‘If you’re looking for a brain, you’re digging in the wrong end,’ said Logan, sinking into the other seat.
Rennie grinned at him. ‘How’s your John Doe then?’
‘Dead. How’s your rapist?’
Rennie tapped the monitor in front of him with the ear-end of his biro. ‘Recognize anyone?’
Logan leaned forward and stared at the flickering picture: interview room number four, the back of Jackie’s head, a scarred Formica table, and the accused. ‘Bloody hell, isn’t that—’
‘Yup. Rob Macintyre. AKA Goalden Boy.’ Rennie sat back in his seat with a sigh. ‘Course, you know what this means?’
‘Aberdeen doesn’t stand a chance on Saturday?’
‘Aye, and it’s bloody Falkirk. How embarrassing is that going to be?’ He buried his head in his hands. ‘Falkirk!’
Robert Macintyre – the best striker Aberdeen Football Club had seen for years. ‘What happened to his face?’ The man’s top lip was swollen and split.
‘Jackie. She did a Playtex on his balls too: lift and separate …’ They sat in silence for a minute watching the man on the screen shifting uncomfortably, taking the occasional sip from Jackie’s spit-flavoured coffee. He wasn’t much to look at – twenty-one years old, sticky-out ears, weak chin, dark spiky hair, a single black eyebrow stretched across his skinny face – but the little bugger could run like the wind and score from halfway down the pitch.
‘He come clean? Confess all his sins?’
Rennie snorted. ‘No. And his one phone call? Made us ring his mum. She was down here like a bloody shot, shouting the odds. Woman’s like a Rottweiler on steroids. Aye, you can take the quine out of Torry, but you can’t take Torry out the quine.’
Logan cranked the volume up, but there was nothing to hear. DI Insch was probably trying one of his patented silences again: leaving a long, empty pause for the accused to jump in and fill, knowing that most people were incapable of keeping their gobs shut in stressful situations. But not Macintyre. He didn’t seem bothered at all. Except by his crushed gonads.
DI Insch’s voice boomed from off camera, crackling through the speakers. ‘Going to give you one more chance, Rob: tell us about the rapes, or we’ll nail you to the wall. Your choice. Talk to us and it’ll look good in front of the jury: shows remorse, maybe gets you a shorter sentence. Don’t and they’ll think you’re just a nasty wee shite who preys on young women and deserves to go down for the rest of his life.’ Another trademark pause.
‘Look,’ said Macintyre at last, sitting forward, wincing, then settling back in his chair again, one hand under the table. He’d not been in the limelight long enough to lose his Aberdeen accent yet, all the vowels low and stretched. ‘I’ll say it again, slowly so you’ll understand, like. I was out for a wee jog. Keepin’ fit fer the match Saturday. I didn’t rape anyone.’
Jackie got as far as, ‘You had a knife—’ before Insch told her to shut up. His bulk loomed into the frame, leaning on the tabletop with both fists, his bald head glinting in the overhead lights, obscuring Macintyre from the camera.
‘Yes you did, Rob – you followed them, you jumped them, you battered them, you raped them, you carved up their faces—’
‘It wasnae me!’
‘You took trophies, you daft sod: necklaces, earrings, even a pair of knickers! We’ll find them when we search your house.’
‘I never did nothin’, OK? Get that intae your fat, thick heid. I NEVER RAPED NOBODY!’
‘You really think you’re going to walk away from this? We don’t need your confession, we’ve got enough on you—’
‘iKnow what? I’ve had enough of cooperatin’ with the police. I want tae see ma lawyer.’
‘We’ve been through all this: you get to see a lawyer when I say so, not before!’
‘Aye? Well you might as well send out for more coffee then,’ cos it’s gonnae be a long night. And I’m no sayin’ anythin’ else.’
And he didn’t.
3
Rob Macintyre’s arrest had come too late to make the first edition of the Press and Journal – Aberdeen’s local paper – but it was on the Scottish bit of the early-morning TV news. A dour-faced newswoman stood outside Pittodrie football stadium in the dark, talking to a small knot of shivering fans. Asking their opinion on the whole superstar-striker-as-marauding-rapist thing. God knew how the BBC had got onto the story so quick.
The supporters, all dressed in bright-red, replica AFC football tops, backed their hero all the way: Macintyre was a good lad; wouldn’t do anything like that; it was a fit-up, the club needed him … And then it was on to a house fire in Dundee. Logan sat in the lounge, yawning, drinking tea and listening to some lopsided freak from Tayside Police telling the public how important it was to check the batteries in their smoke alarms. And then the travel, weather, and back to the London studio. An entire country’s news squeezed into eight minutes.
Logan’s unidentified male wasn’t due to be post mortemed till ten am – nearly three hours away – but there was a shedload of paperwork to be filled in first.
He finished his tea and went to get dressed.
The morgue at FHQ shone with an antiseptic fervour. Sparkling white tiles covered the walls and floor, glinting cutting tables sat beneath polished extractor fans, the room lined with pristine work surfaces. Logan changed into the compulsory white over suit with hood and blue plastic booties before pushing into the sterile area. The guest of honour was already laid out, flat on his back in all his pasty, bloodstained glory while an IB photographer clicked and flashed his way around the body, documenting everything as another technician used sticky tape to remove any trace evidence he could find. A slow-motion dance complete with disco strobe.
Doc Fraser was slumped over one of the other cutting tables, a copy of the P&J spread out on the stainless-steel surface in front of him. He looked up, saw Logan walking in and asked him for an eight letter word beginning with B.
‘No idea. Who’s SIO?’
The pathologist sighed and started chewing on the end of his pen, ‘God knows; I’m just corroborating today. The Fiscal’s about somewhere, you can ask her if you like. No one tells me anything.’
Logan knew the feeling.
He found the Procurator Fiscal out in the viewing room, pacing back and forth, looking as if she was talking to herself until he saw the little Bluetooth headset attached to her ear. ‘No,’ she said, fiddling with a palmtop computer, ‘we need to make sure the case is airtight. I don’t want to be fielding questions when I’m working on my tan. Now what about those Bridge of Don burglaries? …’ He left her to it.
It wasn’t long before the answer lurched through the morgue doors, hauling at the crotch of her SOC coveralls and coughing as if she was about to bring up a lung. DI Steel, their senior investigating officer. A five-foot-nine, wrinkly, middle-aged disaster area, smelling of stale cigarette smoke and Chanel Number Five. ‘Laz!’ she said, grinning as soon as she clapped eyes on Logan, ‘This no’ a bit fresh for one of your corpses? Thought you liked them a bit more ripe?’
Logan didn’t rise to it. ‘He was found outside A&E last night, bleeding to death. No witnesses. Something horrible’s happened to his backside.’
‘Oh aye?’ The inspector raised an eyebrow. ‘Medical horrible, or “I was hoovering naked and fell on a statue of Queen Victoria” horrible?’
‘Queen Victoria.’
Steel nodded sagely. ‘Yeah – I wondered why they gave me this one. We about ready to get started? I’m bursting for a fag.’
Doc Fraser looked up from his crossword, pulled the pen out of his gob and asked Steel the same question he’d asked Logan. The inspector cocked her head on one side, thought about it, frowned, then said, ‘Buggered?’
‘No, it’s got an S in it. We’re waiting for Dr MacAlister.’
DI Steel nodded again. ‘Ah, it’s going to be one of those post mortems.’ She sighed. ‘Come on then, Laz: let’s hear it.’ So Logan talked her throu
gh the statements he’d taken last night while the victim was in surgery, then the paperwork that had come down from the hospital with the body. ‘What about the CCTV?’ she asked when he’d finished.
‘Nothing we can use. The car’s number plates are unreadable – probably covered with something – driver wore a hooded top and baseball cap.’
‘Ah, thug chic. Got a make on the car?’
‘Fusty-looking Volvo estate.’
Steel blew a long, wet raspberry. ‘So much for an easy case. Well, maybe Madame Death can tell us something, presuming she ever bloody gets here!’ Ten minutes later and the inspector was threatening to start singing Why Are We Waiting?
Dr Isobel MacAlister finally lumbered into the morgue at twenty past ten, looking flushed. She ignored DI Steel’s derogatory round of applause and cry of ‘Thar she blows!’ and scrubbed up, needing help to get into her cutting gear, the green plastic apron stretched tight over her enormous stomach.
‘Right,’ she said, clicking on the Dictaphone, ‘we have an unidentified male – mid to late twenties …’
It was weird watching a heavily pregnant pathologist at work. Even weirder: the thing growing in her womb could have been Logan’s, if things had turned out differently. But they hadn’t. So instead of being filled with paternal pride, he was standing here watching Isobel slice up yet another dead body, feeling a strange mix of regret, and relief. And then nausea as she got her assistant to heft out the corpse’s urogenital block for her.
They finished with tea and biscuits in the pathologists’ office, with Isobel sitting behind the desk and complaining about the heat, even though February was putting on its usual performance outside the window, hurling icy rain against the glass.
‘Looks like something pretty big’s been repeatedly forced inside him,’ she said, checking her notes, ‘between four and five inches in diameter, and at least fourteen inches long. The sphincter’s extensively damaged and the lower intestine was torn in four places. He lost too much blood, pressure dropped, heart stopped. Death was due to severe shock. There was nothing the hospital could have done.’ She shifted in her seat, trying to get closer to the desk, but her pregnant bulge got in the way. ‘Some of the burn marks on the torso have a crust of wax, but there’s half a dozen cigarette burns too. Most of the contusions are superficial.’
DI Steel helped herself to a Jaffa Cake, mumbling, ‘What about the ligature marks?’ with her mouth full.
‘Looks like thick leather straps with metal buckles. There’s quite a bit of chafing about the edges, so I’d say he struggled a fair bit.’
Steel snorted, sending crumbs flying. ‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Someone turns your arse inside out.’
That got her a scowl and a chilly silence. ‘I’ll need to wait for the blood toxicology to come back,’ Isobel said at last, ‘but I found a significant quantity of alcohol in the stomach and partially digested pills as well.’
‘So, whoever it was got him pissed and doped-up first, then strapped him down and buggered him to death with a Wellington boot. And they say romance is dead.’
Isobel’s scowl got twenty degrees colder. ‘Any other startling insights you’d like to share with us, Inspector?’ Steel just grinned back at her and polished off another biscuit. Then the Procurator Fiscal confirmed that they’d be treating this case as murder, before telling them all about her upcoming holiday to the Seychelles. A substantive depute would be in charge while she was away soaking up the sun and cocktails, but they were to try not to break the girl, or there’d be trouble when she got back – looking pointedly at DI Steel. The inspector pretended not to know what she was talking about.
‘Bloody hell!’ Steel said as they ran up the stairs from the morgue to the rear podium car park, sploshing through ankle-deep puddles, making for the back door to FHQ. ‘Why can’t they open the internal door when it’s pishing with rain?’ There was only one indoor route through from the main building to the morgue, but it was reserved for victims’ relatives and the Chief Constable. The rank and file had to brave the weather.
She shook herself like a terrier, then ran a hand through her unruly hair, spraying water onto the linoleum. At forty-three she looked sixty-five – wrinkled, pointy face, saggy neck like a turkey, hair designed to startle old ladies, fingers stained a fetching shade of nicotine yellow. ‘Come on,’ she said, leading the way towards the lifts, ‘you can get the teas in while I have a fag. And get some bacon butties too – I’m starving. Bastard post mortem went on for ages.’
Logan backed into DI Steel’s office, balancing two mugs of tea and a couple of tinfoil parcels on a manila folder. The inspector was standing with her back to the door, staring out of the open window, a cigarette smouldering away between her fingers – completely ignoring the ban on smoking in the workplace – the bitter tang of Benson & Hedges curling out into the rain. ‘You know,’ she said, as Logan eased the door closed and dished out the refreshments, ‘oh, ta … sometimes it pisses me off that Fatty Insch gets all the big cases: all the high-profile stuff, like this serial rape thing.’ She peeled open her tinfoil-wrapped buttie, eating and smoking and talking all at the same time. ‘And then I see that shite and think, thank Christ.’
Logan joined her at the window. Down in the front car park there was a clump of outside-broadcast vans. A little knot of cameras and journalists were sheltering under umbrellas in the steady downpour, the occasional flash illuminating the concrete and granite like lightning. ‘Rob Macintyre.’
‘Aye: Robby Bobby “Goalden Boy” Macintyre. Could Insch no’ find someone else to be his bloody rapist? Macintyre’s a local sodding hero.’ She took a huge bite, sending a cascade of white flour spilling down the front of her charcoal-grey suit. ‘Tell you, it’s a PR disaster waiting to happen. Little bugger’s got his publicist working overtime making sure everyone stands up and tells the world what a great guy he is and how he’d never do anything naughty like rape seven women at knifepoint …’ She sucked the last gasp from her cigarette and flicked it out into the downpour. Logan couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked as if she was aiming for the man from Sky News. It was too far down to tell if she got him or not.
She took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. ‘We get a nice, juicy murder and Insch gets a world of shite.’ She shrugged. ‘Still, rather him than us, eh?’
‘I’m getting the media department to run off some “Do you know this man” posters for our body,’ Logan said, ‘and I got the report on his clothes back from Forensics.’
A long, silent pause. Then, ‘Well, tell me what they said for God’s sake, can you no’ see I’m busy?’ She settled back behind her cluttered desk, put her feet up, and lit another cigarette, blowing a long stream of smoke at the ceiling.
‘Right.’ Logan opened the manila folder and skimmed through it, making for the conclusions at the end. ‘Blah, blah, blah, here we go: they think the blood in the clothes and blanket are all from the same person – blood type matches, but the mobile DNA thing’s on the blink, so we’ve had to send samples off to Dundee to be sure. They’re pretty certain it’s all his though.’
‘Genius.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘They tell us anything we don’t already know?’
‘They got fibres from the blanket he was wrapped in, so if we get a suspect they can run a match, but—’
‘But bugger all that’ll help us actually find out who he is.’
‘Interesting thing is the list of clothing.’ Logan handed over the report and the inspector pursed her lips, reading, then rereading it.
‘Come on then, Miss Marple,’ she said after the third time through, ‘dazzle me with your brilliance.’
‘Trousers, sweatshirt and blanket. No socks, no underwear, no jacket. No personal effects – no keys, no coins, not even an old hanky. He’s been naked and someone’s dressed him as quickly as possible, emptied his pockets, bundled him into the car and—’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Steel threw the report back across the table at hi
m. ‘Of course he was bloody naked, you don’t bondage someone up and bugger them to death fully dressed, do you?’
‘Oh. Well, no, I suppose …’
She watched him squirm for a moment, then grinned. ‘See, this is why they pay me the big bucks.’
‘Anyway,’ he could feel a blush creeping up his cheeks, ‘the killer probably wrapped him in the blanket to keep blood off the car seats, but the thing was soaked through. The back seat will be saturated.’
‘Which is no sodding good to us unless we find the car. Get the labs to see if they can do something with the number plate on that surveillance tape. And set up a briefing: couple of dozen uniform, some CID, you know the drill. And we’ll need a HOLMES suite, and an incident room, and …’ She frowned. ‘Anything I’ve forgotten?’
Logan sighed – as usual he was going to be left doing all the work. ‘Press release.’
‘Bingo!’ She beamed. ‘Press release. And while you’re at it, see if they can get us a slot on the news as well – we’ll stick up the victim’s face, you ask people to phone in, and I’ll chat up that girl does the weather …’ The inspector stared off into the distance for a happy moment, then snapped back into the here and now. ‘I’ve got some calls to make.’ She made wafting gestures, ‘Go on, shoo, out, run along, go. Bugger off.’
Logan picked up his half-drunk cup of tea and left her to it.
4
Three twenty-nine pm – the car park round the back of Brimmond Hill. Alpha Nine Six scrunched to a halt between two huge waterlogged potholes, windscreen wipers going full-tilt in the rain. The top of the hill was lost in the low cloud, the gorse, heather and bracken battered and dripping. The driver pulled on the handbrake. ‘What do you think?’
‘Rock, paper, scissors?’
Broken Skin Page 2
