Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

There was someone standing on the other side of the road, staring up at the house. A small boy wearing jeans and a heavy, padded jacket, a rucksack over his shoulder. Mouth hanging open. Sean Morrison.

Logan dashed into the hall, shouting, ‘He’s outside!’ exploding out of the front door and down the steps. Sean only hesitated for a second and then he was off. Logan tore after him, hearing muffled cries from inside as others joined the chase, feet pounding the pavement.

Sean screeched round the corner onto Westfield Terrace. The rucksack went flying, as the wee boy lightened the load. A flash of black at Logan’s shoulder — a PC catching up as they ran up the small street, closing the gap.

There was a car parked halfway on the pavement: Sean jumped onto the bonnet, to the roof, then made a huge leap for the six-foot-high stone wall behind, scrabbling into someone’s back garden. The PC was first to the wall, hauling himself over as a security light stabbed the darkness.

Breathing hard, Logan followed him, landing in a clump of conifers, staggering out just in time to see the constable make a grab for Sean’s trouser leg as the child disappeared over the next-door fence.

Sean screamed.

‘Come back here, you little bugger!’ The PC yanked Sean back into the garden. They went down in a tangle of limbs and swearing. Then a loud yelp, and the PC let go, holding his left wrist in his right hand, staring at the gash across his palm. Fresh blood glowed neon-red in the security spotlight. ‘Aaaaagh!’

Sean scrambled away, swearing, crying, holding a glittering kitchen knife. Staring at the PC, then up at Logan as a policewoman cleared the wall, crashed into a decorative border and went sprawling across the lawn. The eight-year-old murderer snarled, waved the knife and backed against the fence, eyes darting round the garden. ‘Fuckers! Fucking bastard fuckers!’

A window opened at the back of the house and an old man stuck his head out, yelling that he was calling the police.

‘It’s over, Sean.’ Logan put on his understanding, approachable voice. ‘Come on, put the knife down. I know you don’t want to hurt anyone else.’

‘Fucking KILL YOU!’ Tears ran down his cheeks, a silvery trail heading south from both nostrils. Bottom lip trembling. ‘Kill you …’

Behind him, Logan could hear the policewoman groaning to her feet as another uniformed officer crashed into the garden. ‘You don’t have to run any more.’

‘Fuckers …’ The knife’s point wavered, dipping towards the churned-up grass.

‘Shhhh, it’s OK, Sean, it’s OK.’

The policewoman marched straight up and sprayed Sean Morrison in the face with pepper spray. ‘That’s for Jess Nairn, ya wee shite.’

They could have heard the boy’s screams in Peterhead.

‘They’ll sting for a while, but the swelling’ll go down soon enough. No’ that it’ll make much odds where he’s goin’.’ Doc Wilson, slouched against the corridor wall, hands in his pockets, face like a bank holiday weekend — long and dreich. He gave a dramatic sigh. ‘I’m seein’ one of them oncologists tomorrow morning …’

Logan nodded, not really wanting to get drawn into Doc Wilson’s world of misery again. ‘Is he well enough for questioning?’

The doctor thought about it then shrugged. ‘Doesn’t really matter, does it?’ He pulled himself off the wall, picked up his medical bag and slumped off, mumbling to himself all the way.

‘Well,’ said Steel when Logan got back up to her office, ‘what did Doctor Doom and Gloom say? He show you his tumour?’

‘No permanent damage. You can interview Sean if you want. And Big Gary says the kid’s dad’s downstairs shouting the odds: police brutality, human rights, legal action. The usual.’

She checked her watch. ‘Twenty-seven minutes till show time … what do you think, worth a punt?’

‘Up to you.’

She rubbed a nicotine-stained finger along the bridge of her nose. ‘What the hell: get them into an interview room. If nothing else we’ll put the fear of God into the wee bugger.’

Interviewing Sean Morrison was like interviewing a breezeblock. He just sat on the other side of the table, sullen and silent, scowling at the camera. His face was swollen and red, like a bad case of sunburn, eyes the colour of beetroot. Still tearing up from the pepper spray. He wouldn’t even confirm his name.

Mr Morrison sat next to his son, one arm wrapped around the little thug’s shoulders, trembling with anger. ‘I demand you take my son to the hospital!’

‘No — and I’m no’ telling you again,’ said Steel. ‘He’s been checked over by the duty doctor, he’ll be fine.’

‘He’s in pain! Look what your storm troopers have done to him! LOOK!’ Clutching Sean’s red chin, leaving white fingerprints behind when the child shook him off. ‘He’s only eight!’

Steel slammed her hand down on the table, making the plastic cups of tea and coffee tremble. ‘Listen up: your innocent little darling tried to stab two police officers tonight. One’s up in A amp;E getting his hand stitched back together. Then there’s the policewoman he stabbed in the throat and THE OLD MAN HE KILLED!’

‘We demand to see a lawyer.’

Logan tapped the inspector on the shoulder and whispered in her ear, ‘Seven fifteen — press conference in five minutes.’

She stood, scraping her chair back from the table, staring at the father. ‘You’re here at my discretion Morrison. I can have you replaced by a social worker, like that .’ Snapping her fingers under his nose. ‘I’ve got him on CCTV killing the old man. I’ve got a police witness to him stabbing Constable Jess Nairn. I’ve got even more witnesses to him trying the same thing on tonight. I’ve got the knives; I’ve got his fingerprints. I don’t need a confession.’

She gave Logan the nod and he said, ‘Interview suspended at seven sixteen.’

Steel leant on the table, engulfing Sean Morrison’s father in a wave of stale cigarette breath. ‘He’s going to “secure accommodation” till he’s sixteen — it’s like a children’s home, but they lock the little bastards up — then he’ll go to a young offender’s institution till he’s twenty-one. Then he’ll go to prison. If he’s lucky he’ll be out in time for his thirtieth birthday. You want to make it easier for him? Maybe cut his sentence? You get him to talk.’

Everyone was waiting for them, the Chief Constable sticking his hand over the microphone and whispering something to the inspector as she settled into her seat — probably something about what a great job she’d done, because she smiled happily — and then they got the press conference underway. Logan sat back in his chair and listened as the CC announced Sean Morrison’s capture, then opened the floor for questions. First up: ‘Why did it take Grampian Police four days to catch an eight-year-old boy?’ Then, ‘Will there be a public enquiry into the handling of the investigation?’

It was Colin Miller who asked the question Logan had been dreading: ‘Is it true Sean Morrison was assaulted durin’ his arrest?’

Steel gritted her teeth. ‘No it isn’t.’

‘Then why did neighbours report a child “screaming in pain” when it took place?’

The inspector launched into an explanation, but the press had tasted blood. Wasn’t it true that DS McRae had assaulted a young boy at the beach yesterday? Were officers looking for revenge after PC Nairn was stabbed by Morrison on Thursday? Was there an institutionalized vigilante culture in Grampian Police?

The Chief Constable didn’t let it go on for too long. The press conference was brought to a close and everyone ‘invited’ to leave.

‘Bunch of bastards!’ said Steel, in the corridor afterwards. ‘What the hell happened to “well done” and “for she’s a jolly good fellow”?’