Broken Skin

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘There’s a surprise. And the last report was on Thursday night?’

  ‘Nine pm.’ The same day Sean Morrison stabbed two people. Logan thanked her and hung up, then sat drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Back in a sec.’ He climbed back out into the rain, leaving Rickards in the car as he made his way down a little path at the side of the Whytes’ house, through a tall gate and into the back garden.

  The koi pond was like pewter, droplets of water making it shimmer. The gardener had finished the pruning; now he was on his knees, digging away at a flowerbed with a small trowel, ignoring the thin rain. ‘Bit early for that, isn’t it?’ asked Logan, walking up and putting on his best friendly smile.

  ‘Never too early to get the garden in order.’ Traces of an Aberdonian accent, but not much.

  Logan pointed up at the house. ‘You work for the Whytes for long?’

  The old man settled back on his haunches, grimaced, and stuck the trowel in the flowerbed, peeling off a pair of mud-crusted gardening gloves. ‘I don’t work for them. I’m Daniel’s father.’ Mr Whyte senior levered himself up to his feet with a grunt.

  ‘You lived here long?’

  ‘Eight months. Ever since my Mary died. The house was too empty without her.’

  Eight months – that explained why he wasn’t on the database as living at the address. ‘So you were here when Sean Morrison stayed?’

  ‘Terrible, isn’t it? He was such a lovely wee boy, I can’t believe he’d hurt anyone.’

  ‘Your son thinks he’s a vicious little monster.’

  The old man gave a sad smile. ‘Yes … well … Sean Morrison is the spitting image of Daniel’s little brother. Daniel was always jealous.’ He sniffed and stared at the pond where a golden shape swam beneath the surface. ‘It was our own fault: Mary and I spoiled Craig. We shouldn’t have, but he was such a beautiful child.’ There was silence in the garden. ‘Mary was never the same after …’ Mr Whyte senior gave an embarrassed cough. ‘Yes, well, no point in dwelling on it now.’

  It might have been the rain misting his eyes, or it might have been a tear. Either way Logan left him to his memories.

  DI Steel was sitting behind her desk when Logan backed into her office carrying two mugs of tea. She had a big wet stain over her left boob and a scowl on her face. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ Trying not to stare at the inspector’s damp patch.

  ‘Aye, fifteen minutes ago …’ She threw a sheet of A4 at him: a memo from the Chief Constable himself. Logan read it, muttering along under his breath until he got to the bombshell.

  ‘Oh … Well, it could be worse.’

  ‘How?’ Steel pulled the office window open, then went rummaging for her cigarettes. ‘How could it be worse?’

  ‘Look, I’m sure he’s going to—’

  ‘Why the hell did they have to lump him on my team?’ Cigarettes found, the hunt for a working lighter began. ‘He’s going to be a bloody nightmare!’

  So that was why she’d wanted him to drop everything and rush up to her office: so she could whinge about DI Insch being assigned to ‘facilitate her caseload’. Logan sighed. ‘Well, you could give him those house breakins to look after, or the Fettes investigation?’

  ‘Are you kidding? You know what he’s like – he’ll try and take over the whole lot. I’ll end up working for him!’ The lighter went, scrrrrrit, scrit, scrit, then she hurled it at the bin in the corner. ‘Fucking thing … If I wanted “help” I’d have asked for it.’ Which was the starting point for a fifteen-minute-long rant ending with, ‘You’ll have to look after him.’

  ‘Me?’ Logan sat bolt upright. ‘Why me? Give him Rennie, or Rickards!’

  But DI Steel just shook her head. ‘Sorry Laz: can’t do that. Rennie’d be like kicking a kitten, and Bondage Boy would enjoy it too much. All that abuse, he’d never get any work done.’ She took a slurp from her mug. ‘So you see: it has to be you. You’re young, you’ll get over it.’

  16

  Detective Inspector Insch wasn’t the sort of person you wanted to get on the wrong side of. Which was unfortunate, because he didn’t seem to have a right side any more. Logan took a deep breath, then knocked on the inspector’s door, having spent an unhappy twenty minutes in the canteen trying to figure out how to keep him busy without actually having to work with him.

  A deep, rumbling voice sounded on the other side of the door. ‘Enter.’ All the warmth of a butcher’s bandsaw. Insch’s office was larger than Steel’s and a lot tidier, with framed theatre posters on the walls: local musical productions of Kiss me Kate, Chicago and a handful of pantomimes. Some of which featured the inspector in various ridiculous costumes. Pride of place had been given to The Mikado in a big mahogany frame on the wall facing Insch’s desk.

  The huge man looked up at Logan, said, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ then went back to hammering away at his keyboard with fat, angry fingers.

  ‘DI Steel thought I should come up and—’

  ‘Where the hell do they get off telling me to work for her?’

  Logan slumped into one of the inspector’s visitors’ chairs and prepared himself to be whinged to, but Insch just ground his teeth for a minute, then went back to punishing his keyboard.

  When there was nothing else forthcoming, Logan held up a couple of manila folders. ‘I brought you the case files for those housebreakings. There’s—’

  ‘I don’t care.’ The inspector stabbed the return key then pushed his chair back, staring at Logan over steepled fingers. ‘Tell me about the dead body.’

  ‘Which one: the tramp’s, the old man who got stabbed Thursday, or the porn star who got buggered to death?’

  ‘The last one. And try to bear in mind the victim was a human being, Sergeant.’

  And suddenly Logan felt very ashamed of himself. ‘Sorry, sir.’ That was DI Steel’s influence – he’d definitely been working with her for too long. He told Insch everything they knew about Jason Fettes, from his parochial porn career to his rubber bondage suit. Keeping it professional and objective.

  Insch listened in silence, stuffing fruit pastilles into his mouth and making the occasional note on small yellow Post-its. ‘What about this website: Bondageopolis?’ he asked when Logan had finished. ‘You get onto Fettes’s ISP?’

  ‘It’s a local company – they’ve turned over Fettes’s emails and there’s nothing in there that looks like it’s connected with his death. But from the list of favourites on his computer, we think he’s got at least one hotmail account and maybe a couple of yahoo ones as well.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re all anonymous – you don’t have to give any real details. Could sign up as Osama Bin Laden and no one would bother to check. And Fettes was careful, seems to have cleared his cache pretty regularly and didn’t get the browser to remember usernames or passwords.’

  ‘So you can’t just log in as him.’

  ‘Nope. I got the IT department to go through his emails and see if he might have forwarded anything to himself from his anonymous accounts. They’ve got a couple of possibles, but it’s taking forever to get anything sorted out with the free email people. Not only do we have the data protection act to deal with, everything has to go through their head offices in the States. It’s a nightmare.’

  Insch leaned forward, resting his huge elbows on the desktop, staring down at his collection of Post-its. ‘OK, bring me the files – updates, interviews, PM notes, everything. Even the HOLMES actions. We’ll go through them this afternoon.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ So much for keeping the inspector at arm’s length.

  By the end of the day they’d mapped out the whole investigation and DI Insch hadn’t snapped at Logan once. Which was something of a record these days. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ said Insch, frowning at his watch, ‘I want you to get the team together and we’ll do a re-start briefing. Where the hell is that idiot Rennie?’

  ‘
No idea, sir.’

  ‘Well, if you see him, tell him I want him at the Arts Centre by half-six at the latest, or his bollocks are going to be hanging from my car keys!’ And with that he was gone.

  Logan let out a sigh of relief. Insch was a lot more work than he used to be. Still, at least it was time to go home. He was in the middle of signing out when DI Steel found him. ‘Heading off early are we?’ she asked, treating him to an imperious sniff.

  ‘My shift finished twenty minutes ago, so no.’

  ‘Well, well: at home to Mr Grumpy are we? How was Fatty Insch, he snap your bra strap and chase you round the desk?’

  ‘He wants the Jason Fettes case.’

  Steel looked surprised. ‘Bondage, sex shops, and seedy internet chat rooms? Doesn’t sound like him. Still, what the hell: he’s welcome to it, one less thing for me to worry about. You offer him them breakins as well?’

  ‘Wasn’t interested.’

  She sighed. ‘Me neither. You don’t want them, do you?’

  ‘No, not really, I—’

  ‘Actually, that’s no’ a bad idea, give you an excuse to get away from Inspector Fat Bastard now and then.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Nope, my mind’s made up. You can have Rickards, dirty little squit that he is. Just drop me an update report every couple of weeks and we’ll be fine. Don’t worry, I’m no’ expecting you to actually solve them.’

  Somehow that didn’t make Logan feel any better.

  Drizzle drifted down from the sky in lazy waves, making the streetlights glow like fireflies the length of Union Street. Logan turned his collar up and hurried home, before it could seep all the way through to his skin. The flat was ominously silent when he got in. By quarter to seven there was still no sign of Jackie, which probably meant she’d gone straight to the pub after work. It was becoming something of a habit – ever since the Macintyre rape trial fell to pieces. Logan tried calling her, but her mobile went straight to voicemail. So that meant he’d have to fend for himself, or face another night in the pub. He checked the kitchen cupboards, then the fridge and decided on a trip to the nearest Chinese carryout.

  He was locking the front door when the flat’s phone started to ring. Cursing, he let himself back in, just in time to cut the answering machine off mid-flow. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Who’s this?’ The familiar voice of Big Gary.

  ‘Who do you think it is? You phoned me, remember?’

  ‘Aye, but you could’ve been Watson’s fancy piece. He sounds affa like you.’

  ‘Very funny. What do you want Gary?’

  ‘DI Insch: can’t get hold of him, his mobile’s off, so you’re next in line.’

  ‘No I’m—’

  ‘Aye, you are. I asked Steel and she says you’re working for him now.’

  Bloody DI Bloody Steel. Logan sighed. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We just got a call in from Tayside Police – they’ve had a rape that’s a dead match for your Rob Macintyre case.’

  17

  The sound of a piano being tortured greeted Logan as he pushed through the Arts Centre’s main doors. According to the posters up outside in the huge, columned portico, there was supposed to be a series of Samuel Beckett plays on this week, but Waiting For Godot had a big CANCELLED sticker across it. Which explained how Insch had managed to get hold of the Arts Centre – calling everyone in for a special rehearsal, even though it was a Saturday night. Normally a production wouldn’t get to set foot on the stage until a day or two before the run. And from the sounds of things, Insch’s Mikado was nowhere near ready for that.

  Logan sneaked in through the doors to the theatre – burgundy carpet, mahogany panelling, rows and rows of empty seats facing a stage that was bedecked with some of the lumpiest people Logan had ever seen, mostly wearing jeans and sweatshirts. And down in the front row of seats was DI Insch, addressing his cast: ‘Again, from “I’ll tear the mask from your disguising” and please, for the love of God, watch for the beat!’

  Logan stood and watched them for a minute, trying not to laugh. DC Rennie was in the middle of the men, overacting and throwing his hands about like a demented windmill. This time the chorus were almost on time with their bellowing. Insch made them do it again. Logan really didn’t want to have to suffer it a third time through, so he marched up and tapped the inspector on the shoulder.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Control called: Tayside Police have been on the phone…’ Insch listened to what little information Logan had, before turning and telling the people on stage that they were going to go over this bit until they got it right, or it killed them. He didn’t care which. Leaving them in the not-so-careful hands of the pianist he steered Logan out into the corridor.

  ‘Get back there and find out if they got any forensic evidence. We’ve not destroyed Macintyre’s DNA sample yet – if we can get a match he’s screwed. In fact, get Tayside to email up everything they’ve got. I’ll be finished here in …’ he checked his watch, then looked back at the double doors as a ragged cacophony marked another ill-fated adventure into the world of Gilbert and Sullivan. ‘We’ll still be here by the time you get back.’

  Listening to the noise coming from the stage, Logan got the feeling he could come back the same time next year and they’d still be bloody awful.

  The last page chugged into the printer’s out tray. According to Tayside Police there was no sign of forensic evidence: no hairs, no flakes of skin, no semen, nothing. But the MO was a perfect match for Rob Macintyre: a lone woman, walking home at night takes a short cut through a darkened street and is jumped from behind. Forced to the ground at knifepoint, cut and raped by a man with an Aberdonian accent. Just like every attack they’d tried to pin on Macintyre. And like all the other Macintyre cases, there was nothing connecting the footballer to the crime.

  Logan stuffed the printouts into a manila folder and headed back to the Arts Centre. It had taken nearly an hour and a half to get everything emailed up from Dundee, and by the time he got back to the theatre, Insch was in the middle of his standard motivational speech – the same one he gave to incident rooms after telling them all how crap they were and that they should be ashamed to call themselves police officers. ‘Now go get cleaned up and I’ll see you in the pub.’ He forced a smile. ‘Good work tonight, people!’

  Insch watched them all troop off stage chattering excitedly, then sank down into one of the theatre seats, put his head in his hands and muttered quiet obscenities.

  Logan gave him a couple of minutes. Then, ‘Got those files you wanted, sir.’

  The inspector looked up, wearing a grimace of artistic pain. ‘You’re not a big theatregoer, are you, Sergeant?’

  ‘Not as such, sir, no.’

  Insch nodded thoughtfully. ‘Nights like this, I don’t blame you.’ He sighed. ‘OK. Let’s see what you’ve got.’ They spread the printouts from Tayside Police on top of the grand piano in the orchestra pit: blood analysis, medical reports, before and after photos of the victim, and a blurry identikit picture of the attacker. It could have been anyone.

  ‘Nikki Bruce, twenty-three, she was on her way home from a night out with friends. She was sick outside the nightclub, so the taxi driver refused to take her. Walked home alone along Broughty Ferry Road. That’s where he attacked her.’

  The inspector scowled at the photos – before, Nikki had been a good looking young woman with bright eyes and a mischievous smile. The ‘after’ picture was completely different: one eye swollen shut, the other bright red with burst blood vessels, her nose flattened and off to one side, her mouth crooked and puffed-up, the lip split, three or four teeth missing, her whole face covered in bandages, surgical padding and bruises. It was hard to believe this was the same person.

  ‘And where,’ he asked, ‘was Macintyre when all this happened?’

  ‘Thought he wasn’t a suspect any more.’

  Something disturbingly like a growl rumbled deep within Insch’s throat. ‘Like hell he’s not.’
He pulled out his mobile and called the Procurator Fiscal, looking for a warrant to drag Macintyre in for questioning. And from the sound of things not getting very far. ‘No … no … he’s … of course it’s him! It’s his MO, he’s … no, we don’t … but …’ He placed one massive hand on the pile of paperwork and crushed it into a ball. ‘Yes, I understand … no … of course. Thank you for your time.’ Insch hung up, slipped the phone carefully in his pocket, then hurled the printouts at the stage. ‘FUCK!’ Sheets of paper flared white in the footlights’ glow, then slipped back onto the grey-painted floor. A few fluttered down into the orchestra pit. Logan held his breath and waited for the inspector to start taking it out on him.

  Instead, Insch screwed his face up, stuck two fingers against the throbbing side of his neck and hissed air in and out through his nose. The trembling subsided and Insch’s breathing returned to normal, his face slowly losing its dark purple tinge.

  ‘Er …’ Logan knew he was probably going to regret asking this, ‘are you OK, sir?’

  ‘The PF,’ said Insch, his voice eerily level, ‘feels that without any evidence directly linking Macintyre to the rape, we can’t bring him in for questioning or it’ll just look like harassment. If we want to speak to him, we’ll have to go round and ask him nicely.’ The calm act was starting to crumble a bit at the end. ‘But right now, I need a drink.’

  A patrol car roared by on Broad Street while Logan followed the inspector’s massive bulk down a steep flight of stairs to the Illicit Still’s subterranean bar. They’d had to walk past FHQ to get here, Insch wrapped up in a brooding silence, while Logan tried to uncrumple the files and get them back into some semblance of order. The pub was about the same distance from headquarters as Archibald Simpson’s, but wouldn’t be full of off-duty policemen. Which was why Insch had chosen it for this post-rehearsal get-together. Inside, the place looked like it had been designed by someone with a serious banister fetish – they were everywhere, carving the place up into little seating areas, full of students and people with trendy haircuts.