Broken Skin

by Stuart MacBride

  And then they started to sing.

  Logan watched a look of pain crawl across the inspector’s face. It was going to be a long, long night.

  51

  Logan never wanted to see another Gilbert and Sullivan operetta as long as he lived. He’d not been a big fan to start with, but having to sit through Insch’s production yet again was torture. Afterwards, when it was all over and the inspector had conducted his ritual post mortem, the gentlemen and ladies of Japan clambered out of their costumes and back into their heavy, winter jackets. Insch called his star performer over. ‘Debs, you were brilliant. Loved Bellow of the Blast, gets better every time.’ She flushed slightly, enjoying the compliment while she untangled her wavy brown hair from the severe bun she’d put it into to play the part. The inspector paused, shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat. ‘I need to ask you a couple of questions …’ A gaggle of middle-aged women chattered by and Insch smiled at them, told them they’d all been great tonight, then led his star off into the corner and out of earshot.

  Logan stayed where he was, watching as Insch ejected Rickards from the prompting desk so he could settle one huge buttock on top of it while he talked to her. It didn’t matter how obvious it was that Debbie Kerr had been involved in Fettes’ death, the inspector refused point blank to do anything more formal than have a quick chat at rehearsal. Now that his best actor was a suspect, the fat man was a lot more inclined towards the ‘unfortunate sexual adventure gone wrong’ way of thinking. So much for ‘Jason Fettes died in agony,’ and ‘we’re going to treat this as a murder enquiry’. Hypocrite.

  Rickards wandered over, hands in his pockets, looking back over his shoulder as the cast slowly drifted out through the door, heading for the pub. ‘Wish I’d got here a couple of months sooner. I’d love to be on stage …’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Logan wasn’t really listening, he was watching to see how Debbie Kerr reacted to Insch’s questions. Right now she was shaking her head, arms folded across her chest, wearing a frown.

  ‘I mean I know all the words and all that. I could probably pick up the moves easy enough.’

  Insch was holding up his hands, making calming, placatory gestures.

  ‘You think the DI would let me? Bit late in the day, I know, but—’

  An angry: ‘NO!’ rang out across the hall and everyone froze, turning to stare at Insch and Debbie. ‘What, just because I’m in the scene you think I’m guilty? You’re questioning me because of my sexuality?’

  The only person not watching the floorshow was Rickards, he was staring at Logan instead. ‘Oh Jesus … oh, you didn’t, did you?’ His face went deathly pale. ‘Please tell me you didn’t!’

  Logan shushed him.

  The inspector said something, his voice too low to be heard from where they were, but Debbie’s carried loud and clear. ‘Who’s next? You going to arrest all the homosexuals? Jews? Why not round up all the ethnic minorities while you’re at it? You narrow-minded, pig-ignorant, fat bastard!’ She turned and stormed off with the inspector hurrying after her. Pleading.

  ‘Debs! I had to ask! It wasn’t my idea; we just needed to eliminate you from our enquiries, we—’

  ‘And you!’ She marched straight up to Rickards and gave him a huge ringing slap across the face, nearly knocking him off his feet. ‘I trusted you! Don’t think I won’t tell everyone what a shit you are,’ cos I will! You won’t be able to put foot in a munch ever again!’

  ‘But—’ Rickards.

  ‘Debs, if we can all just calm down—’ Insch.

  ‘Fuck the lot of you!’ And she was on the go once more, the inspector trying to convince her he hadn’t meant anything by it, all the way out of the hall.

  He was back two minutes later, looking more shocked than angry. ‘She’s quit the show …’ He looked around at the remaining members of his cast. ‘We …’ he cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Just a small misunderstanding. Nothing to worry about. It’ll be fine.’

  Rickards stood with one hand covering his cheek, a red weal already starting to bloom. ‘She’ll tell everyone! Oh God …’

  ‘What about Fettes?’

  Insch turned back to Logan, ‘She wasn’t even in the country that day – away at an IT conference in Bristol. With about half a dozen people from work …’

  ‘I’ll check it out tomorrow morning. She could still be—’

  The inspector buried his face in his hands. ‘Why the hell did I ever listen to you?’

  Under the circumstances Logan decided to give the pub a miss. Insch’s shock would wear off soon enough: then there would be recriminations and shouting. All directed at him.

  The sound of something dreadful on television filtered out into the hall as he unlocked the flat’s front door. That meant Jackie was home. Sighing, he peeled off his work clothes in the bathroom, then climbed into the shower without saying hello. She was through five minutes later, talking to him over the drone of the blow heater. ‘Are you still sulking?’

  ‘I’m not sulking.’ Standing under the hot water and lying.

  ‘Then what? You want a divorce? You’re just trying to piss me off? Aliens stole your balls? What?’

  He hung his head and closed his eyes. Trying to keep his voice neutral. ‘Just had a bad day, OK?’

  ‘You’ve been ignoring me all week! I left God knows how many messages on your bloody phone!’

  And that’s when Logan remembered where he’d left his mobile: charging in the CID offices. ‘It’s not working. I’ve been on an Airwave thing since yesterday.’

  ‘That’s not the point. You’ve not been around for days – you’ve been avoiding the flat, and don’t bloody tell me you’ve not, because you have!’

  ‘Jackie, I—’

  ‘It’s because of Macintyre isn’t it?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Not bad enough the little raping fuck attacks all those women, now he’s—’

  ‘Enough!’ Logan stuck his head round the side of the shower curtain, water dripping onto the bathroom floor. ‘OK? Enough. Leave it. I don’t want to talk about—’

  ‘No? Well I do! I’m not putting up with you dragging your pitiful arse round the whole time! Get—’

  ‘YOU PUT HIM IN A COMA!’ There was silence, just the dull drone of the heater and the spluttering shower. Logan sat on the edge of the bath, with his back against the cool tiles. ‘You could have killed him. You made me an accessory after the fact and I’m on the bloody investigation! What am I supposed to do?’

  She stared back at him through the cloud of steam. ‘Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t actually do it?’

  ‘Oh come off it. You hated him. You come back, throw everything in the washing machine, ask me to lie and say you were here all night, and next morning he turns up battered so badly they don’t know if he’ll ever wake up. Look at your knuckles for God’s sake, they’re still bruised.’

  Jackie held up her hands, turning them so Logan could see the dark purple patches. ‘I got into a fight, OK? I was in a pub and some arsehole started going on about how the police should leave Macintyre alone ’cos he was a hero and we’re all corrupt fuckwits and those women were asking for it. He threw something, it got nasty. I think I broke his chin …’ Flexing her hands and wincing. ‘I’m not proud of it, but I didn’t want to get caught. They’d suspend me, or worse, and he started it! I’m not getting chucked off the force ’cos some slope-headed fuckwit wants to pick a fight.’

  Logan looked at her, trying to work out if she was telling the truth or not, searching for the telltale signs, but there weren’t any. If it was a lie it was a good one. ‘So you never laid a hand on Macintyre?’

  ‘I kicked him in the ribs when I arrested him, yeah, kneed him in the balls, but I didn’t put him in a bloody coma, OK? How could you think I would do something like that? I’m a police officer!’

  ‘I …’ Logan put his head in his hands. ‘It’s been a shite week.’

  She nodded, slipped off her shoes and c
lambered into the bathtub with him, fully dressed, her shirt going transparent in the shower, revealing a hideous grey bra. ‘Well,’ she said, pulling him to his feet and stepping close, ‘if you think I’m a dirty cop, you’d better give me a damn good wash.’ And then there was kissing, full frontal nudity, and soap-on-a-rope.

  Seven am Friday and there was no sign of Insch at the morning briefing, so Logan handed out the assignments, hurrying through them, hoping he could be done and out of there before the inspector arrived. Not believing his luck when he managed it.

  It was too early to try breaking Deborah Kerr’s alibi – the IT company she worked for didn’t open its doors till nine according to their website – so that left Rob Macintyre’s mother and fiancée.

  Logan opted for the lesser of two evils.

  It was strangely silent downstairs in the custody wing, just the muffled bandsaw sound of someone snoring in one of the male cells, echoing down the short flight of concrete steps to where the women were kept. Ashley was looking rough, hair all skewed, dark bags under her pink eyes, grey face, scarlet nose. She’d obviously had a bad night, done a lot of soul searching and crying. She’d suffered. Which was exactly what Logan was hoping for. She sat upright on her blue plastic mattress, back ramrod straight, not looking at him as he stepped into the sour-smelling cell.

  ‘So,’ he said, settling down next to her, ‘you had a think about what you saw yesterday?’

  She wouldn’t look at him. ‘When I met Robert he was the coolest guy ever. Twenty years old and rolling in cash. The house, the cars, the clothes, foreign holidays…’ She sniffed. ‘Course he had his mum with him the whole time, wouldn’t let him out of her sight. Strong woman. You know, emotionally? His dad died, and this is like six months after I started seeing Robert, and she didn’t cry once. Like a rock. And she liked me. Said I wasn’t like all those gold-digging bitches who tried to get their claws into him before. She hated them, but she was good to me. He was good to me.’

  ‘But he changed, didn’t he? Something happened.’

  ‘We were going to have a family. Two boys and a girl.’ She lifted her gaze from the wall to the thin window running along just beneath the roof. It was still dark outside, the etched glass milky grey. She sighed, one hand going to her tiny pregnant bump. ‘Don’t suppose that’ll happen now.’

  ‘Ashley, you don’t have to lie for him any more. He can’t hurt you.’

  She turned and frowned at him. ‘He never hurt me. I’d’ve broken his bloody nose for him if he’d tried. And his mum would’ve had his balls!’

  Logan took her hand and stared into her bloodshot eyes. Trying again: ‘Think about what you saw yesterday. All those women. You—’

  ‘Oh I’ve been thinking a lot.’ And she smiled. It was like watching a wound tear open. ‘I’m going to court at four today for this perverting justice crap you’re trying to pin on me. I’m going to tell them how Robert was a perfect gentleman and you’re all bastards. Then I’m going to talk to that lawyer who got Robert off and sue you fuckers for every penny you’ve got.’

  He let go of her hand and stood. ‘You do that. It’ll be something to keep you busy when you’re in prison.’ And she actually laughed.

  ‘I’m pregnant, you idiot. They don’t send pregnant women to jail. You’ve got nothing – no evidence, no witnesses, nothing. Because my Robert’s innocent!’

  Mrs Macintyre had fared a lot better than her son’s fiancée. They’d put the old woman in a cell on the floor above, at the far end of the corridor, one of two that could be segregated from the rest of the detention area by a set of black, metal bars. She was lying flat on her back, fully dressed, staring up at the advert for Crimestoppers painted on the ceiling. ‘Shame,’ said Logan, leaning back against the wall, ‘you’d’ve thought she’d be tougher than that.’

  Macintyre’s mum didn’t bother getting up. ‘What do you want now?’

  ‘Ashley: one night in the cells and she’s telling me all sorts of interesting things about Wee Robby Macintyre.’

  ‘Your mother never wash your mouth out for tellin’ lies? She peeled open an eye and glowered at him. ‘Our Ashley’s a good quine. She’s no’ said a thing, ‘cos there’s nothin’ to say.’

  ‘Coma or not, we’re going to prosecute him. Everyone’s going to know what your boy did. She’s given us more than enough to—’

  ‘I will not stand for lies!’

  ‘—make sure that if he ever wakes up, he’ll be going straight to jail for thirty years to life—’

  ‘You’re nothing but filth!’ Macintyre’s mum bustled to her feet and marched across the dark green terrazzo floor till she was standing right in front of him.

  ‘—with all the other perverts and rapists and paedophiles—’

  She spat in his face.

  52

  There was still no sign of Insch, but it didn’t make Logan feel any better: whatever the inspector was up to, it just postponed the bollocking he was going to get for last night’s fiasco. So when Colin Miller called it was all the excuse he needed to get the hell out of FHQ.

  A cold wind whipped through the streets, the sky opaque and milky-grey as Logan drove up Schoolhill, making for the maternity hospital. A crowd of nervous fathers-to-be and knackered fathers-already-been clustered just around the corner from the hospital doors, smoking. Miller was on the outskirts, yawning his head off, a cigarette cupped in his hand as if he was trying to hide it. He barely looked at Logan, took one last drag and dropped the butt, grinding it into the concrete with his foot. ‘Here.’ The reporter pulled a thick envelope from his pocket and handed it over.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Read it.’

  Inside were about two dozen bank statements belonging to Frank Garvie. ‘How did you—’

  ‘I didn’t. Whoever you got them from it wasnae me.’

  Logan flicked through the sheets. Most of Garvie’s purchases were online, bits of electronic equipment and gadgets. ‘What am I supposed to be looking …’ He frowned – there was a payment into Garvie’s account every month marked BACS, that would be his salary, but there were others, cheques coming in at regular intervals.

  Miller unwrapped a packet of extra strong mints and stuffed three in his mouth: crunching. ‘Bloke rents out encrypted server space.’

  ‘Did you—’

  ‘No idea what you’re talkin’ about.’ And the reporter marched back through the doors into the maternity hospital.

  Logan called Force Headquarters, looking for Insch, even though he really didn’t want to speak to him. Voicemail. He left a vague message and tried DI Steel instead. ‘Don’t care.’ Then there was a chest-rattling cough and some swearing. ‘Better off when I was bloody smoking … Garvie’s no’ getting any less dead, is he? And I’ve got whoever battered Rob Bastarding Macintyre to worry about: search teams are a waste of bloody time, door-to-doors are useless and everyone who says they left the nightclub with the wee footballing shite can’t remember a thing. Blootered out their faces. And the CC’s getting right up my …’ she went on for a bit, but Logan had stopped listening. He was scribbling down the cheque numbers paid into Garvie’s account. When she finally hung up, he crossed his fingers and dialled the PF’s office, hoping to get anyone other than Rachael.

  He wasn’t lucky. There was an awkward pause, then she said, ‘You didn’t call.’

  Bollocks. He wandered away from the maternity ward, heading back to where he’d parked as the first spits of rain put a dull sheen on the ranks of cars. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been … Macintyre and Fettes and …’ And he was a spineless bastard who should have phoned up and cancelled.

  ‘Boeuf bourguignon. I had to throw half of it out.’

  Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot. ‘I’m really, really sorry.’

  Another pause. Then a sigh. ‘I’ve never gone out with a policeman before. Is this what it’s like? Never knowing if you’ll be there or not?’

  Logan closed his eyes and tried not to think about w
here this was leading. ‘Pretty much, yeah.’ Tell her. ‘I—’

  ‘What do—’ She stopped. ‘You first.’

  ‘I …’ TELL HER! ‘I need to ID some people from their cheque numbers.’

  He drove back to FHQ, cursing himself all the way. Rachael had forgiven him for not turning up and promised to get back to him as soon as she’d got a warrant together, so now he felt doubly guilty …

  The incident room was quiet, just a single uniformed constable, dribbling information into HOLMES as it came in. Apparently the hunt for Rob Macintyre’s little red hatchback was running out of steam, they’d searched every street in a two-mile radius from the footballer’s house and come up empty. The question was: how did Macintyre’s mum know to get rid of the damn thing? His fiancée had given a pretty convincing performance this morning, as if she genuinely didn’t know what her beloved was up to – or didn’t want to believe it – that left the boot-faced old cow who’d been lying for Robert since the day he was born. It wasn’t hard to see her browbeating Ashley until she toed the party line: ‘Yes officer, Robert was with me all night.’

  Ashley was the weak link. There had to be a way to break her.

  He was still trying to figure out how when Insch stormed into the incident room looking about ready to burst – scarlet, puffy face, gritted teeth, angry, piggy eyes. Logan scrambled to his feet. Here it came.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there: get your coat!’

  ‘But … Garvie: I’m waiting on—’

  ‘NOW!’

  Logan grabbed his jacket and followed in the huge man’s wake as he thundered out of the room and down the stairs. Sergeant Eric Mitchell was halfway out of his seat as they marched past, then he caught the expression on Insch’s face and sat right down again, keeping his mouth shut.

  All the way through the building and out to the rear podium car park, constables, sergeants, ancillary staff and inspectors got the hell out of the huge man’s way. He marched up to his filthy Range Rover, plipped the locks, then threw the keys to Logan. ‘You’re driving.’

  There was a brand new Magic Tree air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror. ‘Where to?’