Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

Instead, Insch screwed his face up, stuck two fingers against the throbbing side of his neck and hissed air in and out through his nose. The trembling subsided and Insch’s breathing returned to normal, his face slowly losing its dark purple tinge.

‘Er …’ Logan knew he was probably going to regret asking this, ‘are you OK, sir?’

‘The PF,’ said Insch, his voice eerily level, ‘feels that without any evidence directly linking Macintyre to the rape, we can’t bring him in for questioning or it’ll just look like harassment. If we want to speak to him, we’ll have to go round and ask him nicely .’ The calm act was starting to crumble a bit at the end. ‘But right now, I need a drink.’

A patrol car roared by on Broad Street while Logan followed the inspector’s massive bulk down a steep flight of stairs to the Illicit Still’s subterranean bar. They’d had to walk past FHQ to get here, Insch wrapped up in a brooding silence, while Logan tried to uncrumple the files and get them back into some semblance of order. The pub was about the same distance from headquarters as Archibald Simpson’s, but wouldn’t be full of off-duty policemen. Which was why Insch had chosen it for this post-rehearsal get-together. Inside, the place looked like it had been designed by someone with a serious banister fetish — they were everywhere, carving the place up into little seating areas, full of students and people with trendy haircuts.

Logan followed Insch up to the bar. ‘What do you want to do about Macintyre then?’ he asked while the inspector ordered their drinks, then sent the barman hunting for crisps and peanuts.

‘We go see him. Smile politely. Ask our questions. And figure out how to nail the ugly wee bastard. See if we can get the ACC to authorize a low-key surveillance operation. Macintyre’s going to go out again sooner or later …’ Somehow Logan doubted they’d get permission: if the PF was leery of the case, the Assistant Chief Constable wouldn’t touch it with the shitty end of a pointy stick.

The Mikado crowd were through in the snug — a smaller room up a little flight of stone steps from the main bar, with slightly fewer superfluous banisters. Rennie was holding court for a trio of women. All three of them threw their heads back and laughed like drains as he reached the punch line of a particularly dirty joke. Grinning like an idiot, he looked up and saw Logan. ‘Hey, come meet Sophie, Anna and Liz! They’re my naughty schoolgirls. Come on, scoot up, Liz, let the man park his bum.’ Rennie did the introductions, playing up Logan’s ‘police hero’ credentials for his fellow thespians. ‘You catch any of the rehearsal?’

Logan turned to check the inspector wasn’t within earshot. ‘Only the motivational speech bit at the end.’ A little white lie.

‘Oh yeah,’ Rennie nodded sagely, ‘we sucked big time tonight. Arse from elbow the whole way.’

Anna, or Liz — Logan wasn’t sure which — slapped the constable on the shoulder. ‘Cheeky bugger! Anyway, Debs was brilliant.’ Pointing at a serious-looking woman sitting on the edge of the group, deep in conversation with DI Insch. It took Logan a moment to recognize her: dark, wavy hair; rosy cheeks; she looked nothing like the bitch-faced harridan she’d been playing on stage.

One of the other two rolled her eyes. ‘Debs is always brilliant. But Erick …’

‘Oh God, don’t get me started on Erick …’

Every discussion seemed to revolve around the various shows they’d been in and who was sleeping with whom. And Logan didn’t have a clue who they were talking about.

He finally escaped one hour and three pints later. Every time he tried to get out of there, Rennie would lurch back from the bar with another round. Eventually he’d had to fake a date with Jackie in order to escape. It wasn’t that they were bad people, he just didn’t have anything in common with any of them. Well, except for DI Insch and DC Rennie, and he got enough of them during working hours.

The closest he’d got to a normal conversation was with the ‘brilliant’ Debs about New Zealand and The Lord Of The Rings films, and even then it was all about actors and scenery and scripts. Much more interesting was the contents of her handbag, which Logan got an unscheduled peek at when she went rummaging for a hankie after spilling a glass of white wine down herself: compact, lipstick, mobile phone, Ian Rankin paperback, tampons, breath mints, and what looked like a set of fur-lined handcuffs. It took all sorts.

Midnight. A clunk and bang from the front door, then some random giggling and Jackie burst into the bedroom. Logan groaned as the overhead light snapped on, dragging him from sleep and poking its fingers in his eyes. He pulled the duvet up over his head and listened to Jackie bumping into things. Click and the room was in darkness again, then a cold body leapt in beside him and tried to warm its hands on his naked chest. ‘Aaagh — get off — horrible woman!’ Jackie just giggled and snuggled in closer. Logan gasped. ‘You smell like a brewery!’

‘Yup, I’ve been drinking .’ She snorted and stuck her cold nose into Logan’s neck. ‘I’ve been very, very naughty, you may have to spank me.’

‘Your feet are freezing.’

‘Ooh, I love it when you’re all manly …’ And then she jumped on him.

Ten past seven and DI Insch’s morning briefing was in full swing, the inspector rumbling out his instructions from the front of the room, one huge buttock perched on the edge of a desk, popping chocolate raisins into his mouth between sentences. Like a big, pink eating machine. This investigation had been stagnant for too long. There were going to be some changes. Or he was going to kick everyone’s arse for them.

Not that there were many arses to kick — when the case had been downgraded from murder to kinky sex gone wrong, the team had been cut by more than two thirds and stuck in one of the smaller incident rooms. Now it was just Insch, Logan, DC Rennie and a handful of uniforms. And even then Logan was only part time.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ asked Insch as Logan tried to sneak out at the end.

‘Those break-ins. You didn’t want the case, so I’ve been lumbered with it.’

Insch shook his head. ‘Not today you’re not — you’ve got some homework to do.’ He handed over a plastic bag.

‘What’s this?’ said Logan, peering inside at Jason Fettes’ narcissistic porn collection.

‘This is what Steel should have done in the first place. Go through that lot and see if you can find a match for the guy who dropped Fettes off at the hospital. Maybe they worked together.’

Now that Insch mentioned it, it did sound bloody obvious. But it meant Logan would have to spend the whole day watching a dead man having sex, which didn’t exactly sound like a bundle of laughs. Especially not after watching his post mortem. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘And don’t take too long about it either — we’re seeing Macintyre at ten and I want you there in case I need someone to talk me out of strangling the little footballing bastard.’

Logan was about to complain that two and a half hours probably wasn’t enough time to watch six DVDs and go through eight pornographic magazines. But Insch cut him off with a fat finger. ‘If you’re thinking of having a whinge, don’t. There’s no one here to talk me out of strangling you .’

There was no way he was going to get through all of Fettes’ porn collection by ten on his own, so Logan grabbed Rickards and commandeered a tiny room full of abandoned box-files and evidence bags. It had nicotine-yellow ceiling tiles, peeling magnolia paint on the walls, and a fluorescent light that buzzed and flickered, but it was the only place free. Now all they needed was something to watch the DVDs on.