Broken Skin

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘What?’ There was a moment’s pause, then the inspector said, ‘How did you get …? No, never mind. Is that slimy bastard there yet?’

  ‘Er …’ He looked up and down the car park, trying to figure out what Insch meant. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Hissing Bloody Sid – who do you think? Soon as the TV cameras turn up he’s all over the place like a foul smell.’

  ‘Ah, right, not seen him yet.’ Which was true.

  ‘I’ve got a rehearsal at half-six, so I’m relying on you: don’t let the wee shite say anything stupid, OK? Last thing we need is more grief.’

  Logan didn’t have a clue what the inspector was on about, but it would probably be bad. It usually was.

  48

  They were gathered outside the main entrance, holding up placards with things like WE LOVE YOU ROB!, GET WELL SOON! and AFC CHAMPIONS! scrawled on them. Floral tributes were piled up to either side of the hospital doors, with the occasional teddy bear dressed up in Aberdeen Football Club colours thrown in for good measure. Half the crowd had their replica shirts on under their thick jackets, and all of them were tearfully singing football songs.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake …’ Logan stood next to one of the uniformed constables stationed at the hospital, staring out at this public display of grief. ‘They been at this long?’

  The constable nodded, her face puckered up like a chicken’s bum. ‘Aye, ever since it was in the papers this morning. One bugger drops off a bunch of manky carnations from a petrol station, and suddenly everyone’s at it. Like he’s Lady Fucking Di or something.’ She pointed off into the middle distance where a group of TV journalists were hanging about drinking tea and coffee from polystyrene cups. ‘And those bastards aren’t helping.’

  It was nearly half an hour before things kicked off: Rob Macintyre’s mum and her grieving daughter-in-law-elect emerging from the hospital blubbering bravely for the fans and cameras. The sun had long since disappeared, but it’d been replaced by the harsh white glare of television lights. Macintyre’s mother shuffled forwards and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I want to thank you all for coming to wish my wee boy well,’ she said, launching into a speech about how her little darling was the best son in the world, who didn’t deserve this, and if anyone knew who was responsible … pretty much the same thing she’d said at the press conference, only this time Sandy Moir-Farquharson was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Good wee boy, my arse,’ said the constable, keeping her voice down, in case anyone overheard. ‘Little rapist fucker got what he bloody deserved. Whoever did him wants a medal.’

  Then the questions started from the press, most of which were variations on the theme of, ‘How does it feel to have your son in a coma?’ as if his mum and fiancée were going to say it was great. Then it was onto Macintyre’s medical condition and what it meant for the wedding plans. Ashley struck a determined pose, one hand over her tiny pregnant bulge. ‘We’re still getting married! Robert will get better – his baby needs a daddy and I’ll always stand by him!’

  ‘Aye,’ hissed the constable, ‘and his seven-figure book deal. How much you think she’s in for, fifty per cent with the mother? They’ll be rolling in it.’

  ‘Well,’ said Logan, ‘the guy is in a coma—’

  ‘Best place for him.’

  The questions kept coming. Up till now, Hissing Sid had handled the media side of things, manipulating, spinning, lying, but without him Macintyre’s mother was forced to take centre stage, and she was doing a surprisingly good job of it too, only wheeling Ashley out for the emotional bits.

  The footballer’s fiancée was in the middle of telling everyone how her Robert wouldn’t hurt a fly when a man lurched drunkenly up from the road, shouting, ‘Fucker deserves to die!’ As soon as he opened his mouth Logan recognized him: Brian something, boyfriend of Macintyre’s sixth victim: Christine Forrester. The one before he’d tried it on with Jackie and got himself kneed in the balls and arrested.

  ‘Here we go …’

  The man wasn’t just drunk, he was pickled: tears rolling down his face, slurring as he shouted the odds about how Macintyre was a raping scumbag who deserved to die for what he’d done. How a coma was too good for him. How he’d ruined Christine’s life. Killed her. The cameras were on him in a flash, capturing his pain for the next news bulletin.

  Logan pushed through the ring of journalists and took hold of the man’s arm. ‘Come on, Brian, you don’t want to do this. Let’s you and me—’

  But Brian was stronger than he looked, breaking free and hurling a barrage of foul language at Macintyre’s family. Logan waved the constable over and told her to take Brian inside. But he had no intention of coming quietly; lunging at Ashley, shouting: ‘You gave him a fucking alibi! You lying bitch! They could’ve stopped him!’ Taking a wild swing and missing. ‘It’s your fault!’

  ‘Come on, sir.’ The constable grabbed his wrist, twisting it up behind his back before he could do any real damage, and frogmarching him away, the TV cameras hurrying after them.

  With the spotlight off Macintyre’s nearest and dearest, Logan suggested it might be best if they went home now. ‘Before anything else happens.’

  Macintyre’s mum glared after Brian – watching him struggle as he was forced through the doors into the hospital. ‘I want to press charges! He’s got no right talking to us like that when my boy’s in a coma!’

  ‘Why don’t we talk about that tomorrow, when everyone’s calmed down?’ said Logan, escorting them through the throng of well-wishers, across the road and up into the ranks of parked cars. Macintyre’s mum pulled out a key fob and pointed it at a silver Audi – one of the footballer’s collection of expensive motors – setting the hazard lights flashing as it unlocked. Obviously the little red hatchback wasn’t good enough for her any more. ‘Nice car. New?’ She ignored him and climbed in behind the steering wheel. Logan held onto the door frame, preventing her from closing it. ‘What happened to your lawyer: Moir-Farquharson?’

  She gave him a withering stare. ‘If it wasn’t for him my wee boy would be fine! I saw the papers – he made them stop protecting Rob.’ Her face was an ugly, hard line. ‘He won’t see another penny!’ She pulled on her seatbelt as Ashley got into the passenger seat, looking shaken by Brian’s outburst. Logan let go of the door and it was slammed shut.

  The driver’s window buzzed down and Mrs Macintyre’s angry face glowered up at him. ‘My wee boy’s been half killed: you should be out there catching whoever did it, no’ going on about lawyers and cars! Call yourselves policemen? You should be ashamed!’ And then they drove off, leaving Logan to think that yes, he probably should.

  ‘Well that was stupid.’ Logan leant back against the wall, looking down at Brian as he cried quietly to himself. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘they want to press charges. I’ll try to talk them out of it, but even if they do make a complaint it’s not going to go further than a warning. So it’s not the end of the world: OK?’

  Christine’s boyfriend didn’t answer, just cried harder. The man was a wreck.

  Logan sighed. ‘Come on, I’ll take you home.’

  Brian had settled down to a gentle, near-silent sob by the time they pulled up outside the house. It lay in darkness, curtains open, lights off, like all the life had been sucked out of the place. Logan waited, but Brian didn’t budge from the passenger seat. ‘Christine will be waiting for you.’

  No response. Logan climbed out of the car. He really didn’t need this tonight – he had more than enough on his plate without having to spend the evening babysitting someone’s drunken, crying boyfriend.

  Brian just sat there, not looking at the house. The front door was lying open. He’d probably forgotten to close it when he staggered out to shout at Macintyre’s family, too pissed to notice. Nothing to worry about. But Logan still felt something cold crawling about in his innards.

  ‘Are you …’ He stared up at the dead-looking house. ‘Why don’t you wait here and I’ll just—’

  ‘Sh
e’s in the bathroom.’

  And the cold thing inside Logan grew claws.

  The ambulance crew declared Christine Forrester dead at nineteen minutes past six. She was in the bath; the water would have been hot once, but now it was cold and deep pink. This wasn’t a cry for help: Christine had done a thorough job. Two long, pale-edged scars stretched from the crook of her arms all the way down to her wrists, several horizontal slashes opening the veins up even further. Just to be on the safe side there were two empty packets lying on the bathroom floor: one of heavy-duty painkillers, the other sleeping tablets.

  It would have been nice to say she looked serene in death, but she didn’t. Her once-pretty eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling, mouth hanging open as if she was about to say something. Like blame Logan for not stopping Macintyre before he raped her. Even the scar that twisted its way down her face seemed to stand out more than it had when she was alive. A trail of pain etched in broken skin.

  ‘You want us to get her out of there?’ asked one of the ambulance men, peeling off a pair of latex gloves.

  ‘No … thanks, if you can just leave her where she is.’ He’d have to call Insch and probably the Procurator Fiscal too, even if it was obviously a suicide. Christine had left a note – apologizing for not being stronger. For not being able to cope. For letting everyone down. As if it had all been her fault.

  Logan couldn’t look at her any more. He closed the bathroom door and showed the ambulance crew out.

  It took three goes before the inspector would answer his phone, an angry, ‘What now?’ blaring out into Logan’s ear.

  ‘Christine Forrester’s dead. Slit her wrists and took a pile of pills.’

  Silence, then swearing and then the sound became muffled, as if Insch had clamped his hand over the mouthpiece. But Logan could still hear him shouting that they should do the finale again, and this time try not to screw it up. Then some crackling, and finally what sounded like a heavy door closing. ‘When?’

  ‘About three or four hours ago. Boyfriend came home and found her in the bath. He drinks all the whisky in the house, then goes up to the hospital for revenge. I think if he could have got into Macintyre’s room he’d have killed him.’

  ‘Bloody hell …’

  ‘You want me to tell the PF?’

  Insch thought about it for a moment. ‘No, I’ll do it … Why the hell did she have to go do something stupid?’

  But they both knew why – because they’d let Rob Macintyre get away with it.

  49

  The funeral directors took Christine Forrester away in a stainless steel coffin. The IB had been in and photographed her body in situ, but it wasn’t the usual bells and whistles job, just the recording of a life ended. Without suspicious circumstances the PF didn’t need to turn up, and neither did the rest of the travelling circus, which made it all the more sad. As if Christine’s life wasn’t worth as much as some junkie knifed in an alleyway for the price of a burger.

  Logan left her boyfriend with a Family Liaison officer and followed the undertakers’ grey van back to headquarters. The day shift was already two and a half hours over by the time he got there, but he had a heap of paperwork to do.

  The CID room was dead, just the repetitive, hungry bleep of the fax machine wanting more paper, spoiling the silence. Logan settled down at his computer and began to type.

  * ‘Oh for God’s sake – not you again!’ Big Gary looked up from his copy of the Evening Express: TRIBUTES POUR IN FOR BRAVE MACINTYRE and watched Logan signing out. ‘I’m going to start charging you rent!’

  ‘One of Macintyre’s victims killed herself.’

  The big man’s face fell. ‘Aw shite …’

  ‘Yeah. So you can stop giving me a hard time. Got enough of that from bloody Eric today.’

  ‘Aye well,’ Gary smiled, ‘don’t take it too personally: his daughter borrowed the family car and wrapped it round a bollard yesterday. She’s OK, but the car’s buggered. Mind you,’ said Gary, leaning over the desk to whisper theatrically, ‘it’s his own fault for letting her have the keys in the first place. I wouldn’t trust her to blow her nose, never mind drive to the shops. Still, that’s kids for you … What?’

  Logan had turned on his heel and was already hurrying back the way he’d come, ignoring the shouts of, ‘Hoy! You’ve got to sign back in!’

  The CCTV team were in the process of following a group of teenagers down Union Street, tracking them from camera to camera as they sung and shouted and staggered their way past the closed shops. Logan accosted the inspector in charge. ‘Can you run an ANPR check on old tapes?’

  ‘How old are we talking?’

  ‘Sunday and Monday.’

  He thought about it for a bit. ‘Don’t see why not, but it’ll take a while.’

  Logan frowned. ‘Any way to speed it up? I only need from about …’ taking a rough guess, ‘call it ten pm onwards?’

  ‘You got the number?’

  ‘It’s a red hatchback, probably registered to Rob Macintyre’s mother.’

  ‘Be quicker to just run the tapes on the MUX and fast forward till you see a red car, then. Soon as we’ve finished with these wee buggers,’ he said, pointing at the teenagers on the screen, ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

  ‘You’ve got to be bloody kidding me!’ said Insch, mouth hanging open, bits of half-chewed jelly babies stuck to his teeth, while the chorus launched into the entrance of the Mikado for the second time since Logan had pushed through the church hall doors. ‘He borrowed his mum’s car?’

  ‘Technically it’s his aunt’s car. Took us a while to track down the registration, but it was caught on camera taking the road south last Sunday and Monday. I’ve got the team going back through the tapes for all the other nights there was a rape – the ones we’ve still got anyway. Tayside are doing the same.’

  ‘And you’re sure it’s him driving?’

  Logan helped himself to a green baby, biting its head off with a grin. ‘Perfect shot of him going down the Drive, and one more coming back about four hours later. More than enough time.’

  The inspector looked confused. ‘But he had that video – the one with you and Watson—’

  ‘All he had to do was change the time on his watch before he shot it. Half three in the morning: I was keeping watch and Jackie was asleep. On the video we’re both awake. I didn’t twig till we traced the car.’

  The singing came to a halt, but it took Insch a couple of moments to realize the chorus were all staring at him. He stood and glowered back. ‘Did I tell you to stop? Keep going! Right,’ he said when they were up and running again, ‘we wait for Dundee to get back to us. Soon as they do: we go to the Fiscal.’

  Tayside Police had promised to call Logan back as soon as they found anything, so he settled down to watch the rehearsal. He had to admit Insch’s cast was getting better, even Rennie, but the star of the show was Debbie – the one everyone said was brilliant. Two steps on stage and she shone – changing from a wavy-haired woman in her late thirties into a bitter, twisted old battleaxe, cheated out of love. What she was doing with the rest of Insch’s performing monkeys was anyone’s guess.

  The call from Dundee didn’t come for nearly an hour. ‘Well?’ said Insch as Logan thanked the woman on the other end and hung up.

  He tried to keep a straight face, but it was impossible. ‘We’ve got him.’

  *

  The drinks just kept on coming. After rehearsal they decamped to the Noose and Monkey, where Insch was in such a good mood he bought a round for the entire cast. Logan found himself sitting next to Rennie and his groupies, while Rickards sat at the far end of the table, deep in conversation with Debbie. Logan wasn’t really listening to Rennie telling his ‘When I Met Billy Connolly’ story, he was watching Rickards laughing and joking with the only decent thespian the production had. Logan smiled, remembering that night in the Illicit Still when he’d seen the contents of her handbag, and wondering if the Rankin paperback she’d been carry
ing around was Black and Blue or something else. Maybe she and Rickards had a lot more in common than anyone knew? It would certainly explain the fur-lined handcuffs.

  The guy who played Poo-Bah sauntered over and cajoled Debbie into doing her party piece – an impersonation of their beloved director. She put her wine down, puffed up her cheeks, lumbered to her feet and harangued them all in a pretty good facsimile of the inspector’s bass rumble for not knowing their bloody words. All the time eating invisible sweeties from an invisible bag. Everyone laughed, even Insch.

  ‘So,’ said Logan, catching Insch after the applause had died down, ‘what’s the plan with Macintyre?’

  ‘Haul his mother and skanky girlfriend in. Charge them with perverting the course of justice, giving false alibis, lean on them. Impound the car, get the IB to go through it with a fine-toothed comb. The bastard may be in a coma, but we’re going to nail him anyway!’ The inspector stood, towering over Logan, ‘Time for more drinks!’

  A bleary face peered out from beneath the duvet as Logan lurched in, clicked on the bedroom light and started to fight his way out of his octopus-like clothes. The socks were the worst. ‘You’ll never guess,’ he said. ‘Go on: guess.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Jackie buried her head under a pillow with a muffled, ‘Switch the bloody light off!’

  ‘Come on, have a guess …’ He threw the last sock at the light switch, but it didn’t work, so he had to turn it off by hand. ‘We got him!’

  ‘It’s after one!’

  ‘Everyone was … was …’ Logan collapsed on the bed and tried to figure out what he wanted to say. ‘He …’ a small belch. ‘You shouldn’t have done it though.’ Having a bit of difficulty with the words. ‘But it was him, so no one cares.’ He lent over and patted her leg through the duvet. ‘You shouldn’t have done it though.’

  ‘You’re drunk. Go to sleep.’

  ‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ he said, then shooshed her, then giggled. ‘I’m a fucking awful policeman.’ And suddenly it stopped being funny. But he was asleep before the guilt could really take hold.