Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

‘Right,’ said the inspector when the POLSA was finished, ‘even though Sean Morrison’s an evil wee bastard, he’s only eight. He’s no’ been home in two days and it was below freezing both nights. Chances are he’s holed up somewhere warm with a bottle of vodka and a stack of porn, but he could just as easily be freezing to death under a bush. So keep your eyes open!’ She made them all repeat the DI Steel pledge of allegiance: ‘We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!’ then let them get on with it.

‘Do you want to go front up Morrison’s father again?’ Logan asked while the troops filed out of the room.

‘You go: and take Rickards. I’m sick of him moaning on about how everyone takes the piss out of him the whole time. I’ve got an audience with His Holiness the Chief Constable, have to con him into thinking this case is no’ a huge, flaming disaster …’ She dug a packet of nicotine gum from her pocket, popped a couple of pieces in her mouth then chewed, grimacing. ‘We’ll be fine. We’ll find Morrison today, lock him up, and all will be right with the world again. Just as long as the CC doesn’t want to know about all the other cases I’ve still not solved.’

A lid of dove-grey had settled over the town, leeching the colour out of everything, the pale granite buildings merging with the monochrome sky. Rickards made it all the way from the station to School Hill before he started complaining about all the jokes he’d had to put up with since that first Jason Fettes briefing. Logan tuned him out, watching the pedestrians and traffic, looking for an eight-year-old boy in an AFC hooded top.

Rickards was still moaning when they pulled onto King’s Gate, parking uphill from the Morrison house in order to find a space.

‘Look on the bright side,’ Logan told him, ‘at least everyone thinks they’re just taking the piss. Imagine what would happen if they actually knew you were in the scene.’

The constable scowled at him. ‘I am not !’

‘Oh come off it — you really expect me to believe you recognized Jason Fettes’s backside after catching a glimpse of it on a seized DVD? You must have seen it dozens of times to remember it that clearly.’ He unclipped his seatbelt and climbed out into the grey morning. Yesterday’s spectacular view was gone; all the elements were still there, but they were dull and cold. The sea was the colour of clay, a dark smudge beneath a darker horizon. Sooner or later it was going to pee with rain.

Rickards scrambled out after him. ‘I …’ the constable blushed, then shuffled nervously, not making eye-contact. ‘You … you didn’t tell anyone, did you?’

‘Of course I didn’t! You can dress up in rubber and spank each other till you’re blue in the face, far as I’m concerned it’s nobody’s business but your own.’

‘Wish I’d never come forward with that bloody ID …’

Logan stopped and stared at him. ‘You really mean that?’

He sighed. ‘No. Fettes didn’t deserve to be an unidentified body.’

‘No one does.’

The crowd of journalists outside the Morrison place had grown since yesterday — there were even a couple of outside-broadcast vans, their satellite dishes brushing the skeletal beech trees that lined the road. A clot of protestors had formed around the gate, some had even made their own placards: SHAME! JUSTICE FOR JERRY! and KIDS SHOULDN’T KILL! They should have looked indignant and self-righteous, but instead they just looked cold, huddled around a thermos of tea, complaining about the weather. They mustered up a bit of shouting and posturing when Logan and Rickards appeared, playing up for the assembled media. Logan got the constable to cut a path for him, ignoring the cameras and microphones being jammed in his face. Keeping up a constant stream of ‘no comment’ until they were safely inside the house.

Mr Morrison was in the darkened lounge, looking five years older than he had yesterday. Dark circles lurked beneath his eyes, his face pale and fish-like. As soon as the Family Liaison officer showed them through he was on his feet, wringing his hands. ‘Is … have they …’ unable to ask the question.

‘We haven’t found him yet,’ said Logan, motioning for the man to sit in one of his own armchairs, before sending PC Rickards off to make the tea. ‘I just need to ask a couple of follow-up questions.’

‘Do they …’ a nervous cough, ‘do they think he’ll still be OK?’

‘We hope so, Mr Morrison. From what I can tell Sean’s a resourceful wee boy.’ That seemed to calm his father a bit, but not much. ‘We spoke to his headmaster yesterday: he says Sean started causing problems six months ago.’

‘Oh.’

‘But you led us to believe that he’d never been in trouble before.’

‘Ah, yes …’ Mr Morrison stared down at his hands. ‘You see, his mother … well, she worships the ground Sean walks on. She … well, we’ve probably spoiled him a little, but …’ he shrugged.

‘Six months ago. What happened?’

‘September? He stole another boy’s bag.’ Morrison stared at the drawn curtains, shutting out the thin daylight and photographer’s lenses. ‘He’d never done anything like that before…’ A sigh. ‘Then he punched someone. Stole some dinner money. Started playing truant. We nearly ended up in court. Lucky he didn’t get expelled.’

Logan settled onto the couch. ‘He ever tell you why?’

The man laughed, short and bitter. ‘No. Well they don’t, do they? Parents are always the last to know. One minute they’re fine and the next you’re having to apologize to some distraught mother because your kid’s just bitten theirs. Came back from Guildford and he was like a different wee boy …’

‘Guildford?’

‘Well, we — I mean Gwen and I — went to Guildford. Gwen’s dad was going in for a double bypass. Her mum was a mess. We didn’t want Sean to come in case, you know … in case the surgery went wrong.’

Rickards came through with the tea, plonking three mugs down on the coffee table. He hadn’t managed to rustle up any biscuits. ‘So,’ Logan helped himself to a mug, ‘who did Sean stay with when you were away?’

Mr Morrison opened and closed his mouth a few times, then said he didn’t really know. It’d been one of Sean’s classmates. ‘Gwen will know, but she’s asleep … the doctor gave her something to help-’

‘It’s important, sir.’

‘Yes,’ he pulled himself out of his chair, and went back to wringing his hands again, ‘yes, of course. I’ll go … ask.’

The name didn’t match any of those on Sean’s list of ‘friends’ — according to Mrs Morrison, Sean hadn’t spoken to the boy for months; he used to visit all the time, but they’d not seen him since they got back from visiting her mother and father. ‘But you know what boys are like,’ she’d said, sounding groggy, full of sedatives, ‘one minute they’re the best of friends, the next they’ve forgotten each other exists.’ She still had the address, though, which was how Logan and Rickards ended up outside a large granite box of a house on Hamilton Place. A wee boy could have run down here in seven or eight minutes.

‘Uh huh,’ said Logan, staring up at the place, his mobile phone clamped to his ear, ‘how many?’

‘ Mother, father and three children: boy and two girls .’

‘Anyone got any priors?’

There was a pause as the voice from Control checked with the PNC. ‘ Nope …Well, the father was done for drink driving seven years ago, but nothing since .’

‘OK, thanks for-’

‘ They did report a series of break-ins starting five months ago… Oh, and some vandalism in September, October … right the way through till Christmas. Broken windows, paint on the doors, that kind of thing. Hangon and I’ll cross-reference it …’ A longer pause, and this time Logan could swear he heard crisps being surreptitiously crunched. ‘ Unlucky: looks like it was just them. No other reported incidents of vandalism in Hamilton Place. Couple of stolen bikes down the other end and -’