Broken Skin

by Stuart MacBride

  It was nearly forty-five minutes before a ceasefire was declared – Jackie phoning to tell him there was a ‘suspicious-looking wanker’ hanging about at the far end of the road. Logan shifted round till he was peering out the rear window, between the UP THE DONS!!! stickers. A short, stocky figure stood beneath a streetlight, watching the road, breathing plumes of pale fog into the cold morning air.

  Logan reached under his jacket and pulled out the now cold-water bottle, letting it fall into the footwell.

  Whoever it was surveyed the street one last time, then started towards the manky Clio. Logan scooted further down, keeping out of sight, listening to the crunch, crunch, crunch of footsteps on crisp snow. A shadow fell across the car’s interior, then a jingle of keys, a clunk, and the driver’s door was hauled open. The man shivered in behind the steering wheel, filling the car with stale BO, turned the engine over and cranked the heater up to full.

  He rubbed his hands together, stared up at the Macintyre place for a moment, then put the car into gear. Logan waited until the man was going for the hand break, before leaning forward and saying, ‘Going somewhere?’

  The whole car reverberated with a terrified scream. The car lurched, the engine stalled, the driver fumbled frantically for the door handle, but Logan reached out and pressed the central locking button, before clambering into the passenger seat.

  The man stared at him, terrified, sweat pricking out on his sloping forehead. ‘I’ve no’ got any money!’ He was young – no more than mid-twenties, twitchy, surprisingly pale, even allowing for the jaundiced streetlighting.

  Logan held out his warrant card. ‘Police. Are you Russell McGillivray?’

  ‘I … I’ve no’ done nothin’! You scared the crap out of me! I’m makin’ a complaint! I—’

  ‘Name. I’m not going to ask you again.’

  The young man coughed. ‘Don. Don Macbeth … er … but people call me Hamish, you know, because of the telly, I—’

  ‘You do know it’s an offence to give a false name and address to the police, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m no’ lyin’!’

  Logan stared at him, letting the silence grow.

  ‘Seriously! I’m no’ lyin’!’

  ‘This your car Mr Macbeth?’

  ‘No … Yes … I mean it belongs to a mate.’

  ‘I see …’ Logan nodded. ‘Well, Don “Hamish” Macbeth I’m detaining you on suspicion of trying to pervert the cause of justice by giving false details—’

  ‘Oh come on! I’m no’ lying! I’m no’!’ He made a bid for freedom, stabbing the central locking off with his thumb, then wrenching open the driver’sside door. He scrabbled out into the road, only to find himself face to face with PC Jackie ‘Ball Breaker’ Watson.

  ‘Don’t even think about it!’

  He wasn’t bright enough to take a telling.

  ‘So then,’ said Logan, walking back into interview room one, carrying the results from the fingerprint department, ‘there seems to be some mistake, “Mr Macbeth”. We sent your prints off to the main database and they came back belonging to a Russell McGillivray. Isn’t that strange?

  Don Macbeth, AKA Russell McGillivray, fidgeted in his seat, one hand going to the crotch of his trousers, making sure everything was still there after his abortive attempt to get past Jackie. ‘It’s … aye …’ His skin shone with sweat, his body twitching and twisting on its own, while he gnawed away on his fingers. Twitch, chew, twitch, fidget, twitch …’ Any chance of a fag? I’m gaspin’.’ Voice trembling, breath smelling stale and rancid, adding to the general stink of unwashed armpits.

  ‘So, Russell, you want to tell me why you were sat outside Rob Macintyre’s house at one in the morning?’

  ‘Aye … well … it’s …’ he coughed, bit the inside of his cheek for a bit, then said, ‘Go on, give us a fag … I’m fuckin’ dying here!’

  ‘Maybe. But only if you tell me everything. What were you doing there?’

  More fidgeting. ‘I … I’m a big fan, like. Wanted tae get his autograph.’

  Logan stared at him. ‘Yeah, and I’m Harry Potter.’ He pulled out McGillivray’s file, flicking through it until he got to, ‘Three counts for possession with intent, two for breaking and entering, one for possession of stolen property, one for driving under the influence …’ He looked up from the sheet and smiled. ‘Well, look at that, we’re going to have to do you for driving while disqualified as well. That’s on top of giving a false name and resisting arrest. And I see you’re on bail.’ Logan gave a low whistle. ‘Wow, sucks to be you.’

  ‘Aw fuck …’ McGillivray folded up, sweaty head on the tabletop, arms piled over the top.

  ‘So, come on then, Russell, before we cart you off to prison for violating your parole, what were you doing lurking about outside Rob Macintyre’s house?’

  McGillivray peered out between his arms. ‘I’m no’ well, man, no’ well …’

  Logan pulled a rumpled packet of Benson & Hedges from his pocket – filched from DI Steel’s office – and placed it on the table, drawing McGillivray’s eyes like a magnet, making him lick his lips in anticipation as Logan placed a cheap plastic lighter beside the cigarettes. ‘Now then, how about I start you off?’ The sweaty, shivering man sat up and nodded, never taking his eyes off Steel’s stolen fags. ‘While I was running your prints through the computer, guess what else I found? They match a set of partials we took from a Mr Moir-Farquharson’s car. He was assaulted yesterday evening at around nine fifteen, just before you got a free glimpse of some woman’s boobs, remember?’

  ‘I … no, I was at home with—’

  ‘I’ve got you on CCTV, Russell. So let’s try again, shall we? We caught you lurking outside Robert Macintyre’s house, and yesterday you were hanging round where his lawyer was beaten up. Want to explain why?’

  Twitch, judder. ‘I … I was … Come on, just one ciggie …’

  Logan shook his head and picked up the lighter, twirling it between his fingers, before sticking it back in his pocket. Then reached for the cigarettes—

  ‘Oh, come on! I’m beggin’ here …’

  ‘Must’ve been sweet,’ Logan pulled on an ‘all chums together’ smile, ‘kicking the living daylights out of some slimy lawyer, eh? Who’d blame you?’

  ‘One puff! Just a wee one. Come on …’

  ‘Talk first, cigarette later.’

  It took nearly an hour, but in the end McGillivray came clean, and all for the price of a smoke. ‘I needed the money, OK? I need the money for, you know … for somethin’.’ Rubbing away at the crook of his arm, reliving the memory. ‘He’s a lawyer, right? Knew he’d be loaded. Cash and that … Thought the footballer would be good for a bob or two, too. You know?’ Whimpering like a puppy. ‘Come on, you said, eh? If I told you, you said!’

  Logan let him help himself to Steel’s cigarettes.

  34

  ‘Ungrateful bastard.’ Insch, stood with his back to the window in his office. Saturday lurked over the city behind him – slate-grey skies threatening a proper fall of snow to coat the thin crust of frozen slush that lined the pavements, street lights glowing like amber fires in the dark, dreary morning. ‘Hissing Sid gets him off with nicking some pensioner’s life savings four years ago, and McGillivray still goes and beats the living crap out of him.’ He chewed thoughtfully. ‘Not that I’m complaining, but honour among nasty wee bastards and all that.’ He unwrapped another chocolate toffee éclair and popped it in his mouth. ‘But it’s a result, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain.’

  ‘I’ve got Moir-Farquharson coming in at eight to get photographed,’ said Logan, checking the paperwork. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many people have been asking for an extra set of prints …’

  ‘Aye? Put me down for a couple too. If you can get a good one of his ugly mug all battered and bruised, it’s going on my Christmas cards.’ Insch levered himself off the desk and stretched, groaning his way into a yawn. ‘These late nights are killing me. I tell yo
u: never, ever volunteer to direct a bunch of talentless halfwits doing Gilbert and Sullivan. Christ knows what it’s doing to my blood pressure …’ Two fingers going to side of his neck to check. ‘Don’t fancy coming along to prompt do you?’

  ‘I think I’m busy that night, sir.’

  Insch just stared at him.

  ‘Ehm …’ Logan checked his watch. ‘Ah, well, I’ve got to go get the paperwork done for … that thing.’ Backing towards the door. ‘I’ll just …’ pointing over his shoulder, and out into the corridor. He almost made it.

  ‘Half-six, Baptist church hall on Summer Street. And wear your thermals: it’ll be freezing.’

  A last-minute phone call from DI Steel – whinging on about how someone had stolen a whole packet of Benson & Hedges from her desk and what was the world coming to/police station her sharny arse – meant that Logan was running behind schedule. By the time he made it downstairs Sandy Moir-Farquharson had been sitting in the lobby of Force Headquarters for nearly fifteen minutes, while a procession of Grampian’s finest manufactured excuses to walk past and have a bit of an ogle at his battered face and black eye. ‘Are you quite finished?’ Logan asked as Big Gary marched through the coded entry door from reception into the corridor again with a big grin on his face.

  ‘Gets better every time I do it!’ he said, ‘Here, what do you call a lawyer with the shit kicked out of him?’

  ‘Gary—’

  ‘No, wait a minute, it’s what do you get if you kick the shit out of a lawyer?’

  ‘I’m taking him up to get his photo taken before he files another complaint.’ Logan went through into reception, trying not to listen as the desk sergeant shouted out, ‘A medal!’

  It wasn’t much of a photo studio, just the corner of a room on the third floor with a rumpled roll of grey backing paper, a bare seat and a couple of fill-in flashes on tripods.

  Sandy the Snake demanded the door be closed before he’d take off his shirt, disappointing the crowd in the corridor. The photographer clicked a huge Nikon digital camera onto a tripod and wired the flashes up while the lawyer struggled to get the sleeve over the cast on his broken arm.

  It had only been a day and a half since the attack, but already the bruises were spectacular – a web of purple, black, green and blue that stretched nearly all the way around Sandy’s torso.

  ‘Trousers too, please,’ said the photographer, firing off a couple of shots, then checking them on the little screen.

  ‘I don’t see why I should—’

  ‘Relax, it’s just for evidence, we need—’

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing! You and that bunch of jackals out there – you just want to humiliate me!’

  Logan sighed. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson, we do this with all victims of serious assault. You know that. The more evidence we have, the longer your attacker’s sentence is going to be. You want him put away for as long as possible, don’t you?’

  He could see Sandy thinking about it, probably struggling with the idea of putting someone behind bars, rather than helping them get away with it, for a change. The lawyer scowled. ‘If I see, or hear of, any of these images being used for non-evidential purposes I’m going to sue.’ And then he reluctantly stripped. Standing there in his socks and pants, embarrassed and semi-naked, the lawyer looked like a very different man. Thin legs, slight pot belly, grey hairs dusting his chest. He was bruised all over – Russell McGillivray had really gone to town on him.

  The photographer was quick and efficient, documenting the lawyer’s injuries, especially the one on his left shoulder: a boot-print-shaped mass of dark purple, clear enough that you could see the individual treads where his attacker had stamped on him. When it was all over, and Sandy Moir-Farquharson had climbed gingerly back into his clothes, Logan pulled out the identity booklet he’d printed out earlier: a dozen faces from the force database, including one Russell McGillivray. He handed it over, but the lawyer refused to pick anyone out, saying only, ‘It was dark.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  The lawyer scowled at him, one eye clear and blue, the other vampire-red, the iris floating on a whorl of blood. ‘Of course I’m sure! It was dark. If I saw the person I’d identify them.’ He took another glance at the collection of faces. ‘I’ll not help you fit up an innocent man, just because you can’t be bothered to find who actually did it! I knew this would happen if—’

  ‘We’ve got a fingerprint and a confession.’ Logan went to take the booklet back, but the lawyer held it firm, bloodshot and good eye locked on the row of little faces. ‘The ungrateful bastard!’

  ‘Surprisingly enough, sir, that’s what DI Insch said.’

  He escorted Hissing Sid back out the front door and told him he’d be in touch as soon as a trial date had been set. Much to Logan’s surprise, the lawyer had shaken his hand and told him he was doing a good job – sounding as if he was grudging every syllable, but saying it nonetheless – before limping out into the chilly morning, just as the first flakes of snow began to fall. Logan stood beneath the canopy, in the cold, and watched him go. Wondering how it was possible to despise someone and feel sorry for them at the same time.

  *

  A night in the cells had done nothing to improve Russell McGillivray’s BO. Stale sweat mixed with the sour smell of someone rapidly plummeting through the nightmare world of the DTs. Needing his next fix like a suffocating man needs air. Twitching one minute, still as the grave the next, sweat making his face shine like the pale belly of a toad, eyes bloodshot and ringed with dark purple. Every mother-in-law’s nightmare.

  Logan sat one of the two coffees he’d brought in with him on the off-green terrazzo floor and shut the door. ‘Well, Russell,’ he said, taking out what was left of DI Steel’s stolen cigarettes and rattling the packet, ‘you looking forward to your fifteen minutes of fame?’

  Painful smile, wheedling voice: ‘Gie’s a … gie’s a ciggie. Go on, gie’s a fag, eh?’

  ‘Shouldn’t take long: into court, bish-bash-bosh, back to Craiginches for a couple of years on the parole violation. Not to mention all that extra time for driving while disqualified, without insurance, resisting arrest, perverting the course of justice, attempted murder—’

  ‘WHAT?’ McGillivray was up on his feet like a shot, twisting his fingers round and round, making the joints pop and crack. ‘I didnae murder no one!’

  ‘Oh, did I not mention that last night?’ Logan shrugged, ‘Must’ve slipped my mind. You think—’

  ‘I didnae murder nobody!’

  Logan dug out a cigarette and the lighter. ‘One last smoke for the condemned man.’

  ‘I DIDNAE MURDER ANYONE!’

  ‘No, but you had a bloody good crack at it, didn’t you? That cleaner hadn’t come out when she did, you’d’ve beaten him to death.’

  ‘OhJesusfuck …’

  ‘Here.’ Logan lit one then passed it across, the long-forgotten burn of inhaled smoke making his scarred lungs twitch. ‘Might as well enjoy it while you can.’

  McGillivray wrapped himself around the burning cigarette, puffing frantically, as if it could make this all go away. ‘Wasnae murder … I … wis just supposed to teach them a wee lesson.’

  ‘The lawyer and …?’ leaving a gap for McGillivray to fill, even though he knew the answer already.

  ‘An the fuckin’ footballer. Both of them for three hundred.’

  ‘Three hundred’s way too cheap, Russell: you’ll devalue the market.’

  ‘It’s no’ my fault! I need my medicine …’

  ‘Who? Who gave you the three hundred?’

  He shrugged, eyes on the floor, cigarette held in a cupped hand, as if he was trying to hide it. ‘Dunno, some bloke in a pub.’

  Logan treated him to an uncomfortable silence. The kind of silence Insch would have used, if he hadn’t sodded off for an early lunch to go shout at the woman doing the ‘Gentlemen of Japan’ costumes.

  ‘I dunno! OK, I dunno … didn’t ask, three hundr
ed for two fuckers.’

  ‘Cash in advance?’

  McGillivray sooked the last gasping breath from the orange filtered stub, then ground it out beneath his foot. ‘Gie’s another fag, eh?’

  ‘Did you get paid in advance?’

  He licked his lips, staring at Logan’s pocket, where the cigarettes were hiding. ‘Hunnerd up front. Hunnerd after the lawyer. Hunnerd after the footballer …’ More fidgeting. ‘He’s a fuckin rapist, isn’t he? No my fault! You—’

  Logan pulled out another cigarette and McGillivray’s junkie eyes lit up. ‘Which pub, Russell?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  Logan shook his head, then snapped the fag in half. ‘Which pub?’

  ‘Ah fuck! Come oan! I’m no—’

  Crack and the cigarette was half the size again.

  ‘Garthdee Arms!’

  ‘I want a name.’

  ‘He didnae gie’s his name! He didnae!’ Panicking, eyes on the tiny smokable stub. ‘Tall bloke, looked like shite, beard, glasses … for fucksake …’

  Logan gave him what was left.

  It took less than twenty minutes with the e-fit software to come up with a likeness – thin face, bags under the eyes, round glasses, high forehead, beard. Logan sighed and printed it out, not needing to post the picture on the force intranet to find out who it was. Macintyre’s third victim – Gail Dunbar – this was her husband, the man who’d accosted Insch outside the court when the footballer was released. The man Insch had promised justice.

  They picked him up from work, taking him away in an unmarked CID car to be fingerprinted, DNA-sampled and photographed. Listening as he went from sullen silence to shouted complaints: the lawyer got that little fucker off with what he’d done to Gail. He deserved all he fucking got! His only regret was that McGillivray had started with Moir-Farquharson instead of that footballing little fuck. Far as he was concerned it was two hundred pounds well spent.

  Insch was just coming back from lunch, passing through the rear doors as Rennie and Rickards manhandled Gail Dunbar’s husband down to the cells. The man took one look at the inspector and exploded. ‘YOU! YOU PROMISED ME! YOU PROMISED YOU’D PUT HIM AWAY! YOU PROMISED, YOU FAT FUCK!’ And then he got violent.