Broken Skin lm-3

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan’s unidentified male wasn’t due to be post mortemed till ten am — nearly three hours away — but there was a shedload of paperwork to be filled in first.

  He finished his tea and went to get dressed.

  The morgue at FHQ shone with an antiseptic fervour. Sparkling white tiles covered the walls and floor, glinting cutting tables sat beneath polished extractor fans, the room lined with pristine work surfaces. Logan changed into the compulsory white over suit with hood and blue plastic booties before pushing into the sterile area. The guest of honour was already laid out, flat on his back in all his pasty, bloodstained glory while an IB photographer clicked and flashed his way around the body, documenting everything as another technician used sticky tape to remove any trace evidence he could find. A slow-motion dance complete with disco strobe.

  Doc Fraser was slumped over one of the other cutting tables, a copy of the P amp;J spread out on the stainless-steel surface in front of him. He looked up, saw Logan walking in and asked him for an eight letter word beginning with B.

  ‘No idea. Who’s SIO?’

  The pathologist sighed and started chewing on the end of his pen, ‘God knows; I’m just corroborating today. The Fiscal’s about somewhere, you can ask her if you like. No one tells me anything.’

  Logan knew the feeling.

  He found the Procurator Fiscal out in the viewing room, pacing back and forth, looking as if she was talking to herself until he saw the little Bluetooth headset attached to her ear. ‘No,’ she said, fiddling with a palmtop computer, ‘we need to make sure the case is airtight. I don’t want to be fielding questions when I’m working on my tan. Now what about those Bridge of Don burglaries? …’ He left her to it.

  It wasn’t long before the answer lurched through the morgue doors, hauling at the crotch of her SOC coveralls and coughing as if she was about to bring up a lung. DI Steel, their senior investigating officer. A five-foot-nine, wrinkly, middle-aged disaster area, smelling of stale cigarette smoke and Chanel Number Five. ‘Laz!’ she said, grinning as soon as she clapped eyes on Logan, ‘This no’ a bit fresh for one of your corpses? Thought you liked them a bit more ripe?’

  Logan didn’t rise to it. ‘He was found outside A amp;E last night, bleeding to death. No witnesses. Something horrible’s happened to his backside.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ The inspector raised an eyebrow. ‘Medical horrible, or “I was hoovering naked and fell on a statue of Queen Victoria” horrible?’

  ‘Queen Victoria.’

  Steel nodded sagely. ‘Yeah — I wondered why they gave me this one. We about ready to get started? I’m bursting for a fag.’

  Doc Fraser looked up from his crossword, pulled the pen out of his gob and asked Steel the same question he’d asked Logan. The inspector cocked her head on one side, thought about it, frowned, then said, ‘Buggered?’

  ‘No, it’s got an S in it. We’re waiting for Dr MacAlister.’

  DI Steel nodded again. ‘Ah, it’s going to be one of those post mortems.’ She sighed. ‘Come on then, Laz: let’s hear it.’ So Logan talked her through the statements he’d taken last night while the victim was in surgery, then the paperwork that had come down from the hospital with the body. ‘What about the CCTV?’ she asked when he’d finished.

  ‘Nothing we can use. The car’s number plates are unreadable — probably covered with something — driver wore a hooded top and baseball cap.’

  ‘Ah, thug chic. Got a make on the car?’

  ‘Fusty-looking Volvo estate.’

  Steel blew a long, wet raspberry. ‘So much for an easy case. Well, maybe Madame Death can tell us something, presuming she ever bloody gets here!’ Ten minutes later and the inspector was threatening to start singing Why Are We Waiting?

  Dr Isobel MacAlister finally lumbered into the morgue at twenty past ten, looking flushed. She ignored DI Steel’s derogatory round of applause and cry of ‘Thar she blows!’ and scrubbed up, needing help to get into her cutting gear, the green plastic apron stretched tight over her enormous stomach.

  ‘Right,’ she said, clicking on the Dictaphone, ‘we have an unidentified male — mid to late twenties …’

  It was weird watching a heavily pregnant pathologist at work. Even weirder: the thing growing in her womb could have been Logan’s, if things had turned out differently. But they hadn’t. So instead of being filled with paternal pride, he was standing here watching Isobel slice up yet another dead body, feeling a strange mix of regret, and relief. And then nausea as she got her assistant to heft out the corpse’s urogenital block for her.

  They finished with tea and biscuits in the pathologists’ office, with Isobel sitting behind the desk and complaining about the heat, even though February was putting on its usual performance outside the window, hurling icy rain against the glass.

  ‘Looks like something pretty big’s been repeatedly forced inside him,’ she said, checking her notes, ‘between four and five inches in diameter, and at least fourteen inches long. The sphincter’s extensively damaged and the lower intestine was torn in four places. He lost too much blood, pressure dropped, heart stopped. Death was due to severe shock. There was nothing the hospital could have done.’ She shifted in her seat, trying to get closer to the desk, but her pregnant bulge got in the way. ‘Some of the burn marks on the torso have a crust of wax, but there’s half a dozen cigarette burns too. Most of the contusions are superficial.’

  DI Steel helped herself to a Jaffa Cake, mumbling, ‘What about the ligature marks?’ with her mouth full.

  ‘Looks like thick leather straps with metal buckles. There’s quite a bit of chafing about the edges, so I’d say he struggled a fair bit.’

  Steel snorted, sending crumbs flying. ‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Someone turns your arse inside out.’

  That got her a scowl and a chilly silence. ‘I’ll need to wait for the blood toxicology to come back,’ Isobel said at last, ‘but I found a significant quantity of alcohol in the stomach and partially digested pills as well.’

  ‘So, whoever it was got him pissed and doped-up first, then strapped him down and buggered him to death with a Wellington boot. And they say romance is dead.’

  Isobel’s scowl got twenty degrees colder. ‘Any other startling insights you’d like to share with us, Inspector?’ Steel just grinned back at her and polished off another biscuit. Then the Procurator Fiscal confirmed that they’d be treating this case as murder, before telling them all about her upcoming holiday to the Seychelles. A substantive depute would be in charge while she was away soaking up the sun and cocktails, but they were to try not to break the girl, or there’d be trouble when she got back — looking pointedly at DI Steel. The inspector pretended not to know what she was talking about.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Steel said as they ran up the stairs from the morgue to the rear podium car park, sploshing through ankle-deep puddles, making for the back door to FHQ. ‘Why can’t they open the internal door when it’s pishing with rain?’ There was only one indoor route through from the main building to the morgue, but it was reserved for victims’ relatives and the Chief Constable. The rank and file had to brave the weather.

  She shook herself like a terrier, then ran a hand through her unruly hair, spraying water onto the linoleum. At forty-three she looked sixty-five — wrinkled, pointy face, saggy neck like a turkey, hair designed to startle old ladies, fingers stained a fetching shade of nicotine yellow. ‘Come on,’ she said, leading the way towards the lifts, ‘you can get the teas in while I have a fag. And get some bacon butties too — I’m starving. Bastard post mortem went on for ages.’

  Logan backed into DI Steel’s office, balancing two mugs of tea and a couple of tinfoil parcels on a manila folder. The inspector was standing with her back to the door, staring out of the open window, a cigarette smouldering away between her fingers — completely ignoring the ban on smoking in the workplace — the bitter tang of Benson amp; Hedges curling out into the rain. ‘You know,’ she said, as Logan eased
the door closed and dished out the refreshments, ‘oh, ta … sometimes it pisses me off that Fatty Insch gets all the big cases: all the high-profile stuff, like this serial rape thing.’ She peeled open her tinfoil-wrapped buttie, eating and smoking and talking all at the same time. ‘And then I see that shite and think, thank Christ.’

  Logan joined her at the window. Down in the front car park there was a clump of outside-broadcast vans. A little knot of cameras and journalists were sheltering under umbrellas in the steady downpour, the occasional flash illuminating the concrete and granite like lightning. ‘Rob Macintyre.’

  ‘Aye: Robby Bobby “Goalden Boy” Macintyre. Could Insch no’ find someone else to be his bloody rapist? Macintyre’s a local sodding hero.’ She took a huge bite, sending a cascade of white flour spilling down the front of her charcoal-grey suit. ‘Tell you, it’s a PR disaster waiting to happen. Little bugger’s got his publicist working overtime making sure everyone stands up and tells the world what a great guy he is and how he’d never do anything naughty like rape seven women at knifepoint …’ She sucked the last gasp from her cigarette and flicked it out into the downpour. Logan couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked as if she was aiming for the man from Sky News. It was too far down to tell if she got him or not.

  She took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. ‘We get a nice, juicy murder and Insch gets a world of shite.’ She shrugged. ‘Still, rather him than us, eh?’

  ‘I’m getting the media department to run off some “Do you know this man” posters for our body,’ Logan said, ‘and I got the report on his clothes back from Forensics.’

  A long, silent pause. Then, ‘Well, tell me what they said for God’s sake, can you no’ see I’m busy?’ She settled back behind her cluttered desk, put her feet up, and lit another cigarette, blowing a long stream of smoke at the ceiling.

  ‘Right.’ Logan opened the manila folder and skimmed through it, making for the conclusions at the end. ‘Blah, blah, blah, here we go: they think the blood in the clothes and blanket are all from the same person — blood type matches, but the mobile DNA thing’s on the blink, so we’ve had to send samples off to Dundee to be sure. They’re pretty certain it’s all his though.’

  ‘Genius.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘They tell us anything we don’t already know?’

  ‘They got fibres from the blanket he was wrapped in, so if we get a suspect they can run a match, but-’

  ‘But bugger all that’ll help us actually find out who he is.’

  ‘Interesting thing is the list of clothing.’ Logan handed over the report and the inspector pursed her lips, reading, then rereading it.

  ‘Come on then, Miss Marple,’ she said after the third time through, ‘dazzle me with your brilliance.’

  ‘Trousers, sweatshirt and blanket. No socks, no underwear, no jacket. No personal effects — no keys, no coins, not even an old hanky. He’s been naked and someone’s dressed him as quickly as possible, emptied his pockets, bundled him into the car and-’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Steel threw the report back across the table at him. ‘Of course he was bloody naked, you don’t bondage someone up and bugger them to death fully dressed, do you?’

  ‘Oh. Well, no, I suppose …’

  She watched him squirm for a moment, then grinned. ‘See, this is why they pay me the big bucks.’

  ‘Anyway,’ he could feel a blush creeping up his cheeks, ‘the killer probably wrapped him in the blanket to keep blood off the car seats, but the thing was soaked through. The back seat will be saturated.’

  ‘Which is no sodding good to us unless we find the car. Get the labs to see if they can do something with the number plate on that surveillance tape. And set up a briefing: couple of dozen uniform, some CID, you know the drill. And we’ll need a HOLMES suite, and an incident room, and …’ She frowned. ‘Anything I’ve forgotten?’

  Logan sighed — as usual he was going to be left doing all the work. ‘Press release.’

  ‘Bingo!’ She beamed. ‘Press release. And while you’re at it, see if they can get us a slot on the news as well — we’ll stick up the victim’s face, you ask people to phone in, and I’ll chat up that girl does the weather …’ The inspector stared off into the distance for a happy moment, then snapped back into the here and now. ‘I’ve got some calls to make.’ She made wafting gestures, ‘Go on, shoo, out, run along, go. Bugger off.’

  Logan picked up his half-drunk cup of tea and left her to it.

  4

  Three twenty-nine pm — the car park round the back of Brimmond Hill. Alpha Nine Six scrunched to a halt between two huge waterlogged potholes, windscreen wipers going full-tilt in the rain. The top of the hill was lost in the low cloud, the gorse, heather and bracken battered and dripping. The driver pulled on the handbrake. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Rock, paper, scissors?’

  ‘OK … one, two three … shit.’ Scowling out of the windscreen at the downpour. ‘Best of three?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, OK … bloody hell …’ The driver cracked the door open, letting in the roar of the rain, drowning out the constant background chatter of the radio. He pulled on his waterproof jacket, turned the collar up, pulled his hat down low over his ears, and jumped out of the car, swearing as he ran across to the burnt-out wreck opposite, trying to avoid the puddles.

  The patrol car window wound halfway down, and the PC in the passenger seat shouted, ‘Well?’

  Grumbling, the driver clicked his torch on and peered into the blackened shell. There wasn’t much left: the skeletal remains of seats, their wire frames caked with lumps of grey and black ash; dashboard reduced to a buckled sheet of sagging metal; the tyres a slough of vitrified rubber. All the glass was gone. He ran the torch’s beam round the inside, just in case. Anything in there was long gone. ‘Nothing. Just a crappy old Volvo no one loves any more.’

  Steel was back at her office window, peering out at the cluster of journalists and TV cameras far below when Logan returned from getting everything organized. ‘Briefing’s at four,’ he said, slumping into the threadbare visitors’ chair. ‘You’ve got sixteen uniform, five CID and about eight admin. And I got the IB to take a good head-and-shoulders shot of the body with his eyes open, they’re going to touch it up on the computer so he doesn’t look so dead.’ Logan yawned, but Steel didn’t seem to notice, just sparked up another cigarette and went back to blowing smoke out into the rain. ‘Press release will be ready about …’ he checked his notes, ‘five, but they don’t think they can get you on the news tonight. Not with this Rob Macintyre thing going on.’

  She nodded. ‘No room on the box for two Aberdeen stories eh? Shame …’ She sighed. ‘I’d have loved to show that blonde weathergirl what a real wet front looks like … Still, the circus down there’s getting geared up for something. Want to go watch? If we’re lucky that grumpy, fat bastard Insch will punch someone.’

  It was too damp for a real media frenzy, instead they all huddled under their umbrellas, pointing cameras, microphones and digital recorders at the FHQ car park as a black BMW pulled up and a smug-looking bastard climbed out into the rain and a barrage of questions. Sandy Moir-Farquharson, defence lawyer extraordinaire: tall, well-dressed, with greying hair, a slightly squint nose, and a junior to hold his brolly for him. Rob Macintyre got out of the back seat and bounced along beside him, grinning from ear to ear — despite the swollen lip Jackie had given him — in a very expensive-looking charcoal-grey suit, his trademark ruby earstud twinkling in the camera lights. It was a blatant rip-off of other, much more famous footballers from the English leagues, only Macintyre’s was red, Aberdeen Football Club’s team colour. Finally a large, grey-haired woman emerged from the car wearing a triumphant, satisfied smile — the one who’d been shouting at Big Gary last night.

  Standing beneath an umbrella purloined from the lost and found, Logan grimaced. ‘This doesn’t look good.’

  DI Steel snorted, arms crossed, face screwed up tight. ‘Nev
er does when Hissing Bloody Sid’s involved.’

  The lawyer raised his arms and the crowd of journalists fell quiet. ‘I am delighted to say that the court has agreed to give my client Mr Macintyre the opportunity to challenge these ridiculous charges in a court of law.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Steel dug in her pockets and came out with a packet of cigarettes, ‘we’re prosecuting the little sod, and he’s making out it’s all their idea!’

  ‘Mr Macintyre’s innocence,’ said the lawyer, ‘will be proved beyond a shadow of a doubt, and Grampian Police will be forced to put an end to their hateful campaign to ruin his reputation once and for all. We can only assume that someone up there,’ he pointed at the looming black-and-white hulk of FHQ, ‘really doesn’t want Aberdeen to win the Scottish Premier League!’ That actually got a laugh. And then the questions started, all of them fielded by Sandy Moir-Farquharson before his client could open his mouth: ‘Will you be playing this Saturday against Falkirk?’ ‘What does your fiancee say about all this?’ ‘Is it true you’ve been offered a place with Manchester United?’ Only one journalist asked about this not being the first time Macintyre had been accused of rape, but Sandy ignored her, answering a much more cuddly question about Macintyre’s upcoming marriage instead. The only person who seemed to have noticed was Macintyre’s mum, who spent the rest of the conference scowling furiously at the woman who’d dared to bring up her son’s past.

  The lawyer took a couple more questions, then led a smiling Macintyre — and his mum — back to the waiting BMW. They disappeared in a flurry of flash photography. DI Steel took a long sniff, then spat out into the rain. ‘Slimy wee shite. And we thought Insch was in a bad mood before. He’ll be fucking apoplectic now.’ She set a lighter to her cigarette, the smoke getting trapped inside the brolly. ‘Speak of the devil …’