Broken Skin lm-3

by Stuart MacBride

  Rickards walked back to the unfinished road, staring up at the house’s empty windows. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Much the same as every other sighting we’ve had today — bloody useless.’ Logan climbed back into the car and checked the time. ‘Jesus, it’s twenty to twelve! Come on, we’d better get a shift on: Steel will kill us if we’re late.’

  6

  They made it back to the station by the skin of their teeth. The room was already filling up: television cameras, journalists, and photographers staking out their territory among the rows of folding chairs, all eyes focused on the raised stage and table at the front. ‘Thought you was never going to turn up!’

  Logan turned to find DI Steel standing directly behind him, fiddling with a packet of cigarettes, turning them round and round in her hands, like nicotine prayer beads. ‘You get anything from those addresses?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Bugger.’ The cigarette packet got a few more twists.

  ‘Problem?’

  Steel shrugged, looked over her shoulder, then back at the gathering mass of reporters. ‘Just could do with a swift result on this one. We’re keeping a lid on the cause of death, but you know what this place is like: sooner or later, someone’s going to say something stupid.’ She paused and sneaked a glance at Logan. ‘Course, you know all about that.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’ She backed off, grinning. ‘Who cares what the Daily Mail says anyway? Shite, there’s the ACC …’ Logan watched her go, wondering what on earth she was talking about.

  The briefing started at twelve o’clock prompt, and as the ACC launched into his ‘thank you all for coming’ speech, Logan let his attention wander. He wouldn’t be needed until they threw the thing open to questions and probably not even then. So instead he scanned the assembled journalistic horde, looking to see if he recognized anyone. Colin Miller was sitting in the third row, face like a wet fart, mumbling into a small digital recorder. Probably getting ready to give Grampian Police another kicking in tomorrow’s P amp;J. There were a couple of others Logan knew from previous conferences, and some he recognized from the telly, but his eyes kept going back to Miller, his surly expression, and his black leather gloves. Not exactly playing the happy expectant father. The reporter looked up from his Dictaphone and saw Logan watching him. He scowled back, obviously still blaming Logan for the loss of his fingers, as if he’d been the one wielding the poultry shears …

  The ACC threw the conference open to questions and the moment was gone.

  * * *

  As soon as they were finished, Logan hurried down to the incident room. Steel was the second person to make cryptic comments about the Daily Mail and Logan wanted to know why. The copy Eric had thrown at him was still sitting where he’d left it, so Logan skimmed quickly through the paper, looking for DS LOGAN MCRAE SCREWS UP AGAIN! but not finding it. What he did find was a centre-page spread titled, POLICE HOUND ABERDEEN STRIKER! with a big photo of Rob Macintyre’s ugly face and an article charting his meteoric rise to fame; describing Grampian Police’s investigation as part of ‘an ongoing campaign to cripple Aberdeen Football Club’s only chance of winning the Scottish Premier League’.

  ‘Macintyre (21)’, the paper said, ‘was an obvious target for desperate women: young, successful, wealthy, and going all the way to the top!’ But that wasn’t the bit DI Steel and Sergeant Eric Mitchell had been dropping hints about.

  It was a pull-out quote, big white letters on a bright red background: OF COURSE HE’S B****Y GUILTY — THE LITTLE S*** ATTACKED ME! attributed to PC Jackie Watson (28) with a couple more choice sentences further on in the article about how ‘little b******s like him should be banged up for life’. Logan groaned. No wonder Eric said Jackie should call in sick — she was in for one hell of a bollocking when she reported for duty. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. Which would be in about fifteen minutes. ‘Crap!’

  He dialled the flat, hoping to God she hadn’t left for work yet. She hadn’t.

  Jackie picked up the phone with an angry, ‘What?’

  Too late. ‘You’ve seen the paper then?’

  ‘I’ve seen the lounge! We’re living in a bombsite!’

  ‘Oh God … Look, do you remember talking to a journalist?’

  ‘What? I’ve got to get ready for-’

  ‘It’s in the Daily Mail: “Of course he’s bloody guilty — the little shite attacked me”. Sound familiar?’

  There was a moment’s silence from the other end of the phone and then the swearing started. Lots and lots of swearing. ‘Bastard never said he was a journalist!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That greasy little fuck in the pub last night — remember? I told you he bought me a drink, was all “oh, I saw you on the telly”, and “what a great job you policewomen do” and “can I have your phone number?” Bastard!’

  ‘You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?’

  ‘Count Bloody Dracula.’

  ‘Eric thinks you should call in sick.’

  Jackie laughed. Short and hollow. ‘Fat lot of good putting it off will do …’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘So what we got?’ DI Steel loomed over Logan’s shoulder, peering down at the report in his hands, her breath reeking of stale cigarettes and extra-strong mints.

  Logan sighed and started ticking things off on his fingers: ‘Sixty callers say they know who our victim is, but none of them agree. We’ve got seven teams of two going through them. As for the suspect, there’s five men on the sex offenders’ list who look like the e-fit: two rapists, one paedophile, a flasher, and guy who sexually assaulted a priest.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Steel smiled, ‘Makes a change from them molesting choirboys I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t think any of them are likely though: flashers are all mouth and no trousers; the victim was too old to be of interest to a paedophile; both rapists only attacked women; and the priest fiddler’s just come out of Peterhead, so he’s under a supervisory order. According to his handlers he was locked up in his hostel when our guy was dumping his victim outside A amp;E.’

  She stared off into the middle distance for a bit, then said, ‘Better interview them all anyway. Even the priestophile. If nothing else it’ll look like we’re doing something.’ Steel lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘You heard from Watson yet?’

  ‘No.’ As soon as Jackie signed in she’d been escorted straight up to Professional Standards.

  ‘Shame you can’t get that Weegie journo of yours to cover for her.’ But the days of Colin Miller doing favours for Logan were long gone.

  ‘So, you want me to get those guys picked up?’

  Another thoughtful pause, then, ‘No. Let’s go see them. If I’m no’ in the office this mornin’ I can’t have my medical for that stupid “Fit Like” programme.’ She twirled her cigarettes in her hand. ‘Put it off for long enough and they might forget all about me.’

  It took the inspector fifteen minutes before she was fed up with the first rapist. And only seven before she leaned over and whispered, ‘How about we accidentally kick the shite out of him?’ at the second’s house. And the flasher wasn’t up to much, not after DI Steel shouted, ‘Let’s see it, then!’ as soon as they’d been let in through the front door. Iain Watt was probably taller than he looked, standing hunched into himself, thinning brown hair, cardigan, overweight, mid thirties. The archetypal Mr Nobody, living in a big empty house on Don Street that overlooked the main route students took between the halls of residence and Aberdeen University. As Steel stood at the lounge window, a handful of young women sashayed past, laughing and joking, all long hair and unexplored curves. Logan could have sworn he heard her groan.

  ‘So, how’s it work?’ she asked, when the students finally disappeared round the corner, ‘you see them coming, nip out and flash them a glimpse of your “turgid member”? That it?’

  ‘I …’ Watt wouldn’t meet her eyes
, just kept staring at the spotless sheepskin rug in the middle of the room, ‘I’ve had counselling … I’m on pills.’

  ‘Yeah? Can’t get it up any more, eh?’ She drew the curtains, plunging the room into darkness, leaving just a sliver of light that fell across Watt’s bald spot. ‘If I hear so much as a rumour about someone showing their willy off down here, you’re not going to need pills. I’m going to permanently fix you with the toe of my boot. Understand?’

  He blushed, head still down. ‘I haven’t … I haven’t felt the need. I had counselling.’

  ‘Yeah, you said.’ She stood in silence for a moment. ‘So why did you do it then?’

  Logan could see the beads of sweat starting to form on the man’s forehead. The silence drew out and the beads joined up, trickling down the side of Watt’s face. ‘I …’ He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘We know.’ The inspector’s voice was soft, almost sorrowful.

  ‘I …’ His eyes darted towards the door, then back to the sheepskin. ‘But, I …’

  ‘Come on, don’t make me do this the hard way.’

  He buried his head in his hands and started to cry. ‘I didn’t mean to!’

  Logan threw Steel a questioning look, but she just shrugged. Whatever the guy was confessing to was news to her. ‘Why don’t you tell us all about it, Iain?’ asked Logan, ‘You’ll feel better if you can tell someone.’

  Slowly, Watt stood, biting his bottom lip, tears and snot dribbling down his face, mixing with the sweat. His round shoulders shivered as he led them through into the kitchen, snivelling, ‘I didn’t mean to, I didn’t …’ over and over again. And Logan began to seriously worry about whatever it was Watt had done.

  The hunched man reached for a kitchen drawer, but Logan got there first, clamping his hand down over Watt’s. Just in case it was full of knives. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, keeping his voice low and calm, ‘why don’t you let me get that for you? You just stand back … Good.’ Logan pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and snapped them on, before easing the drawer open. Inside was a flashlight, a packet of AAA batteries and a pair of blood-soaked women’s underwear. The kind Laura Shand was supposed to have been wearing when Rob Macintyre raped her. The kind Macintyre was supposed to have taken as a trophy.

  DI Steel said what they both were thinking: ‘Oh fuck.’

  7

  The car park was in shadow, the February sun hidden behind the grey and black bulk of FHQ. Dark and cold. ‘This is going to be a nightmare,’ said Steel, when Logan came out to tell her Watt was processed and ready for interview. She sighed, letting loose a pall of cigarette smoke. ‘Tell you, Insch is going to blow a fucking gasket … Still,’ she straightened up and flicked the last inch of her fag under the Chief Constable’s BMW, ‘no’ really our problem right now.’ She sniffed thoughtfully, then told Logan to go dig up everything they had on Laura Shand: interview transcripts, medical reports, the lot. She wanted to read up on Watt’s victim before they interviewed him.

  Which was why Logan ended up outside DI Insch’s incident room. According to the records department, the inspector had the files signed out — working on the prosecution case and trying to pin everything on Rob Macintyre. Taking a deep breath, Logan marched in.

  It was one of the biggest incident rooms in the place, but it was virtually empty, just a couple of admin officers packing the remnants of Operation Sweetmeat away into brown cardboard filing boxes, clearing the place out for the next major enquiry. And there, perched on the edge of a groaning desk, was DI Insch. He was massive: a big fat man with a shiny bald head and hands the size of shovels, his suit stretched to bursting point. He looked like an angry pink caterpillar about to outgrow its skin, as he shovelled chocolate-covered raisins into his mouth.

  Logan cleared his throat and said, ‘Excuse me, sir, I need to borrow the Laura Shand file.’

  Insch stopped chewing and swung a baleful eye in Logan’s direction. ‘Oh aye?’ his voice a deep, bass growl, ‘Why?’

  Oh God, here we go …’ Er, we’ve arrested someone who claims to have attacked her.’ Logan added a ‘sir,’ for good measure.

  The inspector levered himself off the desk and scowled. ‘Don’t be stupid, Macintyre attacked her.’

  ‘Yes, well …’ Think fast! ‘This guy’s probably lying; we just need to make sure. You know, to prove he had nothing to do with it … which he can’t have if it was Macintyre …’ Starting to ramble. ‘So, if I could just have the file, sir, I’ll get out of your …’ DON’T SAY HAIR! ‘Way.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  Logan could feel his fixed grin starting to slip. ‘Iain Watt, he’s just a flasher. It’s probably nothing …’ He watched as DI Insch’s eyes contracted to little black coals in his angry, piggy face.

  ‘It better be.’ But he handed the file over anyway.

  Somehow Logan got the feeling it would be pushing his luck to ask if the inspector knew what Professional Standards had done to Jackie.

  Six thirty-eight and interview room number five smelt of fear and stale sweat. Iain Watt sat on the other side of the scarred table, his white SOC suit making scrunching noises every time he moved. He fidgeted and fiddled while he told Logan and DI Steel about his time in therapy and how Dr Goulding thought he’d been making excellent progress… Not looking at the clear plastic evidence pouch sitting on the table in front of him. The one with Laura Shand’s knickers in it: pink with grey pigs, stained with dark brown dried blood.

  ‘If you’re making such bloody good progress, how come you had these in your kitchen drawer?’ asked Steel, poking the evidence bag.

  ‘I …’ Watt hung his head. ‘I used to see her walking sometimes. In Seaton Park … I …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Can I have a glass of water?’

  ‘No. Now tell us about her.’

  Silence.

  Then, ‘I thought about it for ages …’

  More silence.

  ‘I’ll bet you bloody did.’

  ‘No! Dr Goulding’s been telling me how I have to make contact with women, try to forge a meaningful relationship. Change the way I think about them. Not just … you know …’ He took a deep shuddering breath. ‘I just wanted to say hello to her. That’s all. Just “hello”, maybe, “nice day, isn’t it?” and maybe she’d say hello back and it would be nice and we’d be having a conversation and it would be all right and…’ Watt’s eyes slid across the blood-spattered material. He licked his lips. ‘And I thought about it for weeks. How Dr Goulding said I had to make the first move. And I practised in front of the mirror and it was all perfect …’

  Another pause, broken only by the metallic whirr of the tapes going round in the recording unit — audio and video, immortalizing the moment for posterity. Logan leaned forward in his seat. ‘But it didn’t go to plan, did it, Iain?’

  Watt shook his head. ‘I said, “hello, nice day isn’t it?” and she didn’t say anything. She just kept walking. Like I wasn’t even there …’

  Steel sighed. ‘So you attacked her.’

  ‘No! No, I thought maybe she misheard. Maybe I had my fly down by accident, you know? Accidentally?’ He looked from Steel to Logan, searching for understanding. ‘But, but I hadn’t … she didn’t like me. She didn’t want to talk to me. I’d reached out, just like Dr Goulding said I should …’

  Steel tried again. ‘So then you attacked her.’

  ‘No. I went home and had beans on toast. Then I read the paper. And they were saying about this guy who goes after women with a knife and how he… how he has sex with them. Sex … And I thought … I … I went out and waited for her … She wouldn’t even say hello…’

  ‘Shite. Could he no’ have just been making it up?’ DI Steel stood, smoking by the open window in her office. Outside, the sun was setting: gilding the granite spines of Marischal College with sparkling light, deep blue shadows creeping in around the edges, ready to smother it all.

  ‘I’ve called
Laura Shand,’ said Logan, from the other side of the desk. ‘She’s going to come in and make a formal ID.’ He tried to look nonchalant. ‘Are you going to tell DI Insch?’

  ‘What, that we’ve buggered his case?’ Steel sighed, then examined the glowing tip of her cigarette. ‘I should probably give these things up. Then again …’ she took a long, deep drag. ‘Fuck it.’ She pulled out her mobile and fiddled with the buttons, before holding it to her ear. ‘Insch? … Yeah, it’s me Steel … Uh huh, I told him to get the files… Uh huh … No. Watt’s copped for it. Macintyre didn’t rape Laura… Hello? Insch?’ She pursed her lips and blew a kiss at her phone, before switching the thing off and sticking it back in her pocket. ‘He hung up.’

  ‘Oh …’ Logan could see what was coming, and didn’t want to be anywhere near when it did. ‘Er, Inspector, if you don’t need me, I think I’d better-’ A loud bang from somewhere down the corridor outside Steel’s office, like someone slamming a door. ‘You know,’ he stood, inching his way towards the exit, ‘I should go get an ID book made up and-’ Too late.

  The door burst open: DI Insch, looking very, very angry, his face swollen and red. He poked a fat finger at DI Steel. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at!’

  She sighed, took one last puff on her cigarette and threw it out of the window. ‘My job, OK? I don’t like it any more than-’

  ‘You had no right interviewing-’

  ‘Watt confessed. His story matches Laura Shand’s-’

  ‘HE’S LYING!’ Little white flecks of spit flew in the evening light.

  ‘Oh grow the fuck up.’ Steel slumped into her tatty office chair. ‘And close the bloody door: you want the rest of the station to hear you acting like an arsehole?’