used tae it in a bit,’ said the woman sitting behind the steering wheel. ‘Gonnae give them a bath when we get hame, aren’t we, babies?’ Logan turned to see a pair of enormous Alsatians with their damp liquorice noses pressed up against the grille separating the back of the tiny van from the driver and passenger seats. The bigger of the two began to snarl and the dog handler laughed, telling the dog, ‘It’s OK, baby he’ll no’ hurt you.’ Then patted Logan on the knee. ‘Dinna make eye-contact, for God’s sake.’

  Logan faced the front. Quickly.

  She drove him out to Garvie’s flat in Danestone, keeping up a three-way conversation with Logan and her dogs about the documentary she’d seen last night on BBC2 about Bonny Prince Charlie sharing his bed with two Italian courtesans and a bloke from Ireland when he was over for the Jacobite rebellion. ‘Of course,’ she said, as she turned into Garvie’s cul-de-sac, ‘I’ve got a cousin who’s gay and he loves Drambuie. But he’s from Elgin.’

  The lights of Alpha Thirteen swept bars of blue through the rain, making it sparkle, as if it’d been electrified. Logan thanked the dog handler and scrambled out of the van and over to the patrol car. ‘What’s the story?’

  The PC pointed up at Garvie’s building. ‘Neighbour called in about half an hour ago complaining about the noise. They’ve been on the bloody phone every five minutes since, wanting to know why we’ve not done anything about it.’

  ‘When did Garvie get home?’

  The constable shrugged and Logan cursed. ‘You were supposed to be keeping an eye on the place!’

  ‘Don’t look at me – I only came on at ten.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake …’ Logan turned his collar up and dashed through the rain, up the short path, and in through the building’s front door. Angry voices echoed down from the floors above, shouting over a continuous loop of blaring music. He climbed the stairs, the noise getting louder with every step.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! ‘TURN THAT FUCKING THING DOWN!’ A man’s voice.

  ‘SIR, I’M NOT GOING TO ASK YOU AGAIN—’

  ‘YOU SEE WHAT WE HAVE TO LIVE WITH?’ A high-pitched woman.

  ‘OPEN UP, YOU PERVERT BASTARD!’ The man again.

  They were on the second floor: five angry residents and an annoyed-looking policewoman. The noise from Garvie’s flat was deafening, whooshing and booming and roaring, violins and keyboards building to a teeth-rattling crescendo. Then silence. Then round it went once more, in an infinite loop. No wonder the neighbours were spitting nails; an hour of this and the Pope would have been rampaging down Union Street with a baseball bat.

  Garvie’s front door had been given another paint-job, obscenities covering the woodwork, spreading out over the walls like an angry infection. Logan tapped the constable on the shoulder. ‘Anything?’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘I SAID: HAVE YOU GOT ANYTHING?’

  She looked confused for a moment, then shouted ba
ck, ‘NO. IT’S BEEN LIKE THIS SINCE WE GOT HERE. HOUSEHOLDER’S NOT ANSWERING—’

  ‘OK.’ Logan stepped up to the front door and squatted down, nose wrinkling at the smell of human urine. He pulled on a single latex glove and prised open the letterbox. The hallway lay in darkness, just a ripple of light seeping through from the lounge where that God-awful, repetitive racket was coming from.

  ‘I’VE TRIED THAT!’ the constable shouted. ‘NO SIGN OF HIM.’

  Logan motioned for her to join him downstairs. As soon as they were out of sight the neighbours started hammering on the door again. ‘It’s their own fault,’ said Logan. ‘They’ve been terrorizing the poor sod: graffiti, piss through the letterbox, dog shit in a burning paper bag. He’s probably got the most annoying bit of music he has, put it on a short loop, cranked up the volume and sodded off to a hotel for the night. Getting his own back.’

  The constable nodded. ‘So what we going to do?’

  Logan stared back up the stairs as another cycle began. ‘We’re going to have to break in. If we don’t they’ll lynch him when he gets back. You—’

  ‘WHY THE HELL AREN’T YOU DOING ANYTHING?’ A balding, middle-aged man stormed down from the floor above, bright scarlet with apoplectic rage.

  ‘Do you know anything about the vandalism to Mr Garvie’s flat, sir?’

  The man stopped. Going pale, then bright red again. ‘Are you accusing me of something?’

  ‘Thought so.’ Logan turned to the policewoman. ‘Did you get this gentleman’s name and address, Constable?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ They stood and stared at the man as he backed away up the stairs. He disappeared from sight as the loop started again. ‘Come on then,’ said Logan, ‘if I listen to that any longer, I’m going to end up thumping someone.’

  The constable asked to be excused for a minute, hurrying out into the rainy night and the lazy blue sweep of the patrol car’s lights. She came back, shaking the water off her police waterproofs, grinning, holding up what looked like a little gun. ‘Got it off the internet,’ she explained as they climbed the stairs into the deafening noise. ‘Been dying for a chance to try it out.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Logan as they got to the first-floor landing, digging out his mobile phone and calling Control, telling them he was concerned for the safety of the householder and that they were going to force entry. There was no sign of the angry mob on the second-floor landing – Mr Middle-Aged had probably warned them the police were more interested in persecuting them for vandalism than doing something about Frank Garvie’s serenade of eternal damnation. ‘KICK IT IN.’

  ‘NO NEED.’ The PC swaggered up to the door and slid the pointy end of her ‘gun’ into the keyhole, twisting it slightly and pulling the trigger. If anything happened it was inaudible beneath the racket. ‘HA-HA! LOOK AT THAT!’

  The door swung open and the noise got even worse. Logan slapped his hands over his ears and picked his way into the flat. The welcome mat stank of piss so he stuck to the wall, not wanting to tread in anything as he picked his way down to the end of the short hallway. The home cinema system in the lounge was pumping out an incredible amount of sound, making the floorboards thrum beneath his feet as the loop built to yet another crescendo. Logan stepped into the living room just as everything went quiet.

  Frank Garvie was hanging from the stainless steel hook in the ceiling. Twitching.

  The loop started up again.

  30

  It took the IB ‘team’ twenty minutes to turn up: a lone woman in white SOC coveralls, clutching her sample case and trying not to yawn. ‘Is this it?’ asked Logan as she looked around the now-silent flat.

  She shrugged. ‘Iain’s retirement bash. I’m the only one on call.’ She stopped at the living room door and had a good long stare at the body. It was dressed from head to toe in dark red rubber, the material stretched nearly to bursting point, polished and glittering, a zipped mask obscuring the face. Thin black wires trailed from the crotch and backside to a small case sitting on the floor. The body didn’t dangle from the ceiling, but hung slack, legs bent, toes resting on the floor. White silk rope, pulled taut by the body’s weight, reached from the hook in Garvie’s ceiling to the slipknot at the back of his neck – the cord buried so deeply in the shiny rubber around the throat it was nearly invisible.

  ‘Death been declared?’ she asked scanning the carpet for footprints.

  ‘Got the ambulance men to do it.’ But Logan had checked first. Garvie wasn’t just dead, he was cold – he’d been dead for hours. The deafening racket had come from a DVD – Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season four. He must have had the disk on ‘play all’ and when the episodes were over, and Garvie was gone, it jumped back to the main menu, and the never-ending loop of music.

  The IB tech nodded. ‘OK, well, you go wait outside and I’ll let you know when it’s OK to come back in. I’ll need—’

  ‘Shoes and suit. I know.’

  ‘Good, now bugger off, I’ve got about three people’s jobs to do.’

  Logan was sitting in the back of Alpha Thirteen, three hours later, eating a sandwich from the twenty-four-hour supermarket up the road, when the pathologist finally appeared. ‘Look out,’ said the PC as Isobel’s familiar silver Mercedes parked behind their patrol car, ‘the Wicked Witch of the West’s here.’

  Colin Miller emerged from the Mercedes’s driver seat, and hurried round to the passenger side, helping Isobel out into the faint drizzle. Fussing over her till she slapped his hands away and glowered at him. Then apologized.

  She stood for a moment, breathing heavily, one hand pressed into the small of her back, the other cupping her bulging stomach. Then waddled towards the flats.

  Logan stuffed the rest of his sandwich back in the carrier bag and climbed out to join her, hesitated halfway down the path, then turned back to the Mercedes and opened the passenger door. ‘You look rough.’

  Miller tried to give Logan the finger, but the effect was ruined by the prosthetics in his gloves, making it look as if he was trying for a deformed shadow puppet instead. He gave up. ‘This the same Garvie you arrested for the Fettes kid’s death?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you any—’

  ‘Thought we was supposed to be friends again. What? I’m good enough to go diggin’ up dirt on your polis buddies, but you’ll no’ tell me about your suicides?’

  ‘Touché. Frank Garvie: used to work in adult films with Jason Fettes.’

  The reporter stared past Logan’s shoulder at the block of flats. ‘Did he now …’

  ‘You can’t print anything about this, OK? We’re—’

  ‘DS McRae?’ It was the PC from Alpha Thirteen, waving an Airwave handset at him. ‘Control.’

  Logan turned back to Miller, ‘Look, no printing stuff without my OK!’

  ‘Aye, aye. Nothin’ wrong with havin’ a poke about though, is there?’

  ‘DS McRae?’ the PC again.

  ‘Yes, fine, I heard you the first time! And you,’ He looked at the reporter, thinking about giving him a lecture on social responsibility and the victim’s right to privacy …’ Try not to get me fired.’

  Control was a chief inspector with a clipped Aberdonian accent, wanting an update on the Garvie suicide and how long Alpha Thirteen was going to be tied up for: after all, there was a whole city out there to patrol, even if it was quarter to three on a dreich Friday morning. Logan passed on what they knew and hurried into the flats after Isobel, catching up with her before she’d got as far as the first landing. She was leaning against the wall halfway up the stairs, breathing heavily.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Isobel grimaced, running a hand back and forth across the top of her bump. ‘I’ve got heartburn, swollen ankles, a foot in my bladder, the little sod does gymnastics at two in the morning, I’m boiling the whole time, and I’m the size of a bouncy castle. And I’m really not looking forward to tomorrow.’

  ‘Why don’t you just go home, it’s
only a suicide after all, we can always—’

  ‘You actually think I’m going to miss the last crime scene I’ll see for six months? No chance.’

  Up at the top of the stairs he helped her clamber into the biggest white paper oversuit they had, the zip barely making it over her bump. ‘Erm, Isobel …’ He handed her a pair of latex gloves. ‘When we were together …’ This was stupid.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She scowled at him. ‘What?’

  He took a deep breath, looked her in the eye, and said: ‘When we were together, did you ever see anyone else?’ Watching closely for a reaction, not expecting the one that he got. Her bottom lip trembled, her eyes filled with tears and she started to cry. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t—’ She hit him, a stinging slap on the chest. ‘Ow!’

  ‘How could you ask me that?’ Advancing on him as he backed away. ‘How the hell can you – ‘she hit him again, ‘ask – ‘and again, ‘me –’ and once more for luck, ‘that?’

  ‘I’m sorry!’ His back bumped into the wall. ‘I …’ He came within a hair’s breadth of telling her about Jackie and Rennie, but the words wouldn’t come. Logan closed his eyes and hung his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She must have heard something in his voice, because she laid a gentle hand on his arm and told him not to worry, some day he and PC Watson would have a baby of their own. He would have laughed, but got the feeling it would come out strangled and frightening, so he opened the door to Garvie’s flat instead.

  The IB tech was standing halfway down the hall, fiddling about with a laptop, cables snaking back into the lounge. She saw them stepping over the threshold and waved them back. ‘Give us a minute, I’m doing the last three-sixty …’ a pause, then an electronic bleep. ‘OK, you can go in. I’ve done fibre, prints, body fluids, video and photos. No sign of forced entry, all the windows are locked, curtains drawn. Got some good prints off the gimp suit …’ She yawned, not bothering to cover her mouth, showing off a vast array of good, old-fashioned Scottish fillings. ‘Phhhhh … What time is it?’ Logan told her and she swore, rubbed a hand over her face then started packing the spherical picture kit away, sticking the goldfish-bowl-on-a-tripod back in its case, muttering about having to be up this late when everyone else was out on the pish.