Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

Garvie didn’t even take time to think about it: ‘No.’

‘Really?’ Logan held up one of Fettes’ DVDs. ‘That’s funny because he was in From Rubber With Love too. See?’

‘Well,’ Garvie kept his eyes on Kirk and Spock, ‘with films you don’t always get to meet everyone who-’

‘You did a double entry with him and a girl called “Misty”. He was on the bottom. So to speak.’

Silence. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

Insch found an open packet of Skittles on the desk and helped himself. ‘Tough.’

‘He …’ Deep breath. ‘Look, I’m really not comfortable discussing this, OK? I mean, I saw that thing in the papers-’

‘But you didn’t come forward and tell us who he was?’

‘I wanted to … but …’

Silence.

Dark circles were beginning to form beneath Garvie’s arms, the smell of second-hand curry oozing out of him like a malodorous fog. Fidgeting in his seat, he stared up at the ceiling tiles, then down at his hands, then back to his Star Trek calendar again. Anything to avoid making eye-contact with DI Insch or Logan. He couldn’t have looked more guilty if he’d tried.

‘I… I didn’t think it would make any difference …’ Garvie ran a hand over his damp forehead, then wiped it dry on his trouser leg. ‘We worked together a couple of times, that’s all.’

‘And did you ever see him socially?’

Squirm. ‘I … no … well … ehm …’ His cheeks bright red. ‘We… he…’ Gulp. ‘We met at a couple of … parties.’

‘What kind of parties?’

‘BDSM … BDSM parties.’

Insch frowned. ‘What the hell is a-’

Logan answered that one for him, ‘Bondage, domination and sadomasochism. Far as we can tell Fettes was pretty active in the scene.’

There was an uncomfortable pause, then Garvie cleared his throat, fidgeted some more, and finally said, ‘When I started having… problems, I … well … sometimes it helped. The … it’s not …’ He gave up. ‘We used to go to parties in Ellon, or Cults. Westhill a couple of times. They’d have a Black Room, usually just a bedroom you know, with beanbags and stuff? The windows taped over, no lights. I had this sweet dark red, full-body rubber suit, custom made — a Kastley, top of the range … Doesn’t fit any more …’ Garvie paused and took a deep breath. ‘It’s meant to be anonymous, but I knew what Jason … Sometimes he and I …’ he trailed off and shrugged.

‘You’re saying Jason was gay.’

Garvie almost laughed. ‘It’s not like that. Gay, straight … it’s … it’s not like that. You wouldn’t understand.’

‘So you and Jason would meet up at bondage parties and have sex. Why did you tell us you’d never met him?’

‘Why do you think? I never hurt him, OK?’

Logan leant across the desk and laid an understanding hand on Garvie’s arm. ‘Not even if he asked you to? Wanted you to be his “top”? Is that what happened, Frank? Did he ask you to hurt him and it just got out of hand?’

‘No! See: I knew you’d do this! I didn’t do that to him.’

‘Accidents happen, Frank. We can understand that.’

‘It wasn’t me! I’ve not seen Jason for over a month!’

‘He died four weeks ago.’

Garvie shoved his chair back and lurched to his feet. ‘IT WASN’T ME!’

‘Calm down, Frank-’

‘You can’t pin this on me! I didn’t do anything!’ He wiped the sweat from his face. ‘It’s not fair!’

‘Not fair?’ Insch turned on him, ‘I’ll tell you what’s not bloody fair — a young man lying in the morgue while some sick bastard gets away with murder. THAT’S not fair!’

Garvie backed away, trembling. ‘I want a lawyer.’

‘I’ll bet you do. Sergeant, escort Mr Garvie to the car please. We’re going for a little ride.’

They put Garvie in the back of Insch’s Range Rover and stuck the child locks on, the inspector driving them back into town while Logan rode with the ex-porn star. Making sure he didn’t get up to anything. The sky had darkened — wind whipping white froth off the steel-grey North Sea, as they took the Beach Esplanade.

A handful of hardy souls were out braving the elements with their dogs, marching along the top path, their coat-tails whipping about their legs. The Kings Links golf course was nearly deserted, and so was the road, just the clump and bump of potholes and the occasional whimper from their ‘guest’. The man was terrified, hunched up and trembling, eyes darting left and right, sweat beading on his forehead. Not big on small talk.

‘You know,’ said Logan, trying again, ‘it doesn’t have to be this hard, Frank, all you need to do is talk to us. OK?’

Garvie inched away from him until he was hard against the other door without so much as a word. Logan sighed and watched the scenery go by instead, looking down the embankment at the side of the road as the golf course gave way to a driving range. There was a dilapidated old pitch-and-put between there and the road: a manky collection of four rusty white anchors and some little concrete lumps, all glowing in a shaft of golden sunlight. A wee boy was whacking a golf ball about on the patchy grass, completely oblivious to the brooding clouds and howling wind. Logan envied him, it would be nice to be that innocent again and un-‘Stop the car!’

Insch didn’t need to be told twice: he slammed on the brakes. The Range Rover screeched to a halt and Logan yanked the door handle. Nothing happened. ‘Bloody child locks!’

‘What the hell is going-’

‘Let me out!’

‘Sergeant?’

Logan mashed his thumb down on the electric window button, sticking his hand through the gap and opening the door from the outside. Insch unbuckled himself, shouting, ‘What’s wrong?’ as Logan leapt from the car and started running hell for leather down the steep slope towards the large white-painted anchor that marked the northern edge of the pitch-and-put course, yelling back over his shoulder: ‘It’s Morrison! Call for backup!’

He nearly lost it jumping over a gorse bush, slithering on the grass on the other side, just managing to stay upright by flailing his arms in circles. The kid had his back to Logan — completely oblivious — bent over his putter, trying to get his ball into a two-foot length of ancient drainpipe. He looked up at the last moment, just as Logan barrelled into him, sending them both crashing to the ground. The wee boy screamed as Logan pushed his face into the damp grass and dragged the handcuffs out, breathing hard. ‘Sean Morrison … I’m arresting you … for the murder of Jerry Cochrane-’

Someone was shouting in the background.

‘-and the attempted murder of PC Jess Nairn. Hold still! You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention-’

Angry voices getting closer. Sean struggling beneath him. Logan put his knee in the small of the child’s back. Trying not to take too much satisfaction from the yelp of pain. That would teach him to go kicking policemen in the head.

‘-when questioned something you later rely on in court-’

‘GET OFF HIM!’

‘-Anything you do say will be given in evidence.’ Logan pulled out his warrant card and flashed it at the furious-looking man running across the pitch-and-put course, an angry woman following close behind. ‘Police — stay back everything’s under-’ A fist connected with his cheekbone, snapping his head round. Logan crashed into the grass, struggling to get up as the man leapt on him. Another fist caught him on the side of the head. The world roared in his ears, and the sound of a woman screaming something.

Logan grabbed a handful of the man’s groin and did his best to crush it. Twisting at the same time. The guy’s face went purple and a thin sliver of spit dribbled from his lips as Logan shoved him off, staggered to his feet and kicked him in the backside, sending him sprawling. Logan stumbled, caught himself, and sat down hard on the wheel of the fake cannon-mount-thing between the second and third hole. ‘What part …’ he puffed, mouth full of the coppery taste of fresh blood, ‘what part of “Police, stay back” didn’t you understand?’