Broken Skin lm-3

by Stuart MacBride

  It took an obvious effort, but DI Insch, still scarlet and trembling with rage, stepped into the small office and closed the door behind him. Trapping Logan inside. ‘Did it ever occur to you,’ said Insch, through gritted teeth, ‘that your flasher’s just confessing for the attention! He’s an exhibitionist, remember?’

  ‘Then how come everything matches? Eh?’ Steel leant forward and waved Laura Shand’s file at him. ‘Not just one or two things, everything! He had her bloody panties in a kitchen drawer!’

  ‘Oh, really? Well that’s convenient, isn’t it? You get an arrest and my whole case gets screwed. You cast doubt on Laura Shand’s rape and-’

  ‘We didn’t do it on sodding purpose! I was just fishing — trying out the old “we know you’ve been naughty” bit — and he fell for it. Could have been anything, flashing, stolen radios-’

  ‘The Shand MO was identical!’

  Steel threw her hands in the air. ‘He read about it in the papers: man plus knife plus woman equals sex.’ Emphasizing each and every word: ‘He — had — her — knickers — in — his — kitchen! He raped her!’

  ‘He …’ Insch scowled. ‘He must have seen it happen. He watched Macintyre rape her, and then he took the knickers. Something to remind himself-’

  ‘Give it up.’ Steel sighed and ran a tired hand across her wrinkly face. Pulling it out of shape. ‘For Christ’s sake: Macintyre might have raped the others, but he didn’t do Laura.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘NO! Get it through your thick head: he didn’t do this one!’

  Insch loomed over her desk, voice low and menacing. ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’

  ‘You!’ Steel shoved her chair back and stood, leaning in close until her nose was inches from Insch’s. ‘You’ve been a right miserable cunt for months now! Whatever’s eating your fat arse it’s not my bloody fault! So stop taking it out on the rest of us! Watt raped Laura Shand — END OF STORY!’

  Insch actually went dark purple for a moment, then turned on his heel and stormed off, slamming the door behind him hard enough to make Logan’s fillings vibrate.

  FHQ was eerily silent in the wake of Insch’s storming out. There was barely a whisper as Logan left DI Steel’s office and wandered back to his little cubicle in the CID room. It took him nearly twenty minutes to check his email and make up an identification book for Laura Shand to look at when she came in — Iain Watt’s face hidden amongst pictures of eleven others from the Scottish Criminal Records Office database. It was a formality more than anything else: with Watt’s confession and the forensic evidence, he’d be on the first bus back to Peterhead Prison, whether she could identify him or not.

  And then Logan really couldn’t put it off any longer: he called the front desk and asked Big Gary where Jackie was.

  ‘No idea.’ Was the reply. ‘She went to ProfessionalStandards first thing, but they can’t have fired or suspended her, or they’d’ve had me in there as her Federation rep.’ There was a faint slurping sound, as if Gary was in the middle of a mug of tea. ‘Probably just a smack on the wrists.’

  ‘Yeah … thanks Gary.’ Logan hung up and tried her mobile: it rang and rang, then beeped over to voicemail. There was no point asking Professional Standards — they wouldn’t tell him anything — so he went for a walk instead, wandering the corridors and asking if anyone had seen PC Watson.

  He found her in the basement records room, where the old files went to die, sorting through the ancient unsolved investigations and swearing under her breath — a constant, violent monologue about what would happen if she ever got her hands on that bastard from the Daily Mail. She dumped a dusty box onto the concrete floor and yanked the lid off, glaring at the contents.

  Logan closed the door behind him and wandered over. ‘Hey you.’ She looked up, still glaring and he backed off a couple of paces, hands up in surrender. ‘Whoa, whatever it is, I’m sorry!’

  Jackie went back to scowling at the open box. ‘Can you believe this shite?’ She hauled out an ancient bundle of files held together by an elastic band so old it was beginning to flake away in brittle brown shards. ‘Half these bloody things don’t even match the sodding inventory. Lazy bastards …’

  ‘You OK?’

  She shrugged and started scribbling down a list of the contents into a large notebook. ‘I mean, look at it. Not like it’s hard to keep track of what’s in a bloody box, is it?’

  ‘Jackie?’

  ‘I mean, some of this stuff goes back thirty, forty years! Why the hell couldn’t they do it properly in the first place?’ Throwing the pile of files back in the box, the vitrified rubber band shattering into a thousand pieces. ‘Fucking thing!’

  ‘Jackie. It’s OK.’

  ‘Get the prehistoric bastards out of retirement and make them come down here and inventory their own bloody case files.’ She dragged another bundle out and began scribbling in her notebook again. ‘Should have solved them in the first place! Who cares about some daft sod getting beaten up twenty years ago — it’s not like we’re going to catch whoever did it any time soon, is it?’ There were angry tears, glinting at the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Jackie!’

  ‘They talked to me like I was a fucking child! OK? Like I’d done it on purpose! Like I was just some stupid bloody woman who couldn’t keep her big mouth shut!’

  ‘Come here.’ Logan helped her to her feet, then wrapped her in his arms.

  8

  The shit hit the fan, first thing Thursday morning — Logan could smell it as soon as his copy of the Press and Journal was delivered at ten past seven. TOLD YOU I DIDN’T DO IT! was the headline, above a photo of Rob Macintyre’s ugly, big-eared head. Logan read the article in the kitchen, his cup of coffee going cold beside him. There was a brief account of how DI Steel and local police ‘hero’ DS McRae had charged a known sex offender with one of the rapes Macintyre was supposed to have committed, leaving the footballer in the clear. According to the paper, Macintyre’s legal team were going to the Sheriff Court to have the whole case abandoned. And last, but not least, was a nice big quote from Sandy the Snake telling everyone how this just went to prove that his client had been the victim of a cynical campaign by Grampian Police.

  Logan didn’t need to look at the by-line to know who’d written it: Colin Bloody Miller rides again. He noticed for the first time that the word ‘hero’ Miller always attached whenever he mentioned Logan in the papers now came in ironic single quotes. Grimacing, he sluiced the last filmy remnants of his morning coffee down the sink and went to work.

  DI Steel wasn’t there, so Logan had to start the morning briefing without her. Again. She slouched in five minutes before the end, complaining about having to go see the ACC first thing. Logan finished up then looked expectantly at her. ‘Anything you’d like to add, Inspector?’

  ‘Damn right …’ She held up a clenched fist. ‘We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!’ Silence. ‘Come on people, we’re not leaving here till you do it. We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!’ And this time everyone joined in, Logan trying not to groan as Steel went into her, ‘I can’t hear you!’ routine. Eventually she’d had enough and told them all to get their backsides in gear. Logan hung back as they filtered out.

  ‘Did you see the paper this morning?’

  Steel nodded. ‘Why do you think the ACC hauled me into his office? The Fiscal goes off on holiday with a lovely cast-iron case against Macintyre and twenty-four hours later it’s falling apart.’

  ‘They’ve still got the other six rapes to do him on.’

  ‘Phffff…’ She pulled out her cigarettes and stared morosely into the packet. ‘Yeah, but this thing with Watt’s going to make a jury itchy: we were wrong about Laura Shand, who’s to say we’ve not fucked up the other ones too? And all the time Rob Macintyre will be sitting there like an ugly wee angel with Hissing Sid polishing his halo for him.’ She shook her head. ‘Tell you, Insch might be a grumpy fat bastard, but I’d no’ wish that case on anyone
.’

  She pulled herself out of her seat and performed an elaborate stretch, ending with a grimace. ‘If anyone asks I’m off for a fag. You got anything on this morning?’

  ‘Laura Shand’s coming in at ten for the ID. Other than that: nothing.’ It wasn’t until the words were out that he realized his mistake. Steel now had an excuse to give him something to do.

  ‘Good, you can go chase up the IB for those results on Watt’s house, see if the little sod isn’t responsible for more of Macintyre’s victims. And while you’re at it, get some more bodies on that e-fit, someone must know who he is!’ She stopped for a moment and had a thoughtful scratch. ‘And chase up whatever slack bastard’s going through the dental records; tell them to get a shift on. This is a murder investigation, no’ a slumber party!’

  The constable responsible for coordinating the dental records search was sitting behind a small desk in the corner of the incident room, surrounded by piles of paper. PC Rickards, phone clamped to one ear while he scribbled something down on a form. Logan waited till he’d hung up. ‘Well, any luck?’

  Rickards scrunched up his face and sighed. ‘Needle in a haystack. Most of these dentists have about three thousand patients on their books, and the inspector wants me to check every dental practice from Dundee to Peterhead. It’s taking forever.’

  ‘You’ll get there.’ Logan turned to leave, but Rickards grabbed his sleeve.

  ‘Er, sir …’ lowering his voice to a whisper, ‘I was wondering about the victim …’ A blush started at the white collar of his police shirt, rapidly turning his face the colour of boiled ham. ‘Does… does he have a scar on his backside?’

  Logan frowned. ‘Hang on.’ He went and dug the post mortem report out of the filing cabinet, flicking through it to the exterior examination. There were two diagrams of the body: front and back, marked up with the burns, cuts, ligature marks, contusions, and scars.

  ‘Well?’ Rickards asked.

  ‘Left or right cheek?’

  The PC thought about it for a moment. ‘Left.’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘Then I think I know who he is.’

  9

  DI Steel had her feet up on the desk, a cup of coffee in one hand, and an unlit cigarette bobbing about between her lips as she spoke. ‘So how come Rickards recognizes this guy’s arse then? He been there?’

  Logan shrugged. ‘Says he saw it on one of the DVDs they confiscated from that brothel raid. He’s getting it out of evidence now.’

  ‘Excellent. Nothing like a spot of hardcore porn in the morning to set you up for the day!’

  They convened in the board room, Rickards fighting with the DVD player while Steel examined the case. ‘James Bondage?’ She peered at the small print on the back, holding it at arm’s length to get it in focus. ‘Hey, this is shot in Aberdeen! Brilliant! Never knew we had our own dirty film industry.’

  The constable sat back on his haunches and smiled as the TV flickered into life. ‘They do quite a few titles. Not bad actually, once you get past the accents. They …’ He drifted to a halt as he turned and saw the look on DI Steel’s face. Then he went bright red. ‘I mean, that’s what the guys we arrested said. Em …’ He coughed, fidgeted, then said, ‘We’re, em … ready to go …’

  ‘I’ll bet you are.’ Steel plonked herself down on the end of the conference table as the screen faded to dark blue, then there was a copyright notice, and a warning that this presentation had been rated R18 by the British Board of Film Classification. And then the production company logo appeared and Logan couldn’t help laughing: CROCODILDO FILMS LTD! featuring what could only be described as a rampant, battery-operated reptile. And then the titles started, along with a thinly-veiled pastiche of the James Bond music.

  Rickards stabbed the buttons on the remote control, and everything whirred into fast forward: sports car, house, what looked like Balmedie beach, people whizzing about at sixty-four times normal speed. Suddenly the screen filled with pink and the inspector shouted, ‘Play! Press play!’, but Rickards didn’t.

  ‘It’s coming up in a minute.’

  ‘But I want to see this bit!’ More cars, a fancy house, a brunette in a bikini, a fat man with a goatee, and then more pink. ‘Oh come on! Let us see something!’

  ‘Just a… this is it!’ Rickards hit play and the jerking figures settled into something more recognizable. And explicit. It was clearly meant to be a take-off of the old ‘Secret Agent is captured and tortured for information before being left alone to escape’ routine. Only this time the man in the tuxedo was being strapped, face down, onto a customized massage table by a very busty redhead in a rubber nun’s outfit. And then spanked. ‘Here …’ said Rickards, tapping the screen as the nun ripped James Bondage’s trousers and pants off. ‘The henchman.’ A figure emerged from the shadows — mid-twenties, short blond hair, dark glasses — dressed like a priest.

  The man pulled off his shades and said, ‘There’s no point in resisting, Mr Bondage, you will tell us everything!’ as the nun stopped spanking and pulled on a neon-blue strap-on. Rickards hit pause and everything stopped. ‘See — it looks just like him!’ He held up one of the IB’s touched-up morgue photos. Logan had to admit he had a point.

  ‘What about the scar?’

  PC Rickards hit fast forward again, much to DI Steel’s displeasure. Pink, more pink, figures whooshing about, and play: the priest-henchman thrusting away at the back-end of the nun while the front end was busy with Mr Bondage’s erection. In, out, in, out, in, out — freeze. Caught mid-stroke the crescent-shaped scar was easy to spot. Rickards looked expectantly at them. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  Logan checked the post mortem file: the victim’s scar was identical to the one currently filling the television screen. ‘It’s definitely him.’

  ‘So who is he?’

  Logan didn’t think it was possible, but Rickards actually went redder as he said, ‘According to the credits he’s called Dick Longlay.’

  ‘Aye, that’ll be bloody shinin’. “Dick Long Lay”? Porn star name if ever I heard one. Might as well call himself “I’ve got a huge cock”.’ She squinted at the DVD case again. ‘You got an address for this lot?’

  Rickards nodded, and Steel stared at him for a moment, before saying, ‘I’m not bloody clairvoyant: where are they?’ Rickards told her and she smiled. ‘Well, get a shift on then! I fancy a trip to Crocodildo Films.’

  ‘You sure this is the right place?’ Steel took two steps back and stared up at the small industrial unit, hidden away down a small alley off Hutcheon Street. The sign on the wall said CLARKRIG TRAINING SYSTEMS LTD.

  PC Rickards checked his notes again. ‘Should be. It’s their registered office anyway.’

  Inside it was all potted plants and framed shots of oil rigs and people posing with safety equipment. Two large, ancient-looking projectors sat on mahogany plinths in the middle of the floor, locked away in matching glass cases, like an exhibit at the Natural History Museum. The receptionist — a bloated woman in her sixties — put down her copy of Hello and smiled at her visitors. ‘Can I help you?’ Like someone’s mum putting on a posh voice for the telephone.

  Logan flashed his warrant card. ‘We need to speak to someone about…’ he paused, not quite sure how to ask her about Crocodildo Films. She looked like the type that would shock easily. ‘Er …’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake,’ said Steel pushing past him. ‘We want to talk to someone about the porn.’

  ‘Aye?’ said the receptionist, dropping the posh voice. ‘Hud oan and I’ll give the boss a bell.’ She punched a number into her switchboard, listened to it ring for a while, then a pop and crackle came from the speakerphone and a less than happy voice said, ‘Oh for God’s sake: what now? I told you we’re filmingi’

  The receptionist puffed up. ‘Alexander Lloyd Clark! Don’t you dare talk to your mother like that!’

  A pause, then a long-suffering, ‘What can I do for you, Mother?’

  ‘
You’ve got visitors.’

  ‘Can you tell them to sod off? I’m busy. If they-’

  DI Steel leaned over the desk and shouted, ‘It’s the police.’

  Another pause. ‘Mum, have you got this on speakerphoneagain? How many times do I have to tell you-’

  ‘We need to talk to you, Mr Clark.’

  ‘Is it about the break-in? Because it’s about bloody time!’

  Steel mouthed ‘break-in?’ at Logan, but he just shrugged. ‘No, it’s about-’

  ‘Look, come back tomorrow. I’m busy today. Make an appointment. I-’

  Steel cut in before the receptionist could get out the diary. ‘Listen up Sunshine, you can either assist us with our enquiries, or I can arrest your pornmongering arse and drag it down the station. Up to you.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell. OK, OK, I’ll come back to the office.’

  A broad smile slid across the inspector’s face. ‘No, you stay where you are and we’ll come to you.’

  ‘Fine, OK, whatever …’ He gave them the address — a container yard in Altens — then hung up.

  Steel beamed. ‘Always wanted to see a porn film getting made. Think they’ll let me audition?’

  Altens wasn’t exactly scenic: a collection of industrial units on the southern edge of the city; hideous oil company buildings; storage yards; vans selling fast food; and the abandoned back ends of articulated lorries, some stacked with lengths of drilling pipe, others carrying nothing more than a couple of greasy coils of blue rope. They found the film crew set up by a stack of the huge metal containers used to transport goods offshore. Lights, cameras, and not a lot of action.

  ‘Which one of you’s Clark?’ Steel shouted. Nearly everyone pointed at a large bloke in a massive padded jacket, woolly hat and greying goatee beard, drinking something from a polystyrene cup — the steam coiling up around his strange little rectangular glasses. He wasn’t quite as big as DI Insch, but it was close. The man froze, as if he’d been caught doing something naughty, then pulled on an ingratiating smile.