Broken Skin

by Stuart MacBride

  Berwick stared at him. ‘I was having a crap and someone kicked the bathroom door in and stuck a machine gun in my face, how the hell do you think I’m feeling? Scared the shit out of me.’

  Logan tried not to smile. ‘I’ve got a warrant to search these premises for stolen goods.’

  The man groaned. ‘Great. First Margaret, now this.’ He sagged forwards till he was hunched over his mug, staring gloomily into the depths muttering, ‘Fucking fuck, fuck, fuckering fuck …’

  They went through every room in the house, but there was no sign of stolen Victorian sexual ephemera. ‘OK,’ said Logan after one of the firearms officers stuck their head down from the loft hatch to tell him there was nothing in the attic, ‘let’s try the garage then.’

  They trooped outside. The little boy who’d watched them break down Berwick’s front door had been joined by his younger sister, staring at the policemen as if they were the most exciting thing to happen round here for ages. By the time Berwick had led Logan and his team to the last garage on the row they were bustling out the door, desperate not to miss a single moment.

  Logan let Rickards do the honours, unlocking the red garage door and hauling it up. Inside it was like Aladdin’s cave for electrical appliances, none of them in their original packaging. There were boxes full of digital cameras, DVD recorders, iPods, laptop and desktop computers, silverware, picture frames, candlesticks, DVDs, CDs, jewellery, digital camcorders …’ Good God!’ Logan was impressed in spite of himself. ‘How many houses did you have to knock over to get all this?’

  Berwick suddenly found his shoes of all-consuming interest. ‘I’ve never seen these things before in my life.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You know fine well we can just cart all this stuff down to the station and check it against our burglary reports. Everything in here’s going to be clarted in your fingerprints. Why not save us all the trouble and tell us who you stole them from? It’ll look much better for you in court.’

  There was a moment’s silent contemplation, then a long-suffering sigh. ‘Fuck. Who told you?’

  ‘Give us the addresses and I’ll make sure the PF knows you cooperated.’

  ‘It was Margaret, wasn’t it? Vindictive bitch. Not bad enough she takes my kids and everything in the building society, no, she’s got to shop me to the bloody police too.’ He stood, watching Rickards squeeze his way into the garage glory hole. ‘You married, Inspector?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant,’ said Logan. ‘And no.’

  Berwick nodded. ‘Good. That’s where the fucking trouble starts. You go out and do your best to put food on the table. Keep a roof over their heads. Then she starts going out at night on her own, when she’s supposed to be looking after the kids. “Visiting friends”. Lying bitch.’

  Deep in the garage, Rickards pulled a box from the pile and rummaged about in it, coming out with a translucent, purple dildo. ‘Sir, I’ve found something!’

  Logan groaned. ‘Put on a pair of gloves for God’s sake!’

  ‘Course, you know what she was doing, don’t you?’ said Berwick, as Rickards snapped on a pair of latex gloves and started hefting out various items of sexual apparatus. ‘She was screwing the guy who came to install our broadband. There’s me, risking life and liberty to keep her in hair dye and French classes, and she’s off shagging some internet geek.’ He seemed to shrink. ‘And get this, when I confront her, she’s the one who acts all hurt! How dare I follow her! What happened to trust? She’s shagging someone else and I’m getting a bollocking for not trusting her … Fucking women.’

  Rickards held a round metal canister aloft. ‘Kitty-Cat Katy!’

  ‘I go out on a job and when I come back she’s gone. Took the kids and everything else that wasn’t nailed down. Hired a removal truck: you believe that?’ Berwick sniffed, watching the PC in his garage happily digging through the stuff from Zander Clark’s Victorian porn collection. ‘Found a note in the kitchen: “I’ve left you. Mother always said I could do better, so now I have.” ‘He shook his head. ‘Tell you, never trust a bloody woman, they’ll fuck you over every time.’

  It was well after six but Logan was still sitting in DI Steel’s incident room, surrounded by ever expanding piles of paperwork, filling in all the forms that came with actually solving a burglary. Rickards was on the other side of the desk, trying to match up the list of items collected from Ronald Berwick’s garage with the properties he said he’d stolen them from. They hadn’t recovered everything on the burglary reports, but then Logan hadn’t really expected to. In his experience most people padded out their claim with at least two things they’d never owned in the first place, but always fancied – figuring the insurance company wouldn’t mind treating them. And Berwick had been flogging stuff down the pubs to finance his redecorating binge.

  Logan put the finishing touches to another set of forms and sent them to the laser printer in the corner, creaking his way out of his chair to go get them when the machine had finished squeaking and whirring. ‘How many’s that?’ he asked, stapling the new sheets together and adding them to the pile.

  Rickards looked up from his screen. ‘I’ve done twenty.’

  Logan nodded, then checked his watch. ‘So we should be finished about … seven, half-seven?’ He stifled a yawn. ‘After that, we’re going for a pizza. Not often—’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the familiar, telltale blush was working its way across Rickards’ face. ‘I’ve got a … ehm … meeting to go to tonight.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Logan slumped back behind his desk and called up the next burglary report. ‘Let me ask you something,’ he said, starting in on the form, ‘what kind of people are into that kind of thing?’

  ‘Well …’ the constable cleared his throat, going an even deeper shade of embarrassed scarlet. ‘It … we …’ The door clattered open and a look of relief bloomed on Rickards’ face, until he realized it was DI Steel standing in the doorway with hair like a startled grey squirrel, two patches of dark blue shadowing the armpits of her blouse.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded, ‘Is it true?’

  Logan nodded, pointing at the steadily growing pile of completed forms. ‘Sixty-two breakins.’

  ‘Sixty-two? Ha – that’s nearly all of them! You try to fit him up with the rest?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s not having any of it. They’re probably his, but he’s sold the stuff, so we’ve got no evidence.’

  ‘Ah well, can’t complain I suppose. Sixty-two …’ She stuck her hands in her pockets, and beamed happily. ‘All those burglaries cleared up and wee Sean Morrison in custody; my crime statistics’ll look bloody brilliant this month. Right, soon as the paperwork’s done we’re goin’ out on the toot. My treat. You me and Spanky.’

  The constable sent Logan a panicked look. ‘Spanky …?’

  ‘Actually, ma’am, Rickards was just telling me he has to go see his mum tonight, so it’ll just be you and me.’

  Steel actually looked disappointed. ‘Aye? You sure Spanky? Clearin’ up sixty-two breakins needs a celebration …’ She left a long enough pause for Rickards to change his mind, but the constable just blushed furiously and apologized instead. She shrugged. ‘Ah well, means more beer for us.’

  An hour later and Rickards was long gone – hurrying off to get rubbered up, or whatever it was he did with his BDSM mates, grinning from ear to ear because Logan had told him he’d done an excellent job today, carefully downplaying Steel’s new pet name for the constable. After all, knowing what the inspector was usually like, ‘Spanky’ was getting off lightly. Logan pulled the final report from the printer, powered everything down, flicked off the lights, yawned, and headed downstairs to the main reception desk. It was quiet and empty, so he let himself in the side door, heading round the back of the two-way mirror, where Big Gary was busily slurping his way through a vast mug of coffee and getting chocolate digestive crumbs all over a copy of the Evening Express.

  ‘Mmmmphmm mph?’ he asked as Logan helped himself to a biscuit.

&n
bsp; ‘No idea. I’ve been on days nonstop for a week now and I’m knackered.’

  Big Gary washed down his mouthful with a slug of coffee. ‘Your shift pattern’s for shite, you know that, don’t you?’ He pulled a thick ledger from the shelf. ‘Take three days off and then you’re on nights Saturday.’ He gave Logan a big fat wink. ‘And that puts you back in step with the lovely Miss Watson.’

  Logan smiled. ‘About bloody time too.’ It’d be nice to spend some time together for a change. He checked his watch – she was on days, so that meant she’d be home right now. Maybe he could swing her an invite to Steel’s burglary celebration? He dug out his mobile and called the inspector – from the sound of things she was already in the pub.

  ‘Laz!’ Probably on her second whisky. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Just finished, I—’

  ‘Good. Get your arse over here!’

  ‘Do you mind if Jackie joins us tonight?’

  ‘Why would I mind? Hell, for sixty-two breakins I’d even buy Rennie dinner.’ The sound of someone shouting, ‘Yay!’ in the background.

  Smiling, Logan hung up and called the flat, getting the answering machine. Again. He tried Jackie on her mobile. ‘How’d you like to come to dinner with me and DI Steel? She’s buying.’

  There was a small pause, then, ‘I’d love to, but I can’t. Janette called: she’s locked herself in the bathroom with a bottle of vodka and a photo album, so that’s my evening screwed again. Tell you, if I ever get my hands on her bloody fiancé, I’m going to wring his sodding neck.’

  ‘Oh …’ Logan frowned, trying to picture Janette and coming up empty. ‘You are remembering about tomorrow night though, aren’t you?’

  ‘Tomorrow … Oh shite!’ She swore for a bit, then asked, ‘No way we could put it off till next week?’

  ‘It’s her fifty-fifth birthday party, so no.’

  ‘You don’t even want to go!’

  ‘No, but I have to. And you know what she’ll be like if you don’t show.’

  More swearing. ‘OK, OK, we’ll go to the stupid party. Jesus. Happy now?’

  ‘Not especially.’ He tried being reasonable, ‘Look, we don’t even have to stay for all of it, we can—’

  ‘Fine. Whatever. I’ve got to go.’ And the line went dead.

  Logan went to the pub.

  26

  The next morning DI Steel looked even more dreadful than usual; sitting very still in one of the Chief Constable’s visitors’ chairs, pretending to pay attention as the man told her, Logan and PC Rickards what a great job they’d all done. ‘It’s not often we get sixty-two crimes wiped off the books in one day,’ he said, leaning back against the windowsill, high, grey cloud scudding past behind him. ‘Even the papers have laid off us for once.’ And he was right: the front page of that morning’s Press and Journal was all about a local property developer turning up at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary with both legs broken.

  It might have been Logan’s imagination, but Rickards seemed to be fidgeting more than usual, shifting about in his seat, trying not to wince. As if he’d got piles. ‘Now,’ said the CC, gifting them all a broad smile, ‘if we can just get to the bottom of this Fettes case it’ll be back to business as usual!’

  Steel nodded carefully, and mumbled something about DI Insch doing a fine job in that department. ‘Excellent.’ The Chief Constable settled back behind his desk. ‘So, I take it we’re building a nice airtight case?’

  ‘Aye, well,’ Steel’s voice sounded like a cross between Darth Vader and a belt sander, ‘obviously I’ve got a bit more supervising to do, but Insch has my complete confidence.’ Making sure she could claim the credit if he succeeded and blame him if he didn’t.

  ‘I see. Well, given the recent “difficulties” I want you to be hands-on with this one, Inspector. I don’t want it turning into another disaster like Rob Macintyre.’ He picked up a silver letter opener, holding it by the point, as if he was about to throw it at someone. ‘Oh, and DS McRae,’

  Logan got the feeling something nasty was coming. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘It’s not often I have to consider suspending and commending the same officer in one week. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.’

  ‘Er … thank you, sir.’ But Logan wasn’t entirely sure if he’d just been praised or threatened.

  Logan and Rickards didn’t even get as far as the stairs before disaster struck in the shape of DC Rennie. ‘Been looking all over for you! Detective Inspector Insch requests the honour of your company, at your earliest possible convenience.’

  ‘What did he really say?’

  ‘Get your arse up to the incident room pronto, and bring Bondage …’ he stopped himself, gave a small ‘ahem’ and tried again, ‘and bring PC Rickards with you.’

  Logan shook his head. ‘No way: we’re not even supposed to be here.’ If it hadn’t been for DI Steel phoning up at half eight to tell him to come get a pat on the head from the Chief Constable, he’d still be in his bed, sleeping off last night’s celebratory curry and late-night drinks. ‘I’m back …’ he worked it out on his fingers, three days off: ‘Saturday.’

  Rennie put on a pained smile. ‘He did say ASAP, sir.’

  Logan sighed. ‘Of course he did.’

  DI Insch was deep in conversation with the admin officer when Logan and his band of merry policemen marched in. They hung around by the incident board, waiting for the inspector to finish. It didn’t take Rennie long before he started telling them all about how great it was being in The Mikado and how Sophie, Anna and Liz were all over him. ‘Tell you,’ he said, ‘I play my cards right I’m in for a threesome. Four if I’m lucky!’

  Rickards snorted. ‘You’ve never had a threesome before?’

  ‘Well …’ Rennie shifted from foot to foot on the dirty, grey-green carpet tiles. ‘No.’

  ‘So,’ said Logan, changing the subject before anyone asked him, ‘how’s it going: rehearsals … and things.’

  ‘Better. Still not great, well, except for Debs. The rest of us are lumbering about the place like bloody Tellytubbies.’

  Logan laughed. ‘Yeah, Jackie said you were a bit “challenged”.’ Rennie looked puzzled, so he explained, ‘The rehearsal on Sunday? When you lost your bet? Twenty quid?’

  ‘Nah,’ Rennie shook his head. ‘Rehearsals are Monday, Wednesday and Friday. You sure she … oh, Sunday, oh, yeah. Right, Sunday.’ He slapped his forehead. ‘Course. You know me: no brains. Sunday. Yeah.’

  ‘Rennie, get your backside over here!’ – DI Insch, glowering over the top of a report. The constable trotted across the room, there was some muttered discussion, and then he was off out the door on a new errand. Insch thrust the report back to the admin officer and creaked his massive frame off the desk. ‘Sergeant McRae, I’ve been calling you all morning.’

  Logan nodded. ‘We were with the CC, sir, and you know what he’s like if a mobile goes off while—’

  ‘In my office, Sergeant, and bring your constable with you.’

  The inspector waited till they were all in his room, then told Rickards to close the door. He settled into the large black leather chair behind the desk and stared at them in silence. ‘Where,’ he said, ‘is my status report from yesterday? It should have been on my desk first thing this morning.’ Prodding the wood with a huge sausage-like finger.

  ‘We had a large number of burglary reports—’

  ‘I don’t care. I sent you to do a job, I expect you to bloody well do it!’ His face was starting to take on that horribly familiar florid tinge.

  Rickards broke the golden rule and answered back: ‘That’s not fair! We solved sixty-two burglaries yesterday, got a commendation from the Chief—’

  ‘Did I ask for your opinion, Constable?’ The words coming out low and dangerous.

  Rickards straightened his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full five foot five. ‘With all due respect—’ Logan kicked him in the shin before he could get himself into any more trouble. The constable snapped his
mouth shut as Insch worked himself up into a full fit of righteous fury.

  ‘Don’t you ever dare “with all due bloody respect” me, Rickards. You’ve got something to say: say it!’ He stood, towering over the constable.

  ‘No, sir, sorry sir. Nothing.’

  ‘SAY IT!

  Logan closed his eyes and hoped to God that Rickards was bright enough to keep his big mouth shut. He wasn’t. ‘Sir, we cleared up a lot of crimes yesterday. We used our initiative – the CC said we were a credit to the force!’

  ‘Did he now?’ Insch had finally progressed from scarlet pink to dark purple, and Logan’s eyes were inexorably drawn to that throbbing vein in the fat man’s forehead, as if a worm was burrowing away under the skin. ‘Understand this, Constable: when I say frog, you jump. You do not backchat, you don’t “with all due respect” and you don’t whinge. You say “how high” AND YOU BLOODY JUMP!’

  He swung a huge finger at Logan. ‘You should know better!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ There was no point arguing, it would just prolong the bollocking; much easier and quicker to roll with the punches.

  The fat man checked the pulse at the side of his neck, and rumbled his way back into his seat. ‘What happened yesterday?’

  Logan gave Insch the short version: Garvie buying stolen porn from a man they later charged with sixty-two burglaries. ‘And according to Zander Clark, Fettes was acting as a male prostitute; selling middle-aged ladies the chance to sleep with a bona fide porn star. He got email offers through the Crocodildo website, they were forwarded to this hotmail address.’ Logan handed over the compliments slip the director had given him.

  Insch took it with a grunt, pulled out the Jason Fettes case file, and flipped through the paperwork till he found the IB report on the victim’s computer. ‘Bloody typical! It’s not even on the list of email addresses they gave us.’ He slammed the folder shut. ‘Get onto them: I want everything sent to, or from, that address in the last six months. Garvie must have been in touch with him. Then find out what’s happening with those bloody servers! And if you see Watson, tell her I want a word.’ He sat back in his seat and flicked on his computer. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Move it!’