Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

‘Got an idea …’ Rickards disappeared off, leaving Logan in the cramped and messy space.

Swearing quietly to himself, Logan started stacking things in the corner. By the time the constable returned he’d cleared enough space to work in.

‘Don’t tell anyone, OK?’ said Rickards, dumping an archive box on the tabletop. ‘Sergeant Mitchell thinks I’m taking them upstairs for more fingerprint tests.’ Inside there were new-looking laptops and one of those little photo printers.

Logan was impressed. ‘Where did-’

‘Part of that brothel raid. They were doing live internet sex shows with their punters.’ He started plugging things in. ‘We can take screen-grabs from Fettes’ porn films and print them out.’ The machinery whirred and beeped into life, and the constable nodded happily.

‘Not as daft as you look then.’ Logan selected one of Fettes’ DVDs at random.

Rickards grinned. ‘Thank God for that, eh?’

By ten o’clock they had a small stack of printed-out porn stars. It’d been easy enough to whiz through the films on fast forward, pausing every time a new face appeared, taking a screen shot, printing it out, then cranking up the speed again. Not surprisingly a lot of the same people popped up in nearly every film, but three of them actually bore a vague resemblance to the e-fit. If you squinted and ignored the whole goatee beard thing.

Logan made sure they all had the names of their films scribbled on the back then went off in search of Insch.

Rob Macintyre’s football salary had bought him a large granite house in one of the more exclusive streets off the swankier end of Great Western Road, and a brand new silver Porsche 911 to park outside it, reflecting back the gunmetal skies. According to the DMV computers the twenty-one-year-old also had a Merc and an Audi estate. All with personalized number plates. Logan got the feeling Macintyre was probably spending money as fast as he earned it. Playing Aberdeen’s ‘look at my car — see how successful I am!’ game.

Insch’s muck-encrusted Range Rover looked decidedly out of place. The inspector sat in the driver’s seat, staring up at the house, crunching his way through a packet of Polo mints. ‘You see what they said in the paper this morning?’

‘Same as usual: you’d think they’d get tired of kicking us by now.’ P amp;J front page headline: POLICE CAN’T CATCH 8-YEAR OLD KILLER! Colin Miller again, banging on about how Grampian Police couldn’t find their backsides with both hands, let alone Sean Morrison. Even for Miller it was vitriolic stuff.

Logan cracked his window open, trying to let some fresh air in. The whole car stank of wet dog. ‘What the hell are we supposed to do — search the whole city by hand? Just because he’s eight, doesn’t mean he’s…’ A scowl had settled onto the inspector’s face. ‘What?’

‘Not your missing bloody child: the Dundee rape!’ He shook his head and lumbered out of the car. ‘Well, come on then — we don’t have all day. Mr Macintyre has kindly granted us a whole twenty minutes of his time and I don’t want to waste it sitting here listening to you whine!’

A surprisingly pretty brunette let them into Macintyre’s home — she had a distracting amount of cleavage on display, a gold and ruby pendant nestling between her breasts, an engagement ring the size of a gobstopper, and legs like a poledancer’s. A stereotypical footballer’s wife in training. She couldn’t have been much more than four months pregnant — the bulge artfully framed by her low-slung trousers, cropped, low-cut T-shirt and open blouse, a ruby-pierced bellybutton sparkling invitingly. ‘I don’t know why you can’t just leave him alone!’ she said, marching down the hall ahead of them. ‘He’s never harmed anyone! You should be out catching real crooks, not harassing my Robert …’

Inside, the place was like an Ikea advert: all minimalist lines and pale wood, arty photographs, prints, seashells and strange little glass things in wooden frames. Nothing looked real , as if the whole house had been bought from a catalogue in one go, rather than built up over the years. It was soulless. Logan had been expecting more bling.

Macintyre was sitting in the front room, feet up on the coffee table, can of coke in one hand and a phone in the other, chatting away in broad Aberdonian. Macintyre’s fiancee growled, ‘Feet!’ at him and he snatched them back to the carpet as if he’d been scalded, covered the mouthpiece and apologized to his beloved. Logan had never actually met the man before, only seen him in court, on television, or on the pitch at Pittodrie. For a moment he tried picturing the ugly wee sod pinning that poor woman from Dundee to the ground while he carved up her face.

If it was him, then Jackie was right: the footballer needed a stiff bloody kicking. He watched as Macintyre went back to his phone call, laughing — not a care in the world. And there, to see things remained that way, was Sandy Moir-Farquharson, standing with his back to a huge tropical fish tank, wearing an expression that made Logan want to check the soles of his shoes in case he’d trodden in something.

‘Ah,’ said Insch, ‘Mr Far-Quar-Son,’ pronouncing the lawyer’s name wrongly in a childish attempt to wind the man up, ‘Macintyre didn’t tell us you’d be here. How nice to see you.’

The lawyer sniffed. ‘Spare me your amateur theatrics, Insch, I’m not in the mood. You are here because my client wants to make sure you don’t jump to any of your usual idiotic conclusions about this Dundee attack. You are not here to interrogate, belittle or browbeat Mr Macintyre, is that clear?’

The inspector’s face darkened, ‘You don’t tell me how to question a suspect!’

‘Please, try and get this through your swollen, shiny pink head: Mr Macintyre is — not — a — suspect. Your last pathetic attempt to fit up my client was thrown out of court, remember? And furthermore-’

A clatter at the door and Macintyre’s mother backed in, wheeling a hostess trolley with tea things and little cakes on it.

‘Now, now,’ said Macintyre, the words long, flat and Doric, as his mum handed out the cups and saucers. ‘Gie the mannie a break, he’s only deein’ his joab.’ Without the phone clamped to his lug Logan could see Macintyre’s ruby earstud twinkling away, red like his fiancee’s pendant, the colour of AFC. The colour of fresh blood. And for the first time, Logan got the feeling Macintyre was laying it on a bit thick — playing the good-natured, parochial Teuchter for the nasty policemen. Macintyre pointed Insch at an expensive-looking couch. ‘Yoooo ask away Inspector, I’ll dee ma best ta help ye.’

Hissing Sid didn’t look too happy about it, but he didn’t say anything as DI Insch sat, pulled a sheet of newsprint from his jacket pocket and laid it on the spotless coffee table in the middle of the room, smoothing it out so that the headline was facing the footballer: COPYCAT RAPIST STRIKES IN DUNDEE! ‘I’d like to know where you were on Friday night.’

‘Easy — I wis with Ashley, wizn’t I, baby?’

Logan watched her right hand flutter to the gold chain round her neck, the one with the shiny red ruby dangling from it. She nodded. ‘Yes, he was with me all night.’ Then she dazzled them with her smile. ‘Snored like a bandsaw too.’

‘Dinna listen tae her,’ said Macintyre. ‘I dinna snore!’

‘Yes you do, you-’

Insch cut in across this charming domestic scene. ‘Where? Where did you spend the night?’

‘In bed.’ — Macintyre.

‘In town.’ — Ashley, both speaking at the same time. She blushed and threw a pillow at her husband to be. ‘We went out for a couple of pints, got a takeaway and spent the rest of the night here.’