Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

‘That’s right,’ said the mother, bringing round the Bakewell tarts and Tunnock’s tea cakes. ‘I wis here when they came back.’

Insch stared at her. ‘Don’t tell me he still lives at home with his mum.’

‘ I live with him . This is my Robby’s hoose, bought it outright: nae mortgage. How many sons can dae that?’

Insch made them tell him which pub they’d gone to, and which carryout as well. Logan wrote it all down, knowing he was probably going to get lumbered with checking their alibis.

‘And if that’s all, Inspector,’ said the lawyer, ‘I think my client has been generous enough with his time. If you have any further questions you will submit them to me in writing and I will pass them on.’

‘Oh you think so, do you?’ Insch pulled himself from the couch’s leathery embrace and loomed over the lawyer, using his bulk to intimidate the man. Moir-Farquharson didn’t even flinch.

‘Any attempt on your part to contact my client directly will be treated as harassment. Given your recent behaviour I don’t think we’ll have any trouble getting a court order. Do you?’

The explosion happened in the car outside — DI Insch railing and swearing with the doors closed and the windows rolled up, while Logan stood outside on the pavement, not looking forward to the trip back to the station. Finally Insch calmed down, doing the same pulse-taking, deep-breathing exercise Logan had seen last night in the theatre. And then the passenger door popped open and Insch told him to get into the car: they didn’t have all day.

The traffic was unusually heavy for a Sunday morning, and the inspector kept up a muttered, murderous commentary as he threaded the car back towards the station.

‘Er …’ said Logan, ‘are you OK, sir?’

Insch turned a baleful eye on him and said no he bloody well wasn’t. Then there was an uncomfortable silence. Logan tried a different tack.

‘Fettes’s collection — we’ve got three possible matches from the DVDs.’

A grim smile slid onto the inspector’s fat features. ‘Have we now? Names?’

‘All made-up, porn-star ones.’ He pulled the three glossy photo-style printouts from his pocket and handed them over. ‘We’d have to ask the guy who directs the things.’

Insch clamped the screen grabs against the steering wheel, glancing at them as he drove. ‘You see,’ he thrust the pictures back at Logan, suddenly in a much better mood. ‘I’m on the case less than twenty-four hours and we’re already making progress.’ He pulled the car round, following Logan’s directions to ClarkRig Training Systems Ltd. ‘Check the side pocket will you, should be some toffees in there …’

Zander Clark’s mum was polishing the reception desk when Logan and Insch walked in. ‘Wow,’ she said, staring at the inspector, ‘you’re a big one, aren’t you?’

‘Is your son in?’ asked Logan, before she got them all into trouble.

‘Eh? Oh … yes, yes. We don’t normally work Sundays, but he gets a bit obsessed when he’s working on something new. You go right on through.’ She pointed at a dark blue door leading off the reception area. ‘They’re filming though, so shhhhh! ’

The indoor studio was long and wide, the sort of place you could park four or five double-decker buses in and still have room for a pipe band. They’d built a film set in here — what looked like a small section of an oil rig’s accommodation block — three cabins with bunk beds, a shower and a stretch of corridor, all with powerful television lights hanging overhead. Only Logan was pretty certain they weren’t shooting a safety film. Not unless it was ‘how to avoid catching sexually transmitted diseases from Viking lesbians’.

Both Logan and Insch stood frozen to the spot, watching as a man in dirty orange overalls walked in on two bleached blondes — hair in pigtails, unfeasibly round breasts — making friends with a double-ended rubber willy and some lubricant. A bloke with a Steadicam walked around the newcomer, stopping just behind him, focusing on the bed and the Viking ladies.

‘Aaaaaand, cut!’ Zander Clark, stood up from behind a monitor and marched onto the set. ‘Brian, that was perfect. Claire, Gemma: I still need more energy from you, darlings.’ He plonked himself down onto the bed next to them. ‘Remember — this is you celebrating life! You’ve been in the ice caves of Ragnarok for five hundred years, but now you’re out: you’re free!’

The girls exchanged a look. ‘Aye, well,’ said one, ‘it’s no’ easy celebratin’ life wi’ a dildo up yer-’

‘Ragnarok,’ said Insch, his deep bass rumble echoing off the bare warehouse walls, ‘is an event, not a place.’

The sound man looked up, saw them standing there, then bonked the director on the shoulder with his boom mike. ‘You got visitors.’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’ Zander threw his hands in the air. ‘This is a closed set! You’re not supposed to be in here!’ He stopped and stared at Logan. ‘Do I know you?’

Insch nodded. ‘Show the nice man your warrant card, Sergeant.’

Zander snapped his fingers. ‘Of course — you were with that inspector woman, weren’t you: ugly, wrinkled old boot, thought erotic films were beneath her. You here about my break-in this time?’ The director stuck out his hand to Insch. ‘Zander Clark, with a Z.’ Logan had been right: the director wasn’t quite as big as the inspector, but it was close. Without the beard, hair and glasses they’d be very fat, pink, peas in a pod.

Insch took his hand and squeezed, making the man wince. ‘We need to talk to you about some of your employees.’

‘Oh, right …’ Zander retrieved his hand and stuck it under his arm, before turning and shouting back at the set, ‘Take ten, people. You’re doing great today!’ He sounded a lot more convincing than Insch had last night with his theatre crowd. ‘Honestly,’ said Zander, dropping his voice as the ladies on the bed unplugged themselves and climbed into fluffy pink dressing gowns, ‘it’s like juggling cats some days.’

Insch nodded. ‘I know what you mean. And I’ll bet half of them can’t remember their bloody lines either.’

Zander smiled, hooked his arm through Insch’s and led him over to a trestle table with thermos flasks, pastries and sandwiches on it. ‘God, if I had a pound for every time I’ve had to re-shoot a scene because of that! The only things they get even vaguely right are “ooh” and “ahh” and “harder!” Try getting them to say anything more complicated and you’re at it all day. Are you in the arts, Inspector?’

‘Local stuff. Mostly musicals. A bit of pantomime, I-’

‘That’s it!’ He slapped Insch on the back. ‘I knew I’d seen you somewhere before: two years ago — Aladdin . You were Evil Uncle Abanaza. Brilliant.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t-’

‘Just you stop right there! You brought an emotional resonance to the role, and that’s not easy with the little buggers in the audience shouting, “He’s behind you!” the whole time.’

Logan wandered off before they could start discussing motivation and method acting: panto versus porn.

The cast and crew had split up: the sound, camera, make-up and lighting people hanging out in one of the fake cabins while the actors went round the back to smoke cigarettes and talk about EastEnders . He tried them first. ‘Excuse me.’

The Viking ladies turned to him in unison. Up close it was easy to see the layers of foundation hiding bad skin, the slightly squint features. Pale, plain women done up to look like something they weren’t. And Mr Orange Boiler Suit wasn’t exactly an oil painting either. ‘Sorry, darlin’,’ said Gemma, flicking a chunk of ash off the end of her fag, ‘we’re kinda workin’ right now, so we canna do the whole fan thing. OK?’