Rickards blanched. ‘Ah, yes … er, sir, I can’ t … I mean it wouldn’t be ethical of me to … they …’
‘Come here,’ said Logan, pointing towards the screen where the hot wax had given way to the leather ping-pong paddle. ‘See that? That’s our victim, the guy who’s backside got turned the wrong way out. You think it’s more important for your bondage mates to remain anonymous, or for us to catch whoever killed him?’
‘Well … I … it’s just …’ The sound of spanking grew louder, mingling with muffled grunts from the shackled and gagged Fettes. And then the strap-on came out. ‘Look,’ said Rickards, blushing, ‘we can probably eliminate half the names, get rid of anyone not into penetration …’ he took out his pen and started scoring his way through the list. ‘Sometimes a top will change their MO to accommodate a bottom’s new fantasy, but most just like what they like.’
He watched until things got serious, then his blush went nuclear. ‘Er … that kind of fisting isn’t all that common …’ More names disappeared. There were only three left after Rickards had finished: ‘Big Dunk’, ‘Dirty Nicky’ and ‘Mistress Barclay’.
Insch was in his office, grinding his teeth as Logan handed the shortlist over. The fact that DI Steel was slouched in the inspector’s visitors’ chair, fiddling about with her bra strap, supervising, probably didn’t help. And Logan knew it would somehow end up being his fault. ‘We can forget about “Big Dunk”,’ he said as Insch scowled at the list, ‘I’ve watched that DVD a dozen times now and it’s definitely a woman in the rubber suit. Rickards says the other two are into the kind of stuff being done to Fettes, but they’re not likely to have screwed up like that. They’re experienced.’
‘Bring them in anyway. Big Dunk too. If we lean on them they’ll …’ The inspector ground to a halt and stared at DI Steel. ‘What?’
She shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing. I just think you’d have more luck playing this one a bit more softly, softly.’
Insch scowled at her. ‘Thank you for your valuable input, inspector, but I’ve no intention of pussyfooting around with a bunch of rubber-clad—’
‘Look, I’m only saying, OK? I’ve met a few of the spanking crowd and they’ll clam up like a virgin’s legs if you come on all rough and ready. They’re no’ wee scroats you can just push about: they’re accountants and lawyers and bloody business analysts.’
Logan had to agree with her. ‘It’s a pretty middle-class thing, BDSM.’
‘Oh for God’s … fine. OK, bring them in and we’ll give them tea and bloody biscuits.’
‘In the meantime,’ said Steel, giving up on her bra, ‘you should get a lookout request going for Jimmy Duff. Watch him though, he’s a slippery wee shite.’
Insch was rapidly heading from pink to purple. ‘Yes, inspector, anything else, inspector?’
‘Oh, aye: I’m going to have to borrow Laz here for a wee while.’
‘But we—’
‘You let me know how you get on, OK? Be nice to see a proper result on this one. No’ like last time.’ She was out of the office door before the fat man started swearing, with Logan hurrying after her, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked, looking back over his shoulder at Insch’s door, almost expecting to see the inspector come crashing out into the hallway and go on the rampage like an angry pink Godzilla.
‘Sean Morrison’s: hate mail, threats, remember?’
‘But, Jason Fettes—’
‘You and I both know Insch is going to get bugger all done till they pick up Jimmy Duff. So what’s the point hanging about watching him screw up them BDSM interviews?’ She slapped Logan on the back. ‘Come on, think how much more fun you’ll have without his fat ugly face looming over you.’
But all Logan could think of was what Insch would do to him when he got back.
47
There was a Bon Accord Glass van sitting outside the Morrison house, a couple of guys struggling with a large sheet of plywood, trying to keep it from sailing off in the blustery wind. Hesitant raindrops made polka-dot patterns on the pale wood as they heaved it up against the shattered window frame and started fixing it into place. The view was stormy today: dark clouds, dark sea, and gloomy buildings, but Logan barely glanced at it as he hurried after DI Steel into the house.
Mr Morrison wasn’t coping well: the bags under his eyes were deep purple, his cheeks sunken and speckled with stubble, hair sticking out all over the place. He let them in without a word, slouched through into the living room, fell into an armchair and stared at the big sheet of plywood that blocked out half the light. A radio on the sideboard burbled out local news into the darkened room: something about floral tributes flooding in for Rob Macintyre, then on to a piece about some local band who’d just been signed to a major record label.
A large lump of granite was sitting in a splash-pattern of broken glass. It must have taken two or three people to heft something that heavy through the double glazing – the thing was huge.
‘Indoor rockery. Classy.’ Steel scratched away at her shoulder, then dug out a packet of nicotine gum, offering it round as if it were cigarettes. ‘Any more hate mail, or was it just the dirty big stone?’
Mr Morrison didn’t even look at her. ‘Someone could have been hurt. Gwen’s not well …’
‘Aye, you’re right. Sorry.’ Much to Logan’s surprise, she actually sounded genuine. ‘You still getting the phone calls?’
He shook his head. ‘We went ex-directory when Sean was … found.’
‘Well, that’s something at least.’ She picked her way across the carpet, glittering shards crunching beneath her boots, and peered out of the one remaining pane of glass. ‘What happened to all the journalists?’
Morrison shrugged. ‘We just want our son home.’
‘Uh-huh. Got any idea who’d chuck a lump of granite through your window?’
‘They’ll let him home to visit his mother, won’t they? She’s not well …’
Steel closed her eyes, rubbing at the bridge of her nose with nicotine-stained fingers as if she were trying to shift a headache. ‘Sergeant McRae, maybe you should go make us all some tea, eh?’ she said at last. ‘And see if you can find any biscuits.’
The Morrisons’ kitchen was a mess: unwashed dishes piled in the sink; overflowing laundry basket; a black, oily crust of burnt-on food like scabs on the hob; stuffed black bags sitting next to the bucket, as if Sean’s dad was scared to go outside and put them in the wheely bin for collection. Feeling nosy, Logan had a good rummage through the kitchen, pretending he was looking for tea bags. The cupboards were bare, not so much as a tin of soup. Like it or not, Mr Morrison was going to have to go outside soon, or they’d starve to death in here. Logan wondered if the man would be safe enough ordering takeaway, or if it would come delivered with a free side order of sputum and dog shit. Nothing like being the parents of an infamous child.
There was a small container on the work surface marked TEA, but it was as empty as the food cupboards. In fact, other than plates, gadgets and cutlery, the only thing Logan could find in the kitchen was a drawer full of envelopes. Some opened, most not. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and pulled one out: YOUR SON IS AN ABOMINATION! THAT OLD MAN DESERVES BLOOD! It went on for a page and a half, but the basic message was that they should bring back the death penalty and give it to Sean Morrison. Even if he was only eight. And hanging was too good for him.
Logan picked them all out of the drawer and carried everything through to the lounge. ‘Sorry,’ he said, setting them down on the coffee table, ‘there’s no biscuits. Or milk. Or tea.’
‘Oh.’ The inspector looked disappointed, but she perked up again when she saw the stack of letters.
‘I found them when I was looking for the teabags.’
Morrison shuddered. ‘We’ve been keeping them, like you said. I don’t open them any more …’
Steel nodded, borrowing Logan’s gloves so she could poke through the pile
, pulling sheets from the open ones and squinting at them in the dim light. ‘Aye, nasty wee shites one and all.’ She flicked through another couple then asked if Logan had an evidence bag on him. ‘We’re going to take these away and see if we can get anything off them. And I’ll get someone from fingerprints to come down and give your rock the CSI treatment. OK?’
Morrison didn’t reply, just went on staring at his boarded-up window.
‘I was wondering,’ said Logan as they stood to leave, ‘Sean’s friend: Ewan. Has his dad been in touch with you at all?’
The man looked puzzled, as if trying to remember why they were there. Logan got the feeling he probably hadn’t slept in a week. ‘No. Not since Sean stopped going round there. Not since we came back from Guildford.’
‘So he hasn’t said anything to you about his house getting vandalized?’
‘Look, I’m sorry but Gwen needs her medication.’ He levered himself out of the armchair. ‘She’s not been well.’
They let themselves out, scurrying through the rain to the car. ‘Can you no’ keep your mind on one thing at a time?’ asked Steel as Logan cranked the blowers up to full. ‘Vandalism, my sharny arse.’
‘You never wondered about Sean—’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, no’ this again: I get enough grief from the bloody social workers. He’s a wee shite. That’s all there is to it.’
Logan pulled out from the kerb, heading downhill back towards FHQ. ‘I don’t buy it: you don’t go from being a well-balanced wee boy to a thieving little thug who knives old men and policewomen for no reason. Something happened.’
Steel sighed. ‘Look, and I want you to pay attention this time: I – don’t – care! OK?’
‘Oh, come on, you’ve got think it’s a bit—’
‘I – don’t – care! Bloody hell. In the good old days you caught the bad guy, you banged them up, and you forgot about them for seven, eight years. Nowadays it’s all “community-fuckingservice” and “addressing offender behaviour”. That social work department needs a stiff kick up the arse with a pointy boot!’
‘Why was he vandalizing his ex-best-friend’s house?’
‘We speakin’ the same language here? Hello? I couldn’t give a rat’s arse!’
‘How come the family never reported him for all the damage he did to their house? They knew it was him. We—’
‘OK! OK, FOR GOD’S SAKE!’ She sat and seethed. ‘Ten minutes. We go round there for ten minutes, and if we don’t find anything you never, ever get to mention that wee shite again? Understand? Like a bloody broken record …’
Ewan Whyte – Sean’s ex-best friend – was still at school and his dad was at work, but his mother and little sisters were in: the girls finger-painting in the kitchen while Mrs Whyte made sure they didn’t do anything stupid, like eat the paint, or start colouring in the walls. DI Steel begged a cup of coffee and a custard cream while Logan went outside to talk to the grandfather.
The old man was in the shed at the bottom of the garden, the little wooden hut smelling of engine oil and hand-rolled cigarettes as he cleaned the blades of an old-fashioned lawnmower. Rain drummed on the roof. He smiled and waved when Logan shouted, ‘Hello?’
‘Here, hold this bit, will you?’ Mr Whyte Senior tipped the mower up on its side.
‘You remember when I was here before,’ said Logan, as the old man started in with the WD40, ‘we talked about Sean Morrison?’
Whyte nodded. ‘I read all about his arrest in the paper – can you believe they used pepper spray on the poor wee soul? He’s only eight … Thanks, you can let go now.’
‘I wonder why your son didn’t report Sean – for all the vandalism.’
The old man smiled sadly. ‘Oh, he wanted to, but there was never any proof, and I thought Sean had enough to deal with without all that. What with his granddad being at death’s door and problems at school. It wouldn’t have been right.’ He levered the mower down from the worktop with a grunt. ‘Old sporting injury. Always gives me gyp when it’s wet out. Now, would you like a cup of tea? It’s no bother.’
They were walking back across the lawn when Mr Whyte stopped at the koi pond. A large orange and white fish broached the rippled surface, then disappeared back into the shadowy depths. ‘My son’s a good man, Sergeant. A better father than I was in many ways. He just gets a bit stressed from time to time. I’m sure he’ll forgive Sean eventually. His brother’s death hit him hard, and Sean looks so much like Craig.’ He shivered. ‘Anyway, what about that tea?’
In the rain FHQ looked even more miserable than normal, the lobby slick with dirty grey water walked in off the streets. Sergeant Mitchell collared Logan as soon as he was back in the building. ‘Hoy, what the hell is it with you and mobile bloody phones? Do I look like your secretary?’ Moustache bristling.
Logan pulled out his phone and peered at it. The battery was dead, but he wasn’t about to admit it. ‘You sure you’re calling the right number? I—’
‘We give everyone a sodding Airwave handset for a reason!’
‘What’s the message?’
‘That Weegie reporter of yours has been on half a dozen times – call him back for God’s sake. I have to listen to his soap-dodging nonsense once more I’m going to kill someone. The rest are in your bloody email.’ He wagged his finger under Logan’s nose like an irate schoolteacher. ‘And switch your bloody phone on, or I’m going to report you. Got better things to do than sod about after you all day!’
There was always a big mess of phone chargers in the CID office, so Logan helped himself to one that fit and plugged his mobile in, then rummaged through his desk until he found his Airwave handset. It was about four times the size of his normal phone, but it would have to do. The battery was nearly fully charged, which wasn’t surprising: he’d barely used the thing; it had spent most of its life switched off in a drawer. He tried calling Miller, but it went straight through to voicemail so he left a message and contact number. If it was anything important the reporter would call him back soon enough. Until then Logan had some digging to do.
*
Over an hour later he was no further forward. As far as the various police databases were concerned, Sean’s ex-best-friend’s family were clean. Not so much as a parking ticket. In fact, the only blemish on the Whytes’ family tree was Craig, the dead brother. He’d got into a fight when he was sixteen and ended up crippling a lorry driver with a snooker cue. The man had accused him of being gay. There was a spell at Her Majesty’s pleasure, followed by a battered girlfriend, therapy, then an overdose of sleeping pills. Daniel had no reason to be jealous of his younger brother – he’d not even made it to twenty-four.
When the Airwave handset started ringing it was such an unfamiliar noise that Logan nearly didn’t answer it. ‘Hello?’
‘Where the hell you been, man? I been callin’ you for ages!’ Colin Miller sounding agitated, which was pretty much par for the course these days.
‘Afternoon.’ Logan tried for one last mouthful of coffee, only to find it stone cold. He spat it back out into the mug. ‘Urgh, Jesus …’
‘She’s done it!’
He peered at the marbled liquid then tipped it into the nearest pot plant. ‘Done what? Who’s done it?’
‘It’s a wee boy! Seven pounds! He’s fuckin’ brilliant! Wee fingers an’ toes an’ everythin’!’
‘Oh …’ There were things you were supposed to say to new fathers: ‘Congratulations. How’s Isobel?’
‘Knackered. Says if I come near her again she’s going to chop ma dick off!’ He laughed. ‘Can you believe it: six days early?’
‘Well, I suppose it’s—’
‘You gotta come see him!’
‘Thing is, Colin …’ Logan looked at his desk. It wasn’t exactly overflowing with urgent actions, just DI Steel’s paperwork – all the things she was supposed to do, but never did. And the sooner he reported back to Insch, the sooner the grumpy sod would shout at him for being dragged away in the fir
st place. As if Logan had any say in the matter. ‘No, sounds good. See you soon.’
He abandoned his CID pool car as close to the maternity ward as he could and hurried in out of the rain. A nurse gave him directions and after a brief shopping spree in the Women’s Royal Voluntary Service shop, he was marching down the corridor, clutching a cat-shaped helium balloon, a box of chocolates and a Hallmark card with IT’S A BOY! on it. As if the parents didn’t already know.
The reporter was waiting for him at the maternity ward door. ‘Laz, my man! Come see the bairn!’
The next twenty minutes passed in something of a blur. The baby, no matter what his proud father said, looked like a shaved monkey, but Logan kept quiet about it and pretended not to notice. Isobel looked dreadful: pale, tired and sweaty, with dark purple bags under her eyes. She clearly wasn’t up to a prolonged visit, so Logan made his excuses, promising to meet up with Colin when the fathers were kicked out at nine, to wet the baby’s head with some thirty-five-yearold single malt whisky the reporter had bought specially.
Outside, the rain had stopped, late-afternoon sunlight cutting through the low clouds, painting everything gold and ochre, casting long blue shadows as it sank towards the horizon. Logan climbed into the pool car and switched his handset back on, trying to remember how to check for any messages and failing abysmally. So he called Control and asked Sergeant Mitchell.
‘For God’s sake! I’m not your—’
‘Bloody secretary, yeah, I know. Look, I’m using the damn thing, what more do you want?’
‘Will wonders never cease? Insch is looking for you.’
‘Any idea what—’
‘No. So don’t ask.’
Logan hung up. It was just on the cusp of five: if he could stay out of the inspector’s clutches for another ten minutes he could sign out and slope off home, putting off the inevitable shouting at till tomorrow. But that would mean going back to the flat and dealing with Jackie … He dialled Insch’s mobile.
‘Where are you?’
Logan thought about lying, but it probably wasn’t worth the aggravation. ‘Up at the hospital.’
Broken Skin Page 31
