Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

He listened to Mrs Cochrane make an impassioned plea for anyone who knew where her husband’s killers were to come forward and tell the police, tears sparking in the harsh media spotlight, running down her pale, lined cheeks. And then the Chief Constable thanked her for her bravery and threw the briefing open to questions.

Mostly it was the usual: ‘Do you have any suspects?’ ‘Are you anticipating any arrests?’ Then the woman from Sky News asked the Chief Constable about the trial of Iain Watt: was he going to be charged with the other rapes supposedly committed by Rob Macintyre?

The Chief Constable glowered at her — the ‘Granite City Rapist’, as the papers had started calling Watt, was a something of a sore point. And with that, the press briefing was brought to an abrupt close.

The sun was hot enough to turn the car into a microwave oven, but when Logan clambered out into the late February morning it was so cold his nipples instantly pointed due north. His back was killing him: the bruises where Sean Morrison had kicked and battered him spreading like green and purple ink on wet blotting paper. King’s Gate stretched downhill from the King’s Cross roundabout on Anderson Drive to where they used to film The Beechgrove Garden , and the view from the top of the hill was stunning — a slice of Aberdeen: grey granite shining in the sunshine, dark slate roofs, church spires, the North Sea glittering like a vast, deep-blue sapphire, a neon-orange supply vessel slowly making its way south towards the harbour. Just a shame it was bloody freezing.

‘Jesus Effing Christ!’ DI Steel stamped her feet, swore, dug out a cigarette and lit it, the smoke whipped away by the icy wind. ‘My fridge is warmer than this!’

Logan ignored her, looking down the street at the Morrison residence — a large granite two-storey job with a huge BMW 4x4 sitting outside. Not exactly the type of place you’d expect a nasty, thieving, murderous little bastard like Sean Morrison to come from. Parked cars lined either side of the road — many of them containing bored-looking journalists, cameras and notebooks at the almost ready. No one seemed to have noticed that the inspector and Logan had arrived yet. ‘You want me to get started?’ he asked, one hand rubbing the small of his aching back. The painkillers they’d given him last night were about a fifth of the strength he was used to — might as well have been Smarties for all the good they were doing. At least they would have tasted better.

Steel shivered, hands jammed deep into her armpits, puffing away on her cigarette like mad. ‘Give us a minute … I only get one fag this morning and I’m going to bloody well enjoy it if it kills me.’

Logan sighed and made a show of checking his watch. ‘Nearly half eight — we’re going to have to get a shift on if we’re going to make the PM.’

‘Nicotine patches my arse …’ The inspector squinted into the bright sunshine ‘Anyway, think I’m going to give this one a miss. Not like we don’t know what killed the old guy, is it?’

‘Suppose not.’ He watched the bright orange supply boat disappear behind the tombstone slab of St Nicholas House. ‘What do you want to do about Jason Fettes?’

‘What about him? The whole bloody thing’s dead in the water. No one’s got any idea who did it, and no one cares either. Except the bloody parents and those fuckers at the P amp;J.’ Colin Miller leading another ‘campaign for justice’ as an excuse to give Grampian Police an extra kicking. The inspector scowled, cigarette smouldering away between her lips. ‘We’ve got no evidence, no witnesses and no bloody clue.’

‘I know, but you’re supposed to do an update for the ACC today, remember?’

‘Is that today?’ Steel swore. ‘Tell you, between that, this thing, and those bloody housebreakings, my crime statistics look sodding awful. Still,’ the cigarette was flicked out into the middle of the road, where it got crushed beneath the wheels of a number twenty-three bus, ‘at least we’re guaranteed a quick result this time.’

Logan had heard that one before.

They marched down the pavement, making for the Morrisons’ front door where a lone uniformed officer stood looking cold and miserable. They were still one house away when a baldy wee man appeared in front of them, clutching a digital recorder. ‘Ken Inglis — Radio Scotland. Inspector, have you found the boy yet?’ It was as if someone had dropped a dead zebra in a tank of piranha: as soon they smelled blood there were reporters everywhere.

‘No’ yet,’ said Steel in a sudden barrage of camera flashes. ‘But we are pursuing several lines of enquiry. Now if you’ll excuse-’

‘ ITN News : is it true Morrison’s been in trouble with the police before?’

‘I really can’t comment on any-’

‘Has Constable Nairn recovered consciousness yet?’

‘Joanna Calder — Guardian : How worried are you for the boy’s safety?’

Steel gave the uniformed PC guarding the Morrisons’ house a wave and he shambled into action, forcing his way through the cameras and questions, holding them back and keeping them there, so Logan and Steel could get to the front door. Right at the very edge of the pack, dour-faced civilians stood, glowering after them. None of them carried placards yet, but it would only be a matter of time.

Logan leaned on the bell.

Inside, chez Morrison was like an advert for furniture polish. Everything gleamed. Logan stood by the fire, roasting the backs of his legs, while Steel sat on the couch, working her way through a china mug of tea and a couple of digestive biscuits. Mrs Morrison was on the other sofa looking plump, startled and a lot older than she should have at thirty-two, while her husband paced, wringing his hands, flipping from worried to angry to apologetic and back again. ‘Sean’s never done anything like this before!’ he said, and the inspector snorted.

‘I should bloody hope not! Knifing seventy-year-old men and police officers isn’t something you want becoming a habit.’

Logan tried a slightly less confrontational approach. ‘And Sean’s not been home since yesterday?’

The mother shook her head, curly brown hair bouncing around her oval face. Puffy, pink eyes sparkling with tears. ‘He went out to school in the morning and we haven’t seen him since! All night! What if something’s happened to him? What if he’s hurt?’

Steel put her mug down on the coffee table. ‘I think we need to be more concerned about him hurting other people.’

‘He’s a good boy!’

‘He’s just killed someone!’

The father scowled at her. ‘He’s only eight.’

‘And Jerry Cochrane was seventy-two, but he’s still dead. And we’re bloody lucky he didn’t kill that policewoman too! Your darling wee son is a-’

Logan cut her off before she could say anything else. ‘Mr Morrison, have you checked the outbuildings in case Sean snuck back last night?’

‘Fat chance of that happening with all those bloody journalists camped out on our doorstep! It’s like a-’

‘Mr Morrison-’

‘Yes. Of course I checked , and so did your damn search team — twice last night and once this morning.’

‘And you can’t think of anywhere else he might have gone? A friend, or a relative: anything like that?’

‘Why aren’t you out there looking for him? It was below freezing last night! He’s only eight! He-’ The phone rang and Mrs Morrison’s eyes went wide, bottom lip trembling. Backing away from the thing. Her husband just stared at it.

Steel gave it five rings before asking, ‘You going to answer that, then?’

‘Er … yes …’ Mr Morrison licked his lips, wrung his hands, and picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’ He recoiled back from the earpiece, then slammed the handset back down into its cradle.