Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

‘That’s fine. Thanks,’ said Logan before he was given the complete criminal history of the street. He stuck the phone back in his pocket. Just after ten on a Saturday morning — if they were lucky, the whole family would still be at home.

The front door was opened by a balding man in his mid-thirties. A little older than Sean Morrison’s dad and a lot heavier round the middle. He took one look at Rickards standing there on his doorstep, and said, ‘About bloody time you showed up: we called Thursday!’

Logan couldn’t help himself. ‘Thursday?’

‘Thursday! The window! Don’t you lot even speak to each other? Or did they just send you out to arse about and waste our time like the last ones? Well?’

Typical: Control was getting ready to list every crime and misdemeanour in the area going back to 1906, but they couldn’t tell him there was an open call at the address he was asking about in the first place. ‘We’re not here about the window, Mr Whyte; we’re here about Sean Morrison.’

And at that the bald man’s face clouded over. ‘We have nothing to say about that little b … about him.’

‘He was your son…’ Logan checked his notes, ‘Ewan’s friend, wasn’t he?’

‘That was a long time ago.’ Mr Whyte stepped back as the first specks of rain began to fall, making tiny water blisters on the bright-blue door.

‘Right up till six months ago.’

‘About that.’

‘Same time you started reporting acts of vandalism?’

He started easing the door closed. ‘Look, I’ve told you we don’t want to talk about that Morrison child. Ewan hasn’t had anything to do with him for months. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go-’

‘This will only take a moment, sir.’ Logan stuck his foot in the crack, keeping the door from shutting. ‘And you wouldn’t want people to think you refused to help us catch Sean Morrison, would you? It might look like you were protecting him.’

Whyte scowled and swore, but he let them in.

Mr Whyte scuttled about the living room, picking up toys and colouring books and piling them on the coffee table, obviously flustered at being outmanoeuvred. Logan let his gaze wander around the room: eclectic ornaments; an upright piano; photos of various sea-and-sand holidays. A large dining room lay through an open archway with a conservatory tacked onto the back, littered with stuffed animals and bits of brightly coloured plastic. Through the glass he could see a remarkably well-tended garden complete with koi pond and waterfall. Very flash. An old man was out in the drizzle, taking a pair of pruning shears to a massive clump of honeysuckle, cutting it back to the bone. Which was not an image Logan wanted to dwell on.

Whyte ran out of things to stack on top of one another, and said, ‘I suppose you expect a cup of tea,’ with enough distaste for Logan to suspect that it would arrive with spit in it. A Jackie Watson special.

‘Actually, sir, I think we’re fine. Why don’t you and I talk about Sean Morrison?’

The man sank into a floral-patterned armchair. ‘He’s been nothing but trouble. I knew he’d end up hurting someone! That poor old man … you should bring back flogging.’

Logan nodded. ‘Next time the Crown Office asks, I’ll be sure to let them know. He wasn’t trouble to start with though, was he?’

Whyte shifted in his seat. ‘I always knew-’

‘Then why did you let him stay here when his parents went down to Guildford last September?’

‘Yes … well … he was a lot better behaved then.’

‘But not after.’

‘Look, I’ve no idea, OK? He was fine one day and the next he was all sullen and wouldn’t do anything. We tried taking him bowling, carting, the pictures, even bloody LaserQuest. And all he’d do was mope about and sulk.’

‘While he was staying here?’

‘Of course while he was staying here. He just kept getting worse; three weeks we had him and it was a nightmare.’ He checked his watch. ‘Look, is this going to take long? I’ve got to get the girls ready for ballet.’

‘Why did he change?’

‘How should I know?’ sounding a bit defensive. ‘Like I say, he was fine one minute, and the next: boom. Something must have happened at school — a bully, or a teacher, or maybe he did really badly in a test.’ He stood, running his hands through what was left of his hair. ‘Look, I’m really going to have to go. If the girls aren’t there for the start of the lesson they send them home. You don’t even get a refund.’

‘OK, I’d like to speak to your wife, if she’s about.’

‘She takes Ewan to five-a-side football on Saturdays.’ He turned and shouted up the stairs, telling his ‘little princesses’ to get their tutus down here or they were going to be late. A stampede of tiny elephant feet rumbled down from the first floor, bringing two little girls in pink ballet costumes and duffel coats with it. They were only five, jumping up and down while their dad tried to coax them into their Wellington boots.

The girls took one look at Rickards, squealed, and hid behind their father’s legs, peering out at the strange policeman in their house. ‘Don’t take it personally,’ said Whyte, shooing his ballerinas towards the front door, ‘they don’t like men in uniform — you should see what they’re like with the postman. Come on girls, last one in the car’s a stinky!’

‘Well,’ said Logan, handing Mr Whyte a Grampian Police business card, ‘if you can think of anything else, let me know. And I’ll need to speak to your wife and son too.’

‘Yes, yes, OK fine.’ He stuffed the card in his pocket without looking at it, then hurried them out into the rain. ‘Molly, darling, put your seatbelt on properly, or the nasty policeman will arrest you!’

‘It’s the kid, isn’t it?’ said Rickards as the Whytes’ car reversed out of the drive, both little girls staring at him as if he’d grown horns. ‘Doing all the vandalism.’

Logan nodded. ‘Bit of a sodding coincidence if it isn’t … and I’ll bet Whyte knows it too. Which makes you wonder why Sean Morrison’s dad played dumb: Whyte would have been round there like a shot, shouting the odds. Only natural.’

‘Doesn’t want to admit his kid’s a horrible wee bastard?’

‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’ They climbed back into the CID pool car, Logan watching the rain make ripples on the wet windscreen, until they were suddenly wheeched away as Rickards started the engine and turned the wipers on.

‘Where now?’

‘Hold on a minute.’ Logan dug his phone out and called Control again. ‘Those vandalism reports from Whyte: Hamilton Place, did he say he suspected anyone?’

There was a pause on the other end of the line, the plastic clatter of computer keys, then, ‘ No names … fingerprints didn’t turn up anything either — always wore gloves … window … car … fish … window again … No match on anything. Investigating officer thinks it’s got to be someone with a grudge .’

‘There’s a surprise. And the last report was on Thursday night?’

‘ Nine pm .’ The same day Sean Morrison stabbed two people. Logan thanked her and hung up, then sat drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

‘Sir?’

‘Back in a sec.’ He climbed back out into the rain, leaving Rickards in the car as he made his way down a little path at the side of the Whytes’ house, through a tall gate and into the back garden.

The koi pond was like pewter, droplets of water making it shimmer. The gardener had finished the pruning; now he was on his knees, digging away at a flowerbed with a small trowel, ignoring the thin rain. ‘Bit early for that, isn’t it?’ asked Logan, walking up and putting on his best friendly smile.