Broken Skin

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan hadn’t, he’d spent the whole evening on tenterhooks, waiting for her to lean across the table and tell Jackie about their curry and snog. ‘We—’

  ‘So tonight, I’m thinking lasagne, red wine and a movie. You can bring a bag of salad and something for dessert.’

  ‘I can’t I … I’m … Look, Rachael, I like you, you’re smart and pretty and fun—’

  ‘If you’re about to say “but” you can stop right there.’

  ‘I’m living with someone. I can’t do this.’

  Silence. ‘I see … So what: I was just a fling?’

  Oh bloody hell. ‘No, it’s not like that, it’s… well …’ Silence. Bloody fucking hell. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You need to sit down and figure out what you actually want, Logan. And don’t take too long – I’m not going to hang around like an idiot forever while you make up your mind.’

  Bloody, fucking, sodding hell. This was just getting worse, so Logan told her about Jimmy Duff and the woman he’d got the DVD from. Asking for an arrest and search warrant.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’ said Rachael when he’d finished going through all the details. ‘All you’ve got is Jimmy Duff’s word this woman’s involved: and he’s a known drug user, pusher and thief. Not exactly a credible witness.’

  ‘He … look, he says he was spanked, buggered and fisted by the householder. It’s not exactly the kind of thing you lie about to make yourself look good, is it?’

  She admitted he had a point, but she still wasn’t going to give him a warrant. Not unless he could come up with something better than the word of some junkie scumbag. And that was the end of the discussion. ‘Don’t forget,’ she said, before he could hang up, ‘I’m not going to wait forever.’

  ‘Where the hell you been?’ asked Steel, shivering at the back door, hands jammed deep in her armpits, still chewing away on her nicotine gum.

  Logan stepped out into the cold, grey morning. ‘We’re not getting a warrant.’

  ‘Didn’t think so. Still, worth a try, eh?’ She turned and bellowed out into the rear podium car park, ‘Come on Spanky, get a bloody shift on!’

  A grumbling PC Rickards appeared from a filthy, battered pool car, carrying armfuls of chips papers and old burger boxes. He’d changed into his ‘going out’ clothes – the crumpled shirt and tie replaced by a black T-shirt and stabproof vest. With the fluorescent yellow waterproof jacket on over the top, he looked like a short, grumpy lollypop man. He dumped the rubbish in the wire-mesh bin at the back of the building. Then went back for another load.

  ‘Honestly,’ the inspector pulled the gum from her mouth and squeeged it into the brickwork by the door, ‘some people treat this place like a tip.’ She grabbed Rickards as he deposited his load of rubbish in the bin. ‘Right, that’ll do. Fun though this is, I’m freezing my tits off here.’

  The address Jimmy Duff had given them was for a small, bland, two-up, two-down on the outskirts of Blackburn. It sat in the middle of a row of identical houses, all sulking away beneath the featureless grey sky. A wee blue mini was parked at the kerb, in front of a neglected garden decorated with gnomes.

  ‘You know,’ said Steel, as Rickards pulled up opposite and killed the engine, ‘I’m thinking of going blonde.’

  Logan checked the details he’d printed off back at the station. ‘Vicky Peterson … You sure you don’t recognize the name?’

  ‘They say blondes have more fun. But they also say two’s company and three’s a crowd, and we know that’s shite, don’t we, Spanky? Three’s a very fine number in the bed department.’

  ‘Er …’ Rickards coughed, then looked back between the seats at Logan. ‘It doesn’t ring any bells, but she might not go by her real name at munches.’ And then his face fell. ‘Not that I’ll ever be able to set foot in one again. I’m—’

  ‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel clambered out into the cold morning. ‘We’ve put up with your whinging all the way from the bloody station: OK, we get it. Your life’s ruined. Everyone hates you. It’s no’ fair. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Now shut up about it.’ She slammed the car door and Rickards sagged even further into his seat.

  ‘She doesn’t understand! Nobody understands … they were my family. The only people who understood what it’s like.’ He sighed. ‘How would you feel if you could never speak to your family ever again?’

  Logan didn’t even have to think about it, ‘Fucking delighted.’ It wasn’t the answer the constable was expecting, but at least it shut him up.

  Steel was waiting for them at the front door, stomping her feet and blowing into her cupped hands, making little clouds of steam. ‘About time.’ She hoicked a thumb at the bell. ‘Spanky, you’re on point.’

  A long-suffering sigh, and Rickards leant on the bell. Brrrrrrrrrrrringgggggg.

  ‘What d’you think?’ Steel asked as they waited.

  ‘Well,’ Logan looked up at the building, ‘I checked with records – no one reported a breakin at this address. Wouldn’t be the first time Duff’s sold us a line. He’s not exactly the font of all honesty.’

  Steel slapped him on the arm. ‘Not bloody Duff! Me: blonde or auburn?’

  ‘Oh, er …’ Saved by the answer to the bell. The door creaked open revealing a familiar-looking woman: slightly shorter than Rickards, green eyes, shiny brown ponytail, overweight, expensive casual clothes, shocked expression—

  ‘Tina?’ The constable waved and Logan groaned. Tina. The intense one from Rickard’s bondage group, the one who wouldn’t shut up about Jack and his Bloody Beanstalk. ‘Er … can we come in?’

  Tina, AKA Vicky Peterson, looked Rickards up and down. ‘You never said you were a policeman.’

  ‘Er … sorry about that.’

  There was an awkward silence. ‘Do they let you take your handcuffs home?’

  The constable got as far as another, ‘Er …’ when Steel poked him in the back and said, ‘Get a shift on, Spanky: we’re freezing out here!’

  Rickards went bright red. ‘Can we … er …’

  Tina rolled her eyes, gave a big, dramatic sigh, then turned and marched into the house. ‘Sure, why not. Wipe your feet though.’

  Logan hung back, cursing Jimmy Duff’s name.

  ‘What’s up with your face?’ hissed Steel as they followed Tina and Rickards through the rubber-scented hall and into a tidy lounge.

  ‘It’s not her. She’s a bottom. Whoever fisted Jason Fettes was a top, or a dom. And look at her: she’s too short and heavy to be the woman on the video. That bastard Duff lied to us.’

  Steel swore. ‘Just what I need, another wild bloody goose chase.’

  ‘So,’ said Tina, striking her pantomime pose again, fist on hips, legs spread wide, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  Rickards cast a panicked look at the inspector who just shrugged and passed the buck on to Logan. ‘Ah …’ he said, ‘we’re … Burglaries.’

  ‘Burglaries?’

  ‘Burglaries. We’ve had a number of breakins reported in the area, and we’re going door to door to see if anyone saw anything. And, you know, if their properties are secure.’

  ‘Oh.’ Tina stood with her head to one side, like a cat. ‘I know Mrs Ross had her car nicked, but I thought that was in town.’

  ‘So you haven’t seen anything?’ Brazening it out.

  ‘Nope.’

  Logan nodded, as if he’d feared as much. ‘Right, well, we’d probably better take a quick look round. Make sure everything’s secure before we go next door.’ And if they were lucky she’d never even know she was under suspicion. After the fiasco with Insch’s star performer, the last thing Logan needed was someone else shouting about sexual bias and making official complaints.

  They started the ‘security inspection’ in the kitchen, then through to the tiny dining room, then the lounge, then up the stairs. The master bedroom was nothing out of the ordinary: pile of books on the bedside cabinet – Marian Keyes, a couple of those true-crime serial kill
er things, and a psychology textbook – towelling dressing gown draped over the back of a chair, one rogue sock poking out from under the bed. Bathroom: the window was open, so Logan got to do his ‘crime prevention’ talk about giving burglars an inch and them taking everything you’ve got. And last up was another small bedroom, completely empty except for a flat-pack wardrobe and that rubbery/fabric odour again, fighting against the smell of fresh paint and one of those plug-in air fresheners. He scuffed his shoe across the carpet beneath his feet, back and forth and back and forth, making a little lozenge of blue fuzz.

  Steel grimaced and clutched at her stomach. ‘Any chance I could use your loo?’

  ‘Oh … yes. Down the hall.’ Tina pointed at it, even though they’d just come from there. ‘Watch the lock though, it’s a bit temperamental. What about you two?’ she asked as the inspector hurried off. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? That’s what you’re supposed to offer policemen, isn’t it? They always do on the telly.’

  Logan nodded. ‘Please.’ Not really paying attention as Tina and Rickards headed back down to the kitchen. Back and forth and back and forth… ‘New carpet?’

  The answer was shouted back up the stairs. ‘Yeah, I’m doing the spare room up, spilt a whole tin of barley white. Ruined the carpet in there and the one in the hall too.’ The sound of a kettle starting to boil. ‘Bloody insurance said I wasn’t covered for DIY, can you believe that?’ Some clanking. ‘What do you both take?’

  Rickards: ‘Just black for me, he’s milk, no sugar. The inspector’s milk and two. You want a hand?’

  Logan stepped back into the spare room. No wonder the carpets looked so clean. He reached for the wardrobe door and pulled it open: one full-body rubber suit; a collection of paddles, buckles and straps; a corset; ball gags, and masks with strange inflatable bits; thigh-high black high-heeled boots; the box for an electrastim set; and a large collection of sex toys. All neatly hung on their own little hooks, or placed on shelves. And there, stuffed in beside the suit, was a full-length, gilt-edged mirror.

  He slid it out and propped it up against the wall, stepping back until … perfect. All the room needed was Jason Fettes and a table to strap him to. It wasn’t spilt paint that had ruined the carpets, it was Fettes haemorrhaging to death.

  The corset would change her body shape, make her thinner, the high-heeled boots would make her taller, just like on the video. And she’d played the lead in Jack and the Beanstalk – give her a stick-on beard and an Irish accent and she’d be a dead ringer for the driver that dropped Fettes off at the hospital.

  It looked as if Jimmy Duff was right after all.

  57

  He sighed and closed the wardrobe door. Insch would have been over the moon that they’d finally caught someone, but as far as Logan was concerned, this wasn’t going to end well for anybody. Tina hadn’t killed Jason on purpose. It was just a case of kinky sex gone tragically wrong, but she’d get dragged up on charges anyway, the trial would be splashed all over the papers, her life would be ruined. And it wouldn’t make Jason Fettes any less dead.

  He headed back downstairs, trying not to hear the Battle of the Somme noises coming from the bathroom as he passed. He could hear Rickards moaning in the kitchen, complaining about being blackballed from the Aberdeen scene, Tina telling him he could always try the Ellon lot instead.

  She looked up, saw Logan standing in the doorway, smiled, and asked him if he’d like a chocolate biscuit. He asked her where she was the night Jason Fettes died.

  The kettle gave a click and fell silent while she stared at him, face going pale. And then it all went wrong. She wrenched open a cutlery drawer, pulled out a huge, serrated bread knife and grabbed Rickards by the collar. He got as far as, ‘What the f—’ before she spun him round. Now she was directly behind him, putting his body between Logan and herself; using Rickards as a shield. She grabbed a handful of hair and yanked the constable’s head back, pressing the blade against his throat. He squealed. ‘Argh, Jesus, Tina!’

  ‘Whoa!’ Logan held his hands up, not moving. ‘You don’t need to do this. Fettes was just an accident. We—’

  ‘I … I’d like you to leave, please,’ she said as Rickards’ terrified eyes locked onto his.

  ‘It’s OK, you’re not in any trouble.’

  She almost laughed. ‘Not in any trouble? I KILLED A MAN!’

  ‘Sir, I—’ Rickards made a strangled noise and stopped talking, a thin trickle of blood running down to soak into his black T-shirt.

  ‘I fantasize about it all the time. All the time! You understand? I watched that film of Jason dying over and over again, till I knew every word off by heart. All the sounds, the screams. Again and again and again.’

  ‘Come on Tina, let …’ Logan had to wrack his brains for Rickards’ first name, ‘John. Let John go. You don’t want to hurt him.’

  ‘No?’ She let go of Rickard’s hair and ran her hand down the front of his stabproof vest, across his belt, until she was cupping him through his trousers. ‘John wants me to hurt him, don’t you John?’ She squeezed and the constable whimpered, closing his eyes. ‘Yes he does …’

  ‘Tina, you’re a bottom, remember? You only did what Fettes asked you – it’s not your fault.’

  Steel’s voice, muffled from upstairs. ‘Hello? The lock’s stuck. Hello?’ The sound of a door being rattled.

  Tina looked Logan in the eye. ‘It is my fault.’ The tears started. ‘I’m a serial killer.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake. You’re not a serial killer, OK? Fettes was into rough sex and it went too far. It was an accident, that’s all. End of story.’

  ‘Hello?’ The rattling got louder. ‘Where the hell is everyone?’

  ‘I am a serial killer! I fucking am! I got the books off the internet – I read them. It’s me! I tried to make it happen again, with the other one, the bastard who stole my bloody stuff, but he wouldn’t die!’

  ‘You’re not a serial killer!’

  Steel had obviously run out of patience. She was hammering on the door, yelling, ‘WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON OUT THERE?’

  Tina stared at him, shaking her head softly. Telling him to keep his mouth shut.

  Logan shouted over his shoulder: ‘Ms Peterson’s taken Rickards hostage. She’s got a knife to his throat.’

  Tina’s eyes went wide. ‘You bastard!’ She clutched tighter at the constable’s crotch and he whimpered. Then groaned.

  ‘WHAT? Fuck …’ The rattling turned to booming. From the sound of things Steel was trying to kick the door down. And then it went silent, followed by a one-sided, muffled conversation. ‘You’re not a serial killer, Tina. It was an accident. Yes you fantasize about it, but it’s a long way from there to holding a police officer at knifepoint! You know what she’s doing right now?’ pointing up the stairs to where Steel was still talking to herself. ‘She’s calling for an armed response unit. They’ve got guns.’

  Tina let go of Rickards groin and fumbled her way round his belt till she got to the handcuffs in their leather holster and pulled them out, keeping the knife against his throat. ‘Wrists together, behind your back.’ The constable did as he was told. There was a metallic click, then another. Her hand worked its way back to the front and tugged at the belt buckle.

  Rickards said, ‘Please don’t!’ but she shushed him, and undid it anyway, then unbuttoned the top of his trousers.

  ‘Come on, Tina, they’re on their way here now. It’s not too late to let John go before this gets out of hand.’

  She put her lips against the constable’s ears as she slid his zip down and his trousers fell round his ankles. ‘They don’t understand, do they?’ She worked a hand into the waistband of his underpants and tugged them down as far as she could reach. Rickards’ erection sprang free and she smiled. ‘But we do.’

  ‘Please—’ Tears sparked at the side of his eyes.

  ‘Shhh,’ she grabbed him and started stroking, ‘you need to be silent unless I say so.’

  ‘But�
�� Aaargh!’

  She dug her nails into his penis. Then went back to stroking it.

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’ Logan really didn’t need to see that.

  A loud bang from upstairs, a pause, and then Steel limped down the stairs. ‘Now what the hell is everyone …’ she drifted to a halt as she saw a shivering Rickards with his trousers round his ankles, his pants round his thighs, and his dick in Tina’s hand. The one not holding the knife. ‘There’s a sight you don’t see every day.’

  No one laughed.

  ‘Firearms team’s on its way, five, ten minutes tops.’ Steel said, digging a brand-new packet of cigarettes out of her pocket and tearing the cellophane off with her teeth, adding, ‘You don’t mind?’ as she winkled a fag out and stuck it in her mouth.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t smoke in my house!’

  ‘Aye?’ The inspector shrugged and pulled out a cheap, petrol-station lighter, her hand trembling as she lit up and sooked in the first lungful of smoke. ‘Well, I’d rather you didn’t wank off my constables with a bread knife. So we’re even.’

  They stared at each other as the silence stretched, then Tina said, ‘I … I was so sorry when I found out Jason was dead. He was… special. I’d never been a top before …’ She shivered. ‘I felt him scream and wriggle and bleed all up my arm. It was so warm …’

  Rickards whimpered again and she speeded up her stroke. Then slowed right down. Keeping him hanging while the blood from his throat soaked dark-red into his T-shirt, making the black material glisten. ‘I didn’t realize till afterwards how special it was.’ She smiled. ‘The power of life over death.’

  58

  The phone rang in the living room and everyone jumped. Steel took the latest cigarette from her mouth, and lit the next one in the chain before dropping the dog end onto the carpet with its friends. ‘That’ll be them now.’ So much for five or ten minutes, it’d taken the response team nearly twenty to get here.

  Tina nodded. ‘What will they do? The firearms people?’

  ‘Well,’ Steel blew a long column of smoke at the ceiling, ‘first they’ll try to negotiate. Then they’ll try negotiating some more. And if that fails, they’ll go in for a bit of the old negotiation.’