Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

Inside, the house was a mess: crisp packets, comics, unwashed plates and mugs, half-empty tins of beans, the discarded shells of microwave ready meals, the drained contents of the drinks cupboard stacked up under the window … and no Sean Morrison. They turned the place upside down, searching every cupboard and wardrobe, under the beds, the attic, then did the same thing to the large garden shed.

Steel stood in the middle of the garden and swore. ‘Where the hell is he?’

‘Looks like he broke in through the upstairs bathroom window.’ Logan pointed to where the woodwork was scuffed, the paint scratched around the catch. ‘Been living on duty-free booze, microwave pizzas, and anything else he could find in the freezer.’

‘FUCK!’ Steel kicked a plastic tipper truck the length of the lawn, sending it crashing into the fence. ‘If you’d just taken the bloody number instead of calling him this morning, he’d still bloody be here!’

‘I didn’t know he’d run!’ Logan backed away towards the house but she followed him, ranting and swearing all the way.

‘Course he’d bloody run! What the fuck’s wrong with you?’

Logan had got as far as the kitchen door. ‘If it wasn’t for me we wouldn’t even know he’d been here!’

‘Don’t you dare try and twist this round!’ she followed him into the house — the fully fitted kitchen smeared with spilled food and empty cartons.

A granite worktop stopped Logan’s retreat. ‘Look, it’s not like I did it on …’ He stopped, looking down at a full, partially congealed Seedy Sanchez Pot Noodle, sitting next to the toaster. He picked up the plastic container. It was still warm.

‘Four bloody days we’ve been looking for this wee shite, and you-’

‘He’s only just gone.’ Logan pressed the Pot Noodle on Steel, then upended the kettle into the sink. The hot water steamed as it hit the piles of unwashed dishes. ‘When you called he didn’t recognize the number. He dumped the phone and legged it.’

Steel looked down at the container of noodles in her hand and all the wind seemed to go out of her sails. There was an embarrassed silence. ‘Aye … well …’ She dumped the carton into the filthy sink and slumped back against the fridge. ‘Sorry,’ rubbing her forehead, ‘shite … I really thought we were going to get him this time …’ Sigh. ‘Tell you Laz, every case I’ve got is going nowhere. I am the queen of crap.’ She groaned. ‘How the hell am I going to explain this to the CC?’

As the PCs trooped out of the house, Logan took one last look at the lounge. Sean Morrison had been living like a feral animal, breaking into someone’s home and making himself a nest. Whoever’s house it was, they were going to be in for a nasty shock when they got back. There was a large framed photo over the fireplace, husband, wife, two point four children and a golden retriever. The kids were wearing the familiar dark blazers and grey flannel trousers of Robert Gordon’s — the same school Sean went to. ‘How did he know?’

‘You still in here?’ DI Steel, standing in the hallway, looking depressed and fiddling with her shoulder again, muttering, ‘Sodding nicotine patches … don’t work for shite …’

‘How did Sean know he’d be safe? Look at this place: he’s been living here for days. What if the family came home?’

‘What?’

Logan grinned. ‘I think I know how we can find him again.’

They stood outside in the sunshine, Steel fidgeting impatiently while Logan listened to Big Gary listing off names and addresses on the other end of the phone. Logan thanked him and hung up, telling the inspector ‘Mr and Mrs Struther.’ He pointed at the house they’d just left. ‘They’ve taken the kids to Alicante for a fortnight. Their eldest is in Sean’s class. According to the school there’s three other families on holiday during term time: MacKenzie, Duncan and Burnett. Sean’s breaking into places he knows are empty, where he can raid the booze cabinet and the freezer.’

Steel closed her eyes, raised her face to the high, blue sky, and said, ‘Oh, thank God.’

Logan checked his watch. ‘We’ve got one address in Rosemount, one in Cults and one in Kingswells. Kingswells is too far without transport, and all the buses have his picture up anyway. Cults is possible, but it’s a hell of a hike. Rosemount’s only a fifteen-minute walk.’

‘Aye, unless he’s nicked a bike.’ Steel pulled out her phone and called Control, telling them to get a couple of unmarked cars to each of the addresses. ‘Laz,’ she said, when it was all organized, ‘if I ever turn straight, you’re getting a freebie!’

Two hours later and DI Steel’s stomach was growling from the passenger seat. ‘Where the hell is he?’ She rummaged through her pockets, swore, and slumped back in her seat. ‘Nip out and get us some fags, will you?’

Logan groaned. ‘He’ll be here, OK? Where else is he going to go? Anyway, thought you were cutting back.’

‘Don’t you bloody start.’ She puffed up her cheeks and let out a long, slow breath. ‘You had your assessment yet then?’

‘Nope.’

‘Lucky bastard.’ She did her puffer fish impersonation again. ‘I’m bloody starving …’ The house on Whitehall Place was silent and empty, curtains partially drawn. ‘Maybe we should check the place again? Maybe he’s already inside?’

‘He can’t be — we’d have seen him.’

She pulled an Airwave handset out and demanded an update from the team watching the back gardens, getting nothing but complaints from the PCs about having to stand around in the cold. She stuffed the thing back in her pocket. ‘Where is he?’

‘Maybe he’ll wait till it gets dark?’

Steel swore. ‘I’m not sitting in this bloody car till the sun goes down. Come on,’ she climbed out into the cold afternoon, ‘let’s go find a nice public-spirited citizen to make us a cup of tea.’

Mrs McRitchie lived right across the road and wasn’t the kind of woman to leave it at just a cup of tea. She backed into the lounge, carrying a tray loaded down with macaroni cheese. ‘Hope you’re hungry!’ she said, clattering it down on the coffee table.

‘Did you …?’ DI Steel raised an eyebrow, staring at the plates. ‘Chips! Alice, you’re a star!’ She slathered the lot in black pepper, salt and vinegar, before shovelling it into her mouth. Mumbling, ‘God, I needed that,’ as she chewed.

They had a perfect view of the house opposite, the one Mr Burnett and family had abandoned for a fortnight in the Seychelles. ‘You see,’ said Steel, taking a slurp of tea, ‘much better than sitting in that bloody car.’

Logan checked his watch. ‘Going to be another four hours before sundown. Five till it gets really dark.’

‘And?’ Mouth full of chips.

‘Well, I’ve got stuff I need to do for Insch.’

Steel waved her fork dismissively. ‘Screw him: we’re out in the field, the CC thinks we’re doing something “proactive”, we’re warm, comfy, got good food, and nothing to do but relax till Sean Morrison shows up. It’s no’ often we get a chance like this.’ She scooped up another glistening mound of pasta and cheese sauce. ‘Enjoy it while you can.’

She probably had a point, but Logan was already beginning to feel guilty about abandoning Rickards to chase up the carpet places on his own. As soon as he’d finished lunch he’d call and see how the constable was getting on.

When the macaroni cheese was all gone, followed down by a slice of Dundee cake and more cups of tea, DI Steel settled back into an old leather armchair with a copy of the P amp;J. And five minutes later she was fast asleep.

Logan dug out his mobile phone. ‘Rickards? Yeah … no, no sign of him yet. How you getting on?’ Not very well by the sound of things. According to the constable, half the places he’d visited were bleating about the Data Protection Act and the other half took forever to get anything useful out of their ancient, creaking computers. So far nothing matched the list of B amp;Bs.