Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

‘Ah,’ Big Gary wiped an imaginary tear from his eye, ‘it’s a proud moment for us all. Still, switch on your phone: I’m not your secretary.’ He handed over a wad of barely legible messages, all saying things like: PHONE INSCH! and WHERE THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU? Logan scrunched them up and dropped them in the nearest bin, before pulling out his phone and switching it back on again. The thing was full of increasingly irate messages from Insch, and Logan went through them, deleting as he went. Last but not least was a grumpy-sounding one from Jackie, reminding him to pick up a present and a card for tonight, before setting off on a truncated rant about Rob Macintyre being on the radio this morning, telling everyone how much he’d suffered at the hands of Aberdeen Police’s hate campaign. ‘ And the little shite’s got himself a book deal! What sort of idiot- ’ then the message abruptly ended. Logan deleted it too. This thing with Macintyre was turning into an obsession; every day something else set her off and Logan would be treated to another lecture about how the footballer needed stringing up by the balls. He was getting sick of it.

Sticking the phone back in his pocket, he headed off into town, looking for the sort of present a woman in her mid-fifties wouldn’t complain about too much.

He was in the middle of buying some kind of elephant wind-chime thing when his phone started up: the Ice Queen, AKA Dr Isobel MacAlister. ‘ He didn’t come home! Last night! He didn’t come home! ’

Logan handed over his credit card and the young woman behind the counter started wrapping. ‘Isobel, I don’t-’

‘ Colin! He didn’t come home! ’ She was on the verge of tears, which wasn’t like her at all.

‘Maybe he’s out on assignment? Visiting-’

‘ He would have told me! ’ There was a pause, and then her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘ You know what happened last time … ’

‘I’m sure it’s nothing, he-’

‘ You have to find him! ’

Trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice, Logan accepted the plastic bag with his giftwrapped elephants inside it and promised to do what he could.

Two hours later Logan marched into the Globe Inn on North Silver Street, pulled a stool up to the bar and ordered a pint of Stella and a cheese and onion toastie. ‘You know,’ he said, as the barmaid went off to phone his order through to the kitchen, ‘she’s doing her nut in down the morgue. It’s upsetting the corpses.’

Colin Miller, golden boy reporter on the P amp;J, tireless campaigner against Grampian Police in general and Detective Sergeant Logan McRae in particular, turned a bleary, bloodshot eye in his direction and told him to fuck off. He wasn’t a tall man even by PC Rickards’ standards, but he more than made up for it in width. What had been a lot of muscle was beginning to soften and settle into middle-aged spread on the father-to-be. His usual suit was missing — replaced by jeans, heavy tartan shirt, scuffed leather jacket, and the heady stench of alcohol. He clasped the pint of beer on the bar in front of him with black-gloved hands. There wasn’t so much as a flash of gold or silver about the man. Not like him at all. And he hadn’t shaved.

‘Come on, Colin, she’s worried about you. You don’t come home all night; she thinks something horrible’s happened.’

‘Aye? Like fuckin’ last time, you mean?’ The words were slurred and broad Glaswegian. He held up his hands, wiggling the fingers so Logan could see the joints that wouldn’t move any more. The rigid parts showing where prosthetic plastic replaced flesh and bone.

‘Colin, she’s worried about you.’

‘None of yer bloody business. Interferin’ wee fuck.’

Logan sighed. ‘Look: I’m sorry, OK? For the thousandth time: I’m sorry! I didn’t mean for it to happen. It wasn’t on purpose. What the hell else am I supposed to say?’

‘How ’bout you don’t say another fuckin’ thing.’ Miller stood, threw back the last mouthful of beer, and banged his empty glass down on the bar top. ‘I don’t fuckin’ need you, “Mr Big Police Hero”,’ poking Logan in the shoulder. ‘So just sod off an’ leave me alone.’ The reporter turned on his heel and staggered into a marble-topped table, before righting himself and lurching towards the toilets.

Logan pulled out his mobile and called Isobel back, telling her, ‘He’s OK. Just a bit drunk.’ Then hanging up before she could start asking questions or hectoring him. Just to be on the safe side, he switched the thing off again.

The cheese toastie arrived just as Miller came marching back to the bar and ordered another pint of heavy and a double Highland Park. The whisky glittered like amber in the glass as it was set before him.

‘How about I call you a taxi and get you home?’

‘How ’bout you fuck off instead?’

Logan picked up his toastie — the pale bread imprinted with a scallop pattern of golden brown

— and broke it on the diagonal, fingernail-crescents of white onion poking out between the slices. ‘Here.’ He slid the other half over to Miller. The reporter stared down at the triangle of bread. ‘This doesnae make us fuckin’ even.’ But he picked it up and ate it anyway, carefully wrapping the half toastie in Logan’s napkin, so as not to get any grease on his gloves. Fastidious even while pished. ‘How’d you know I’d be here?’

‘You’re not the only one who finds stuff out for a living.’

‘Yeah. Suppose not …’ There was a pause, broken by someone putting an old Deacon Blue song on the jukebox. They listened in silence. ‘I’m no’ ready for a bairn.’ Miller said at last, squinting one-eyed at his own ragged reflection in the mirror behind the bar. ‘Can barely look after myself …’ he paused, rolling the empty whisky glass back and forth in his gloved hand. ‘And Izzy — Jesus, she’s terrified of no’ workin’ any more. That they’ll get some other bird in tae hack up the deid bodies while she’s away bringin’ up junior. She’ll no’ see her beloved morgue ever again …’ A thoughtful pause, then a mouthful of dark brown beer. Then a belch.

‘Come on, you’ll make great parents.’

Miller didn’t even look up. ‘What the hell would you know?’

‘True.’ Logan smiled. ‘But it’s what you’re supposed to say, isn’t it?’

The reporter nodded, swaying on his bar stool. ‘Aye …’

‘Come on, Colin, time to go home.’

Logan called for a taxi and poured the reporter into it, flashing his warrant card at the driver before he could start moaning about not wanting to clean vomit out of his upholstery. He needn’t have worried: as soon as Miller’s head hit the seat he was out like a light, snoring gently as they drove the five-minute trip to Rubislaw Den. At the other end, Logan paid the man and hauled Colin out into the overcast afternoon.

Dr Isobel MacAlister’s love nest was a lot bigger than Logan’s one-bedroom flat. Three storeys of very expensive granite in Aberdeen’s moneyed district, the road packed with flashy sports cars and huge four-by-fours. He rummaged about in Miller’s pockets until he found the keys, then let them in through the front door.

A wailing chorus of bleeps erupted in the small hallway. Miller fumbled his way to a small side cupboard and punched in the disarm code. Zero — Five — One — Zero. Isobel’s birthday, fifth of October. Logan supposed it was her way of making sure the reporter never forgot.

‘Got it put in … put in after the thing …’ Colin held up his hands and wiggled them at Logan again. ‘Just in …’ a small ‘ulp’ing noise, a worried look, then a couple of deep breaths. ‘Just in case, like.’ He lurched off towards the kitchen, calling, ‘Come on, got some … Laga … Lagavulinin, linin, in …’ over his shoulder.