Broken Skin

by Stuart MacBride

  Isobel circled the body, peering at it, gently poking the musculature through the fingerprint-powdered suit. She stopped, sniffed, then prodded the rubber where it bulged over the silk rope. Frowning.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Logan asked.

  ‘Perhaps …’ she peeled back the hood, exposing Garvie’s neck, her latex gloves squeaking on the dark rubber, then sank her fingers into the exposed, waxy skin. ‘Cold … I’d expect the body to be stiffer than this.’

  ‘Well, he was twitching when we got here—’

  She looked appalled. ‘Then why the hell didn’t you cut him down?’

  ‘Already dead. I checked.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Dead bodies don’t twitch.’

  Logan pointed at the small transformer lying on the Persian rug. Two thin wires stretched from there to the little flap in the crotch of the suit, a third disappearing into a similar hole in the backside. ‘You want to see?’

  Isobel nodded so Logan picked up the plug and stuck it back in the wall socket where he’d found it. Immediately the body began to twitch. ‘It’s an electrostim set,’ he said, as Frank Garvie’s corpse danced for them, ‘it’s supposed to heighten orgasm.’

  ‘Turn it off.’

  FHQ was almost deserted, just the wub-wub-wub of a floor polisher somewhere down the corridor breaking the silence as Logan made himself a cup of coffee at the small kettle in the corner of the CID offices. The milk in the fridge looked like an unexploded bomb, the plastic carton swollen and well past its sell-by date. He had it black.

  It had taken him two hours to get all the paperwork done for their visit to the house and the discovery of Garvie’s body. He slumped back in his seat and stared at the computer screen, scrolling through the transcripted door-to-door interviews they’d done while the one-woman IB team worked the flat. He wasn’t really reading them, just killing time. Putting off going home and the inevitable confrontation with Jackie. The accusations, the lies, the shouting … The betrayal. And the worst part, the very, very worst part, was that beneath all the anger and resentment and desire to ram his fist down Rennie’s fucking throat – he still loved her.

  But that didn’t mean it wasn’t over.

  So he went back to the witness statements, reading their lies instead. No, they hadn’t done anything to the man in flat four. Graffiti, Officer, me? Piss through someone’s letter box? Never!

  A familiar shape lumbered into the CID office, carrying a huge steaming mug: Big Gary. He stopped when he saw Logan. ‘Er …’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Logan told him, ‘there’s no milk left to steal.’

  ‘Bugger.’ Big Gary peered into his mug. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t going to steal it …’

  ‘You’re a dreadful liar.’

  Gary shrugged. ‘That’s why I never made the move into CID: too honest. What you still doing here?’

  ‘Making sure everything’s done before Insch comes in.’

  ‘Aye, well … Don’t forget to tell him he’s got till noon if he wants to put in for the Ice Queen’s leaving present.’ A sad look slid onto Gary’s fat features. ‘Been a hard sell: at this rate we’ll be giving her something nicked from the lost and found and a homemade card.’

  Logan blushed and dug out his wallet. ‘Put me in for a …’ Five? Ten? They did sleep together for six months and at least she’d never cheated on him. He pulled a dog-eared twenty out and handed it over.

  Gary took the note with an impressed whistle, then held it up to the light. ‘God, it’s a real one too! Come down to the front desk when you get a minute, you can sign the card.’ He turned and lumbered off, calling back when he got to the door, ‘And take some bloody time off, you’re screwing up the overtime bill.’

  ‘Hoy, Rip Van Winkle.’ The smell of coffee, smoky bacon, and stale cigarettes. ‘We’re no’ paying you to sleep on the job.’ Logan peeled open an eye to see DI Steel looming over him.

  Groaning, he swung his legs off the blue, plastic-coated mattress and onto the cold brown floor, searching blearily for his shoes.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Steel, ‘you look rough.’

  ‘What time is it?’ Yawning and stretching. The lining of his brain seemed hotter and rougher than normal, as if someone had pebble-dashed the inside of his skull with warm gravel while he’d been asleep.

  ‘Here,’ she handed over her mug of milky coffee, ‘I’m no’ needing this as much as you.’

  Logan hesitated for a second … then accepted it, taking a deep gulp before putting it down on the floor so he could struggle into his suit jacket. It took two goes to get his watch in focus enough to read the hands. Eight seventeen. He’d managed a whole two hours’ sleep.

  Steel sat down on the cell mattress next to him and finished off her bacon buttie while Logan got his shoes on. ‘Least they let you keep your laces.’ She sooked the tomato sauce from her fingers. ‘Let me guess: trouble in paradise?’

  ‘Has Insch been in?’

  ‘Nope. Detective Inspector Fat-and-Grumpy is stuck on the road in from Oldmeldrum. Some idiot tried overtaking a tractor and got smeared all over the front of a dirty-big truck. So he’ll be in a right crappy mood when he finally gets here. Same as usual, eh?’ She smiled, looked him up and down, then patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘Go home.’

  ‘Can’t,’ he said, levering himself to his feet, ‘got to hand over the Frank Garvie case, and the post mortem’s at ten.’ And Jackie was supposed to be on a day off today, so he didn’t want to go back to the flat.

  ‘Aye … Well, have a shower then. You smell like day-old curry.’

  His hair was still wet when Insch arrived, already three shades redder in the face than normal. The inspector bellowed, ‘McRae, my office!’ and stomped past, PCs scurrying to get out of his way.

  Insch’s office was filled with ominous muttering as he skimmed the pile of paperwork Logan had left on his desk the night before. The fat man pulled the last sheet from the case file: Garvie’s suicide note, wrapped in a clear plastic evidence bag. ‘“I’m sorry” – is that it?’

  Logan stifled a yawn. ‘There’s a poem on the back.’

  ‘I’ll bet there is.’ Insch flipped the evidence bag over and read it, his lips moving as he went. ‘Actually,’ he said at the end, ‘that’s quite good.’ He went back to the front. ‘“I’m sorry” … Well, it would’ve been better if he hadn’t left off the whole “for killing Jason Fettes” part, but I suppose it’ll have to do.’ Insch slipped the note back into the folder. ‘What about that encryption key?’

  Logan held up a small evidence bag, the bottom littered with shattered bits of plastic and slivers of twisted metal. ‘We found it in his kitchen.’

  The inspector snatched it out of his hands, frowning at the contents. ‘Can we—’

  ‘IB says it’s been repeatedly smashed with a hammer. Anything on there is gone.’

  ‘Hmph.’ Insch dumped it on his desk and stared thoughtfully at his big Mikado poster. ‘Did we get anything back from Computer Forensics on that email address for Fettes?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Oh for crying out loud! You had Fettes’s hotmail address days ago!’

  ‘I’ve been chasing them up,’ he lied. ‘I was planning on trying again after I’d seen you.’

  ‘Well tell them to get their finger out. Just because Garvie’s dead doesn’t mean we’re not going to finish this investigation properly. I do not want them slipping it to the bottom of the pile. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Post mortem?’

  ‘Ten.’

  Insch glanced at his watch. ‘Then what are you hanging around here for? Get those lazy IT morons onto it! And tell Rennie I want to see him.’

  Logan nodded, feeling something catch fire in his head. Just because he was avoiding Jackie didn’t mean he wouldn’t ‘have words’ with DC Simon Fucking Rennie.

  31

  ‘DC Rennie – what’s up?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Eh
? Downstairs. Getting the teas in again. Do you—’ Logan hung up on him and marched down to the second floor.

  The constable was slouched against the wall, yawning his head off as a kettle rumbled to the boil. He looked up as Logan approached and pulled on a smile. ‘Never guess what,’ he said in a theatrical whisper, ‘Beattie’s missus was up for one of those High Street Honeys things! Look …’ He rummaged around in his pockets, coming out with a small, shiny, dog-eared booklet from one of the more risqué lad’s mags, holding it up so Logan could see the picture. ‘I mean, we always suspected she was a bit—’

  ‘A word, Constable.’ Logan marched straight past.

  ‘Eh? Oh, OK … sure.’ Rennie stuffed Beattie’s wife back in his pocket and scurried after him, down the corridor and into the tiny room Logan had appropriated for the breakin investigation. It was slowly turning back into a cupboard, piled high with files and junk. ‘What can I—’

  ‘I know.’ He kicked the door shut. Ever since he’d found out about them – Jackie and DC Halfwit here – he’d been wondering how he’d feel when it finally came to this. And the answer was surprisingly fucking angry.

  Rennie backed up, banging into the little desk, sending a pile of forms skittering to the carpet tiles. ‘Hey, I don’t know what—’

  Logan grabbed him and shoved him up against the wall. ‘I trusted you!’

  The constable’s eyes went wide, words falling out of him, ‘Look, it wasn’t my idea, we—’

  ‘Don’t you bloody—’ He curled his right hand into a fist.

  ‘It was Insch! He made us do it!’

  For a moment Logan forgot to breathe. ‘Insch? What the hell does—’

  ‘We’re supposed to take turns—’

  ‘TAKE TURNS?’ That was it: Logan was going to smack him one.

  ‘But … but I had rehearsals Monday and Wednesday and Jackie was at that party and I couldn’t get to Macintyre’s house in time and—’

  ‘Macintyre?’ Logan let go of him.

  ‘Watching his house. I couldn’t get there till after rehearsal and I watched the house all night, but he could’ve been out already and I didn’t mean to let him get away and that girl got raped and—’

  ‘Oh God.’ He sat down on the creaky office chair, feeling sick – they’d just been keeping tabs on the footballer … And he’d kissed the Deputy PF! Logan covered his face with his hands and groaned; he was supposed to be seeing Rachael again tonight! Jackie was going to kill him.

  Rennie was still babbling, ‘I wanted to tell you, but Insch didn’t want to get you involved. He … Are you OK?’

  Logan said, ‘No,’ and went back to banging his head off the desk.

  The morgue was surprisingly empty for Dr Isobel MacAlister’s farewell performance: just Logan, DI Insch, and Brian – her floppy-haired assistant. Thank God this wasn’t a suspicious death, or the PF would be here and so would Rachael. And Logan was dreading having to speak to her … A nervous-looking man with a shaven head and a bad case of the fidgets bumbled through from the storage room. ‘This,’ said Isobel, her voice even more disapproving than usual, ‘is Dr Milne. He’ll be standing in for me while I’m on maternity leave.’

  The man raised a twitchy hand and said, ‘Hi. Call me Graeme, I’m sure we’re all going to—’

  Isobel cut him off. ‘Shall we get started?’

  Frank Garvie’s rubber-clad body nearly filled the stainless-steel cutting table. Normally he would have been stripped, his clothes sent up to the IB for examination, but Isobel had insisted that she was going to be the one to peel Garvie’s remains; arguing that the gimp suit was so tight it needed to be seen in context with the corpse. But Logan got the feeling she was just doing it to spin the whole thing out for as long as possible. Making the most of her last post mortem. Never wanting the fun to end.

  First the mask came off, the rubber squeaking as Isobel rolled it back, revealing Garvie’s sallow face. The jaws were slightly open, something red and shiny just visible between the pale lips. ‘A ball-gag,’ said Isobel, getting her assistant to photograph the thing in situ, before extracting it. Next the rope around the man’s throat came off, was dropped into an evidence bag, documented and logged. And then she ran a scalpel along the suit’s seams, the rubber suddenly contracting back to its original size, letting Garvie’s waxy skin bulge out onto the cold metal table.

  Four and a half hours later they were done, and everything Isobel had taken out of the ex-porn star was stuffed back inside, except for his brain – which now hung upside down in a white plastic bucket of formalin – and the six-and-ahalf-inch bipolar probe she’d removed from his rectum: the other half of the electrostim set he’d been wired up to. ‘Well,’ she said, while her assistant and the new pathologist manhandled Frank Garvie’s violated body onto a gurney, ‘I’d say it’s almost certainly self-inflicted. The groin area of the suit was covered in seminal fluid: the electrical pads strapped to his penis and perineum would have milked the prostate. That, the rope round the throat, and the gag make it look like autoerotic asphyxiation taken to its logical conclusion. Bruising of the neck indicates he’s probably tried it before …’ She turned and gazed at her beloved morgue, the water gurgling in the cutting table, sluicing away the last traces of Frank Garvie. ‘I’m …’ a small catch in her voice, ‘I’m going to miss this place.’ Her eyes sparkled, and she wiped them with the heel of her hands. ‘Excuse me.’

  Logan and Insch watched her go.

  ‘Right,’ said the inspector clapping his hands together as the morgue door closed behind the departing pathologist, ‘lunch.’

  ‘Well, you should have got here earlier then, shouldn’t you?’ said the man clattering two plates of microwaved moussaka down on their table. ‘There’s no chips.’ He saw the look on Insch’s face. ‘It’s not my fault! We’re cleaning the fryers for the next meal. I shouldn’t even be serving!’

  ‘So,’ said Logan as the man went back to his dirty deep-fat fryers and Insch went mad with the salt and pepper, ‘how’s the Rob Macintyre case coming?’

  The huge man froze for a moment, then started eating. ‘There is no case, remember?’

  Logan just sat there and stared at him, not saying a word. Giving him a taste of his own medicine.

  ‘What?’ Insch shovelled in another mouthful, chewing. Then another. Before finally coming out with, ‘Who the hell told you? It was Watson wasn’t it? I knew I shouldn’t have—’

  ‘It was Rennie. And I didn’t give him any option.’ Which was almost true. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were keeping tabs on Macintyre?’

  ‘You didn’t need to know. And neither does anyone else, so if you breathe a word of this I will personally see to it that both your testicles end up hanging on my office wall. Clear?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  Insch nodded and polished off the last forkful. ‘We’ve got one car out the front of Macintyre’s house – Rennie and Watson alternating. Not perfect, but it’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘But,’ said Logan as the inspector started wiping the plate clean with a podgy finger, sweeping up the sauce and grease then sooking it clean, ‘you can’t just—’

  ‘I made a promise! Those women deserve justice! Robert Macintyre raped them and I’m going to put him behind bars if it kills me!’

  The head of CID was waiting for them in the Fettes incident room, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded, a smile on his face, and very little hair on his head. ‘Inspector,’ he said as Insch froze on the threshold of the nearly empty room. The handful of uniform and CID were gone, leaving just the skeletally thin admin officer and a pile of file-boxes.

  ‘Where are all my—’

  ‘I’ve got some good news for you.’ The Detective Chief Superintendent picked a sheaf of paperwork from a folder on the table next to him. ‘Garvie was your prime suspect and he’s committed suicide, yes?’

  ‘Yes …’ Insch sounded cautious, as if he wasn’t sure where this was going.

  ‘
And you’re certain he was the one involved in …’ he checked the sheets in his hand, ‘Jason Fettes’s death?’

  ‘Positive. We’re just looking for corroborating evidence, and—’

  ‘Excellent. In that case we’re going to deprioritise this one. Your men have been reassigned to other active cases; finish up the paperwork and we’ll consider it done.’

  The inspector opened his mouth to say something, but the DCS held up a hand. ‘No, don’t thank me yet,’ he reached into his inside pocket, pulled out a crime report and passed it over, ‘soon as this came in I knew you’d appreciate it.’

  Insch unfolded the form, eyes scanning the details, his face slowly splitting into a wide grin.

  ‘Thought so.’ The DCS winked. ‘Just try not to piss him off too much, OK? If I get more than three complaints about your behaviour I’m giving it to someone else. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Carry on, Inspector.’ The DCS picked up his folder, gave them both a jaunty wave and left.

  Logan waited for Insch to explain, but the huge fat man was too busy dancing a happy little jig. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  ‘You’ll never guess what,’ he said at last, face flushed and sweaty. ‘Hissing Sid’s in hospital. Someone’s kicked the living shit out of him.’ He threw his arms open to the heavens and burst into song, ‘Zipidee doo dah …’

  Jackie wasn’t having an affair, and Sandy Moir-Farquharson had been given a good hiding. Logan smiled. Maybe the inspector was right. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad day after all.

  32

  Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. It was a private room, the blinds drawn against the weak winter sunshine, while Sandy Moir-Farquharson seethed. The lawyer’s face was a mess – split lip, swollen cheek, black eye, his nose bridged with plastic and tape, a wad of sterile bandage strapped to his forehead. A morphine drip snaked into his left arm, the right resting on top of the sheets, swathed in a cast from elbow to fingertip. ‘You thee thomething funny inthpector?’ He was missing at least two teeth.