Broken Skin

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan looked down, saw nothing, then twisted his arms round: blotches on the sleeves were slowly going pale blue/brown where the bleach had hit. ‘Bastard …’ Now he’d have to get a new suit. ‘She just about castrated Rickards.’

  ‘Aye?’ Steel shrugged and put her fags away. ‘Best thing for him. Stop the wee fucker breeding.’ She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, then took the cigarettes out again. ‘Fuck’s sake, what’s taking them so long?’ pointing at the IB team in their white coveralls. One team was going through the interior, another guddling about in the boot, pulling out all manner of junk, photographing it, and sticking it into labelled evidence bags. ‘Got to be something … Shite, can you imagine what would happen if this was all just some big fuck-up?’

  One of the IB team hefted the spare tyre out of the boot with a grunt. There was a pause, then: ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘What?’ Steel lurched forward to the cordon of blue and white POLICE tape, standing on her tiptoes, trying to see past the sudden clump of white oversuits. ‘What is it? If it’s a pile of cash I call first dibs!’

  The video operator filmed, the photographer flashed and the IB poked about. Steel took a deep breath and bellowed, ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  There was a sudden silence and the head technician turned round, an Aberdeen Football Club holdall in his hands – the sort you could buy at any sports shop in the city. He reached in and pulled out a knife. ‘There’s bits of jewellery and all sorts of shite in here!’

  ‘Oh thank fuck for that.’ DI Steel closed her eyes, sighed, then turned to Logan and grinned. ‘See, I keep tellin’ people you’re no’ just an ugly face.’

  The rear podium was crowded by the time they got back to FHQ – vans and patrol cars double-parked by the rear doors as half a dozen struggling, swearing men were dragged through into the custody area. Two support officers were unloading what looked like bricks wrapped in black plastic and brown packing tape, stacking them up on a wheeled trolley. And right there in the middle, directing things like a taller, uglier version of Napoleon was DI Finnie. He held up an imperious hand as Logan and Steel manhandled Ashley out of the back of their pool car.

  ‘Well, well, well, if it’s not DS McRae.’ Finnie grabbed one of the blocks from the trolley, shaking it at them. ‘Half a million in uncut heroin! You can thank your lucky stars all this was still there when we raided the place. After that crap you and Fat Boy Insch pulled this morning they could have moved the lot, and next time we saw it it’d be getting sold on the streets! You’re not a police officer, you’re a bloody disgrace.’ And with that he barged past, bumping Logan with his shoulder on the way.

  ‘Ach,’ said Steel, ‘don’t listen to him. Wanker probably hasn’t had a shag for years.’

  The Procurator Fiscal was a hair’s breadth away from doing cartwheels – the jewellery in the holdall was a perfect match for each of the victims, the ones from Aberdeen and the ones from Dundee. If he ever woke up from his coma, Macintyre was going to prison for a long, long time. Steel let Logan phone Tayside Police with the good news, getting little more than a grunt and ‘About bloody time!’ from that craggy-faced tosspot DCS Cameron.

  ‘Well?’ said Steel as Logan hung up. ‘He overcome with gratitude?’

  ‘No.’ He checked his watch: six thirty-one. ‘What about Jimmy Duff?’

  The inspector slouched back in her chair and stared at him. ‘Jesus, can you no’ enjoy the moment for once? We just caught The Granite City Rapist! Fuckin’ balloons, jelly and ice-cream time.’ She shook her head. ‘Kids today … Fine, go, play with Duff, but you better get your arse back here by seven o’clock sharp: press conference. Then you, me and Spanky are having a booze up.’

  She was right of course, he should have been celebrating, but he really wasn’t in the mood; Finnie’s little outburst had managed to take the shine off things. Because much though he couldn’t stand the abusive bastard, the man had a point – they’d compromised an ongoing drugs operation just so Insch could get his hands on a junkie who might have something to do with an accidental death. It wasn’t as if Jason Fettes had been murdered: he was into rough sex, it went too far, he died. End of story. But accident or not, it still needed tidying up, and it gave Logan something to focus on, other than how badly he’d fucked up. How he’d nearly ruined Finnie’s drug bust. How he’d thought Insch was blinded by his need to pin everything on Rob Macintyre. But mostly how he’d doubted Jackie. She wasn’t obsessed, she was right.

  He phoned down to the cells to see if Jimmy Duff had come back from orbit yet. The custody assistant said, ‘Hud oan, I’ll check,’ then disappeared for a bit. He was back a couple of minutes later. ‘Nope, still boldly going where millions of other buggers have been before. He’s due in court at …’ another pause and some rustling, ‘aye, half three the morn. Bags of time. You want me to get someone to interview him tonight?’

  Logan thought about it. ‘No. I’ll do him when I get in tomorrow.’ After all, it wasn’t as if there was a rush. Jason Fettes wasn’t going to get any more dead.

  The press conference went surprisingly well: all the newspapers and TV crews seemed to have conveniently forgotten that this time yesterday they’d been smearing the front pages and national news with, GRAMPIAN POLICE’S SHAMEFUL CAMPAIGN OF HATE AGAINST BRAVE ROBBY MACINTYRE! Suddenly the footballer was a monster and it was a good job he was in a coma and couldn’t hurt anyone else.

  Afterwards they hit the pub: Logan, Steel and Rickards, with Rennie bringing up the rear – anything for a free drink.

  ‘So,’ said Steel, watching Rickards scamper off to the bar for another round, ‘where’s Watson then? Thought she’d be gagging for a celebratory pint or three.’

  Logan shrugged, still feeling guilty about the whole thing. ‘Day off. I left her a message.’ Wherever she was she didn’t have her phone switched on, but Insch did. Suspended or not, he was on his way in to join the party.

  ‘Course,’ said Steel, helping herself to another large whisky when Rickards got back from the bar, ‘now every bugger says they always knew Macintyre was guilty. But they didn’t catch him, did they? No: Spanky and Lazarus did!’ She held up her glass, proposed a toast to the pair of them – sending Rickards into a bright-red blushing fit – then downed her drink in one and sent Rennie off to the bar with her wallet.

  She was halfway through a filthy joke about two nurses and a shipment of cucumbers when someone tapped Logan on the shoulder and asked if the seat next to him was taken. He got as far as, ‘No, help yourself, we—’ before he realized who it was: Rachael Tulloch, still wearing her work suit. He’d never got around to calling her back.

  ‘Thought I’d find you here,’ she said, sitting down next to him, then addressing the table, ‘the PF says, “bloody well, done and the next round’s on her”.’ That got a cheer.

  The inspector went back to her joke as more people drifted in from FHQ – off-duty constables, sergeants, inspectors, all of them telling Steel how they knew she’d get to the bottom of it. Rachael laid a hand on Logan’s thigh when she was sure no one was watching. He tried not to flinch and she smiled at him. ‘I sort of thought you’d be stuck here tonight, what with Macintyre and everything.’

  ‘I … yes, about that, we—’

  ‘Come over tomorrow instead. It’ll be fun, I’ve got the weekend off, as long as nothing major happens.’ She gave his thigh a squeeze.

  Oh God. ‘We … I’m …’ TELL HER! ‘I’m living with someone.’

  Rachael smiled at him. ‘I know.’

  Logan didn’t know what to say to that, so he drank half his pint in one and announced he had to go to the toilet, scurrying away before she could say anything else. Round the corner, through the doors, up the stairs … He stopped on the landing and leant back against the wall with his eyes closed. Fuck. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He’d done the hard bit: he’d told her he was living with Jackie and it didn’t make any difference! Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck. It wasn�
�t as if he didn’t like Rachael – he’d kissed her for God’s sake! And it’d been nice. And she was probably a lot less volatile than Jackie, who wasn’t exactly easy to live with. And … and he didn’t know what to do.

  ‘Fuck.’ The fact he was even debating it probably said a lot.

  Marching back downstairs to the bar Logan saw DI Insch, hulking over the small table where Steel and the rest of them sat, clapping people on the back and telling them how he’d always said it was Robert Bloody Macintyre. The only person missing now was … Talk of the devil: Jackie Watson, coming in from the rain, hair plastered down to her head, jacket dripping on the blue-and-yellow carpet.

  Logan froze, just out of earshot, watching as Jackie beamed, paused, then hugged DI Insch. The large man looked momentarily taken aback, then shouted, ‘Drinks!’ And all the way through, Rachael just smiled.

  Oh God … Taking a deep breath, Logan joined them.

  56

  Saturday morning hurt. Not as much as it could have done, but enough to make Logan regret staying up till two in the morning, drinking. He rolled out of bed, groaned, and scrubbed his face with his hands. Some grumbling from under the duvet next to him and he hit the off switch on the alarm, then slouched through to the shower.

  FHQ was busy. Ten past seven and the day shift were catching up on all the arrests from a standard Aberdeen Friday night on the piss. Logan signed in and grabbed a big cup of coffee from the canteen before checking with the front desk to see who was about. Sergeant Eric Mitchell frowned at him. ‘You’re supposed to be on the back shift.’

  Logan shrugged. ‘Jimmy Duff – he’s off to court at half three.’

  ‘Bloody hell … Take some sodding time off! You know how much of a pain in the arse it is to balance the books with buggers like you screwing up the overtime bill?’

  ‘Steel in?’

  ‘Nope. And neither’s Insch …’ He leant forward and put on a dramatic whisper: ‘Been suspended!’ Then a sniff. ‘Finnie’s about, if you’re desperate.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Logan would never be that desperate. ‘I’ll manage.’

  The cell block stank of disinfectant, urine and vomit, the custody assistant pushing a mop back and forth on the filthy green floor and muttering away to himself. ‘Dirty fuckers …’

  Logan took a quick look at the clipboard hanging on the wall. ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Fights, drunk and disorderlies, pissing in shop doorways, the usual.’ He slopped another mopful of grey water on the floor. ‘How come I’m always the one lumbered with the—’

  ‘Jimmy Duff straight again?’

  ‘Eh?’ He made dirty, swirly patterns on the green terrazzo floor. ‘Oh, aye. He’s whinging about that kicking he got though. Little bugger hasn’t shut up since I came on. “Oh I’m in pain! Oh I’m dying. Oh I need some medication. Blah, blah, blah.” ‘He scrubbed at a blob of gritty pink chewing gum. ‘I’ve got a bad back, and you don’t hear me—’

  ‘Do me a favour and get someone to stick him in an interview room.’

  ‘What did your last bloody slave die of? … OK, fine. Not like I’ve got anything better to do.’ He sighed and stuck his mop back in the bucket. ‘Room one?’

  Logan thought about it. ‘The heater working in there?’

  ‘Aye, three’s still buggered though.’

  ‘Stick him in three then.’

  There was an overwhelming air of doom and gloom in what used to be DI McPherson’s incident room, and it was all coming from a hungover-looking PC Rickards, still complaining about Debbie Kerr, and how his life was ruined. He was sharing a desk in the middle of the room with Rennie, who looked as if he was doing his best to ignore all the moaning and get some work done; fighting through the paperwork Logan had lumbered him with yesterday. ‘Right,’ said Logan, looking round the room, ‘anyone free?’

  Rennie’s hand shot out, pointing at Rickards. ‘John’s free, aren’t you John? Yeah, take John. Do him good to get out of the office!’

  Logan looked at the dejected figure and got as far as, ‘Ah …’ when Rickards looked up, sighed and dragged himself to his feet. ‘Actually,’ said Logan, backing away from the desk, trying to play it cool, ‘don’t worry about it: you’re busy. It was just questioning a prisoner, I can always …’ But Rickards was already retrieving his jacket from the back of his chair and pulling it on over his wrinkled white uniform shirt.

  He stood there, looking as if the world had just caved in, saying: ‘You want me to get coffees.’ Not a question.

  ‘Well … I …’

  ‘Fine.’ And he slouched off.

  Rennie sank down in his seat till his head was resting on the desktop. ‘Oh, dear God – please don’t bring him back!’

  Interview room three was like a sauna. The sun blazed in through a crack in the blinds, striking the back of Jimmy Duff’s head, making his rumpled hair glow like a halo. Which was probably about as close to divinity as he was ever likely to get. Yesterday the bruising had been bad, but today it was even worse: purple, dark blue, green and yellow covering most of his face, like a gaudy, camouflage tattoo. The custody sergeant had confiscated Duff’s broken glasses, so he had to squint, screwing up his blackened eyes, complaining about only being given paracetamol for his aches. ‘I need morphine! Or you know somethin’ a bit … You’ve got gear here, right?’

  ‘For the last time: no, OK? We’re the police not your dealer.’ Logan settled back in his chair and pointed the remote control at the TV set Rickards had set up in the corner. The picture fizzed and crackled until the DVD player came online. ‘Recognize this?’

  Duff squinted at the screen, watching Jason Fettes being strapped to a table and spanked. ‘Look, I’m really in pain here. I need some medication.’

  ‘Do you recognize it?’

  A shrug that ended in a wince. ‘Never seen it before.’

  ‘No? Well, how come Ma Stewart says you gave it to her: security on a loan?’

  At the mention of Ma’s name Duff flinched. ‘Ah,’ he said, licking his broken, swollen lips, ‘if Ma says it, then yeah. I recognize it. Gave it to her. Yeah.’ Jimmy’s unbroken hand stroked the plaster covering his left arm. ‘If Ma says it.’

  ‘Uh huh. She the one did this to you Jimmy? You gave her a fake name, didn’t you?’

  ‘No! Nothing to do with her. I … I … Acouple of guys in a pub. Spilt their pints, they … you know.’

  ‘Sure.’ The second ‘it was a pub fight’ story Logan had heard this week. At least Jackie’s had sounded a lot more convincing. ‘The DVD. Where’d you get it?’

  ‘You sure I can’t get somethin’ for the pain, eh? It’s really—’

  ‘The DVD Jimmy! Where – did – you – get – it?’

  ‘—couple of diffs, some jellies … you know, make it stop hurtin’ for a bit.’

  Logan slammed his hand down on the tabletop, and Duff flinched again, trembling into silence as Logan said, ‘If you don’t tell me where you got that bloody DVD from, Jimmy, I’m going to see Ma Stewart and tell her how you’re pressing charges for assault. And loan-sharking.’

  A look of terror leapt onto Duff’s bruised face. ‘No! I didnae! I didnae say anything!’

  ‘She doesn’t know that.’

  Jimmy shivered in his seat, scratching away at his cast. ‘I …’ He looked from the screen to Logan, to Rickards, then to the camera bolted up on the wall. ‘It was this bird, er … woman, you know? I needed the cash. I mean, you know, I’m no’ into it, or nothing, I just needed the cash …”

  Logan listened to DI Steel giving someone a hard time on the other end of the phone, threatening them with all manner of horrible repercussions if they didn’t come round and fix her toilet. The inspector slammed the handset down and stuck her middle finger up at it. ‘Well, what did Duff say?’ she asked. ‘He cop to Fettes’s backside?’

  ‘Thought you weren’t coming in today?’

  ‘Aye well,’ she shrugged and unwrapped a stick of nicotine gum, ‘S
usan’s mum’s up from bloody Dundee and she’s getting on my wick. Told them I had an urgent case on. So: Duff?’

  ‘We got an address – says he lifted the movie with Fettes in it by accident. Disk was in the DVD player he nicked, along with some jewellery, CDs, and electrical stuff. Said it was compensation for what the householder had done to him.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She popped the gum in her mouth and chewed. ‘Let me guess—’

  ‘Strapped him to a table and spanked him.’

  ‘Same as Fettes.’

  ‘Identical. She showed him the DVD and told him it was all an act: special effects. Wanted him to scream and struggle, just like Fettes.’

  ‘Freak.’ Steel tried to blow a bubble, and ended up spitting the gum onto her desk. ‘Fuck …’ She picked it up and stuck it back in her mouth. ‘So? Did he let her fist him?’

  ‘Couldn’t sit down for days afterwards. So he went back, broke in and helped himself to her stuff. Said it was only fair.’

  ‘Probably right.’ She stood, worked a crick out of her neck and grabbed her jacket. ‘Come on then, backside in gear. You can grab Spanky while I go to the bog. Christ knows what was in that kebab last night, but it’s no’ agreeing with me.’

  ‘Ah … maybe we should take Rennie instead, he—’

  ‘Spanky. Not Rennie: bastard’s on the shit list after that crap he pulled last night with the pork scratchings. And let the PF know we’ve got a suspect.’ She pushed past him, pausing to grab a copy of that morning’s Press and Journal from her in-tray: OLD AGE PERVERT MADE MY WEE BOY KILL! Exclusive.

  She was probably going to be a while.

  As soon as the door swung shut, Logan groaned. Closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Then pulled out his phone and called the Procurator Fiscal’s office. It rang twice then diverted, probably to the mobile of whoever was on duty this weekend. ‘Please not Rachael, please not Rachael, please not …’ Rachael answered the phone. ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Er … no, not you, something here. Erm. Look—’

  ‘I knew you’d call. I had a good time last night.’