Broken Skin

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Yes, but she thinks that’s fair game. If she doesn’t do it, how will they learn about sex?’ He held up a hand before Insch could do more than open his mouth. ‘I know, but it makes sense to her. I think if we show her the video and maybe some PM photos she’ll come over all community spirited.’

  The inspector snorted, but Logan ignored him. ‘She helps out with jumble sales for the old folks, she raises money for the local scout troop. She sees herself as a bastion of the community.’

  ‘She’s a bloody nightmare more like!’ He was starting to go purple again.

  ‘Er …’ he was probably going to regret this. ‘Are you OK, sir? You seem a bit …’ there was no good way to finish that sentence.

  Insch glowered at him. ‘Thirteen stone, OK? You happy? That’s how much they told me to lose.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘How the hell are you supposed to lose half your body weight? Nothing like setting realistic bloody goals, is there? Bloody Fit Bloody Like – if I ever find the bright spark—’

  ‘I’ve made tea.’ Ma Stewart marched into the room looking a lot more like her normal self, wearing a floral skirt and blouse, pastel cardigan, beaming smile and far too much make-up. You’d never have known she’d just spent fifteen minutes bawling her eyes out because Insch had yelled at her. She even gave him the biggest slice of cake. And thirteen stone or not, the inspector ate it.

  Logan waited until Insch had a mouthful before saying, ‘Ma, I’ve got a film I want you to watch.’ He pulled out the DVD case with cartoon penguins on it. ‘It’s the one we found in your shop.’

  She clapped her hands. ‘I’ll get the sherry!’

  She watched the home movie unfold in silence, impassive as Jason Fettes screamed and struggled against his leather restraints. ‘It’s not very good,’ she said at last. ‘I mean the special effects are all right, but who’d want all that whinging? It’s not very sexy.’

  ‘It’s real.’ Logan opened the case file and pulled out the glossy shots of Jason Fettes’ post mortem. ‘Jason was twenty-one.’ He put a photo on the coffee table. ‘He wanted to be an actor. He was writing a screenplay. He died in agony. His mother and father came back from holiday to find out he was dead.’ Laying out one picture for every sentence, until the coffee table was covered in stomach-churning Technicolor.

  ‘I …’ She ran a dry tongue over her scarlet lips. ‘I’d like a glass of water please.’ Closing her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at the photos.

  ‘Who did you get the film from?’

  ‘I’m feeling a bit sick …’

  ‘A young man’s dead, Ma. He was in the Scouts when he was wee. Just like your grandsons.’

  ‘I don’t … Oh God …’ She scrambled out of her seat, rushing through to the kitchen. They could hear her retching from the lounge. Logan picked up the photographs and put them back in the folder.

  It didn’t take long before she was back in her chair again, looking decidedly unwell, clutching a glass of water.

  ‘So,’ said Insch, ‘do you want to tell us where you got the film from?’

  Ma shuddered. ‘I never knew. I thought it was just … you know. Someone messing around. If I’d known …’

  ‘So who was it?’

  ‘I get most of my stuff from this bloke from Dundee. Comes round once a month with DVDs and …’ She suddenly stopped talking, as if realizing she was about to say something she really shouldn’t and cleared her throat instead. ‘Anyway, he wasn’t well – poor soul’s got sciatica and it’s a long drive up from Dundee if you’ve got a bad back. My Jamesy was just the same, God rest his soul. When we went to Prestwick for our holidays—’

  ‘Ma,’ Logan leant across the table and took one of her cold, flabby hands, ‘the film. It’s important.’

  She took a deep breath, stared at her hand in Logan’s and said, ‘Sometimes people are stretched a bit, and maybe they’ve been unlucky on the horses. They give us things to look after … or sell for them.’ Which was the most genteel description of seizing property for non-payment Logan had ever heard. ‘The …’ She pointed at the television and shuddered. ‘That film was in a DVD player someone handed in.’

  Insch leaned forward in his seat. ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’ll have to check.’ She got up and rummaged in an old sideboard, coming out with a tatty blue exercise book, flipping through the pages, talking to herself. ‘Derek MacDonald.’ She scribbled the details down on a piece of pink notepaper with roses round the edge and handed it over.

  Insch accepted it with a grunt then passed it to Logan.

  ‘Recognize the name?’

  ‘Derek MacDonald?’ Logan shrugged. ‘Could be anyone. Hundreds of them living round here. Assuming it’s even the guy’s real name. The address rings a bell though …’

  ‘Call it in.’

  So Logan did, standing out in the hallway with the lounge door closed, listening as Control came back to him with details on half a dozen Derek MacDonalds with police records in the northeast. Only three of them lived in Aberdeen: one with a drink driving conviction, one with a couple of assaults to his name, and one unlawful removal – nicking cars in Tillydrone. None of them lived at the address Ma had given them. But according to Control the building was under surveillance by the drug squad – part of an ongoing operation to pick up some likely lads from Newcastle who were having a serious go at moving into the Aberdeen market. Which meant Insch would have to clear it with the Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of CID before he went barging in there like a bear with piles.

  ‘Address is flagged,’ said Logan, back in the lounge. ‘DI Finnie. But there’s no Derek MacDonald at that address.’

  Ma tutted, arms folded under her enormous, pasty bosom. ‘Trust me, there is. We’re very careful about that kind of thing. When people owe you money, it always pays to know where they live.’

  46

  Reggae music. Logan hated reggae music, but it was coming out of the alarm clock radio anyway, dragging him back from dark dream. Groaning, he mashed the snooze button and retreated beneath the duvet. There was some indistinct muttering from the other side of the bed, and Jackie rolled over and wrapped herself around his torso, burying her head into the crook of his neck. All warm and cosy … It wasn’t until the alarm went off again that Logan woke up enough to remember he wasn’t speaking to her, and why.

  DI Insch’s Range Rover slid into the kerb, the engine pinging and ticking in the cold morning air. ‘This it?’

  Ma Stewart peered out of the window, then down at the piece of paper in her hand. ‘Have you ever tried those Magic Tree things? They work wonders for doggy smells.’ Which was her polite way of saying the inspector’s car stank.

  ‘Is – this – the – bloody – house?’

  ‘Yes. Honestly, there’s no need to be like that. I was only saying.’ She sniffed. ‘They come in all sorts of different flavours these days, not just pine.’

  Sitting in the back with Ma, Logan tried not to groan. The pair of them had been at it since they’d picked her up at half-eight. She’d do her usual rambling non sequitur thing, Insch would snap at her, she’d sulk for a bit, and then it would all start up again.

  The address she’d given them was deep in darkest Mastrick, part of a long line of grey granite tenements that looked even drearier than normal under the blue-grey clouds. Muttering darkly about old ladies, blunt objects and shallow graves, the inspector called into Control and told them the Drug Squad could take a running jump at themselves: he was going in. ‘I don’t care,’ he said to whoever it was on the other end of the phone. ‘I’m investigating a murder: it takes precedence. Finnie can—’

  Someone knocked on the window, a jowly, middle-aged man with wide, rubbery lips, floppy hair, leather jacket and a pained expression. Insch hung up on Control and buzzed the window down.

  ‘Not wanting to be funny,’ said the man, ‘but what the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’

  ‘Derek MacDonald.
’

  ‘This is an ongoing surveillance operation you idiot! Get out of here!’

  ‘I’m going nowhere without Derek MacDonald.’

  ‘That’s it.’ DI Finnie pulled an Airwave handset from his jacket pocket. ‘I’m calling the DCS.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Insch, with a nasty smile, ‘you tell him I’m after a murderer, but you’re busy playing cops and junkies. I’m sure he’ll be dead impressed.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake …’ The man glanced back over his shoulder at the house. ‘Who did you say you were looking for?’

  ‘Derek MacDonald.’

  ‘No, can’t help you. Now if you wouldn’t mind fucking off before someone sees you, I’ve got a surveillance operation to—’

  ‘I don’t give a toss about your operation.’

  ‘You’re such an arsehole.’

  ‘I’m investigating a murder.’

  ‘Fine. Be like that. Fuck over six weeks’ worth of work. Way to be a team player, Insch.’

  ‘All I want is Derek MacDonald.’

  ‘HE – DOESN’T – LIVE – HERE!’

  ‘Tall chap,’ said Ma, beaming at him out of the window, ‘brown hair, sideburns, mid-twenties, squint nose, little round glasses like Harry Potter?’

  Finnie marched round to the Range Rover’s passenger side and climbed in the front. ‘Go down to the end of the street and take a left.’

  ‘Are you deaf? I’m not—’

  ‘I’m trying to help, OK? Now go down to the end of the bloody street and take a left!’

  Left and left again took them up a small side street running parallel to the one they were just on. ‘Pull in here.’ Finnie pointed at a space next to a suspiciously familiar-looking scabby Vauxhall. ‘Five minutes.’ He climbed out into the cold morning, let himself through a wrought iron gate into the garden of a boarded-up house, and disappeared round the side of the building.

  ‘You see the paper this morning?’ said Insch when Finnie was gone, pulling a copy of the Press and Journal from underneath his seat. Front page headline: LAWYER BLOCKED MACINTYRE’S POLICE PROTECTION! and a big photo of Hissing Sid’s bruised and battered face. ‘You know,’ said the inspector, grinning, ‘I’m starting to like that soap-dodging Weegie bastard of yours.’

  Logan skimmed the article while Insch started in on a packet of Refreshers. Colin Miller had done a proper hatchet job on Sandy Moir-Farquharson, contradicting half of what the lawyer had told the other papers, making him look like a self-serving, arsehole. No wonder Insch was happy.

  ‘I’m getting that framed.’ The inspector took the paper back, laying it out on the dashboard and smoothing it flat. ‘Nice photo too, don’t you think? Really shows up the bruises.’

  ‘Well I think it’s a terrible shame!’ said Ma, arms crossed, face set. ‘That poor wee lad had his whole life ahead of him and a baby on the way. Whoever beat him up should be ashamed of himself. Whatever happened to National Service? You know, I was just telling Denise the other day—’

  Insch told her to shut up.

  Ma was still sulking when Finnie returned, clutching a brown A4 envelope. He pulled out a glossy photo. ‘This him?’

  Ma squinted at it for a second. ‘Oh, yes. He’s got lovely hair, don’t you think? Like our Norman’s boyfriend. I’m sure he uses a full-bodied shampoo.’

  ‘Jimmy Duff. Local lad. Small-time dealer.’

  ‘We want him,’ said Insch, staring at the photo, then opening negotiations with DI Finnie to get the guy picked up.

  Logan was the only one to see the expression on Ma’s face when she found out ‘Derek MacDonald’ wasn’t who he’d said he was. It wasn’t pretty.

  Back at FHQ the computer forensics people had finally got around to forwarding on the contents of Jason Fettes’ hotmail account. Logan worked his way through the emails, ignoring the spam and day-today dross, concentrating on the messages from people in the BDSM scene instead: offers of money for sex, and personal appointments.

  From the look of things Fettes had a number of regulars, none of whom gave their real name. The email addresses weren’t much help either, they were all things like ‘nastydombitch69@yahoo.com’ and ‘kittymisspainslut@hotmail. co. uk’. From the look of things the usual practice was to meet Fettes at the regular Aberdeen munch first, and after that it was, ‘My place: six, Thursday. Bring your lube.’ No names and no addresses. And no bloody use.

  He put them all in date order, then took the lot up to DI Insch.

  ‘No, I don’t … no … Look, just because you think you’re … yes … just pick the bastard up, OK? Because if you don’t, I bloody well will!’ The inspector slammed the phone down and scowled at it, then dug about in his desk, coming out with a Sherbet Fountain. ‘I’d offer you one,’ he said, ripping the orange and yellow paper off the top, ‘but you know how it is.’

  Logan dumped the pile of emails on the inspector’s desk, watching in hypnotic fascination as Insch sooked the end of the liquorice straw, dibbed it into the white sherbet, and transferred it back to his mouth. Then repeated the whole process: dib, sook, dib, sook …

  ‘Yes, anyway,’ he said at last, snapping out of it, ‘Fettes’s emails: I’ve been through them. Nothing on the night he died, but I highlighted any BDSM appointments for the fortnight before he got dumped outside A&E.’

  ‘Names?’ asked the inspector, white powder dusting his top lip like cocaine.

  ‘No real ones, it’s all, “Mistress Nicky” and “Jenny Spank Me”, that kind of thing.’

  Insch nodded and went back to the dibbing and sooking. ‘Not a lot of bloody help then.’

  ‘We can forget about anyone who’s a bottom, sub, or masochist,’ said Logan, sorting through the file. ‘They’d be the ones strapped to the table, not Fettes. So it’s got to be a top, a dom, or a switch.’

  The inspector looked at him, one eyebrow raised, the liquorice straw sticking out of his mouth like a thermometer. ‘You’re getting a bit … familiar with this whole bondage thing, aren’t you?’

  ‘Point is these people are probably local. And if they’re active in the Aberdeen scene we can find out who they are from their bondage names. Hell, Rickards might even know them!’

  Insch tipped the last of the sherbet into his mouth, tapping the empty paper tube to get every last milligram of powder out. ‘Well? Go get him then!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  According to Control, Rickards was out on a shout with DI McPherson, so Insch would have to wait. In the meantime Logan had paperwork to catch up on. That DVD of Fettes was causing no end of grief – Garvie was dead because they’d screwed up and jumped to conclusions, and as if Logan didn’t feel guilty enough about that, the Chief Constable was on the rampage. Insch was determined to keep Garvie in the frame: the person in the bondage suit might be female, but there was still the driver with the Irish accent – Garvie fitted the description perfectly … but Logan was beginning to have doubts about the whole thing.

  He was heading downstairs to watch the CCTV footage from the hospital again, when shouting and swearing echoed up the stairwell from the custody suite. Crash, bang and wallop. More swearing. Whatever it was, Logan wanted nothing to do with it. He’d got as far as the ground floor when half a dozen constables charged past, heading for the disturbance. Another loud crash and more shouting.

  Logan left them to it.

  ‘Fucking hell …’ DI Steel lurched over to Logan’s table in the canteen, clutching a blue icepack against the side of her head, and nearly collapsed into the chair opposite. ‘Don’t ask. And go get us a coffee: three sugars. And a doughnut or something.’

  Logan opened his mouth, but Steel cut him off: ‘I said: don’t ask.’ He shrugged and went up to the servery.

  ‘They’ve no doughnuts, so I got you a KitKat.’

  The inspector didn’t seem to mind, just slurped and munched and winced. ‘Fucking McPherson’s a bloody disaster magnet,’ she said at last. ‘You know how many days the bastard’s had off sick in the
last four years?’ Logan didn’t and said so. Steel frowned. ‘Me neither, but I bet it’s heaps. Probably has more days off than he works.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Which part of “don’t bloody ask” do you no’ understand? And how come you’re in? Did I no’ tell you to take a couple of days off?’

  ‘We got a last-minute lead on the Jason Fettes killing.’ He stood, stacking his empties back onto a tatty plastic tray.

  ‘Yeah?’ She polished off the last chocolate finger and scrunched the silver paper up into a little ball. ‘I thought Insch the Amazing Fatty already solved that one.’

  ‘Yes, well … we unsolved it.’

  The inspector pointed at Logan’s vacated seat. ‘Sit. This I want to hear.’

  ‘Not much to tell. We found a film of Fettes strapped to a table, getting spanked and fisted. He pretty much bleeds to death on camera.’

  Steel grabbed her coffee and stood, ‘Well, come on then, let’s see it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Fettes is my case remember? DI Fatboy is just helping me out. So get your finger out and make with the film.’

  She watched it all the way through in silence. ‘Let’s see it again.’

  Logan set the DVD playing once more. There was a knock on the door as the mystery woman started dripping hot candle wax onto Jason Fettes’ back. PC Rickards stuck his head in and said, ‘Sergeant Mitchell said you wanted to see me, sir?’

  ‘I’ve got a list of pseudonyms I want you to go through and …’ he trailed off, realizing there was something wrong with Rickards’ face. Or more wrong than normal. His left cheek was all swollen. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘DI McPherson.’ As if that was explanation enough.

  Steel didn’t take her eyes off the screen, ‘What was the verdict?’

  ‘Broken arm, two cracked ribs and a concussion, ma’am. They’re keeping him in overnight.’

  ‘Wonderful. Of course you know who’s going to get stuck with his caseload, don’t you? Again.’

  Logan waited for someone to elaborate, but they didn’t. So he pulled out the list he’d made of Jason Fettes’ BDSM contacts and gave it to the constable. ‘I need real names and addresses for all of them.’