Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

‘We knew that — we told you that!’ The man’s Dundee accent coming out loud and proud. ‘We didn’t ask you down here to tell us what we already bloody know.’

‘Listen up, Sunshine,’ said Insch, stepping up close, using his bulk to force the man back a step, voice low and menacing, ‘I’ve got six women in Aberdeen who’ve been attacked by this bastard. This is not a game, or a pissing contest. Understand?’

‘Who the hell are you calling “Sunshine”?’ The man bristled, shoulders back, chest out. ‘It’s Detective Chief Superintendent Campbell to you, or “sir”, one of the two. Do you understand?’

Insch was starting to go scarlet, but he managed to say, ‘Yes … sir. Sorry, sir.’

‘That’s better.’ DCS Campbell turned to Logan, ‘That the case file?’ sticking out his hand.

Logan looked at Insch, got the nod, and passed it over. ‘From the victim photographs it looks like he’s escalating. Won’t be long until he kills someone.’

‘Brilliant,’ said the DCS, skimming through the folder, ‘you Teuchter bastards train him then let him loose down here. Thanks a fuckin’ heap …’

‘You know,’ Logan was probably going to regret this, but someone had to say it, ‘it might not be Rob Macintyre. It could still be a copycat.’

Campbell turned a cold eye on him. ‘Really , Sergeant? Any other startling insights you’d like to share with us?’ Logan could think of a few involving the DCS, his mother and a horse’s arse, but he kept his mouth shut. ‘Aye,’ said Campbell, slapping the Macintyre file shut and stuffing it under his arm, ‘thought not. Well, we’ll take it from here, and if we need anyone to state the bloody obvious I’ll give you a call. Meantime, try and keep your raping wee shites to yourselves. Understand?’

Insch looked as if his head was ready to pop as he said, ‘We’ll do our best.’

The road back to Aberdeen was one long stretch of dark, winding dual carriageway and it flashed past at the same speed as before — twenty miles over the legal limit as PC Stirling Moss put his foot to the floor. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Logan as they roared past an eighteen-wheeler on its way north to Asda, ‘I was just trying to be objective.’

Silence. Then, ‘I don’t need you undermining me in front of craggy-faced dickheads like Campbell!’

‘I wasn’t trying to-’

‘It was Macintyre, OK? You saw what he did to that girl. She’s twenty-three and he’s scarred her for life. Not just on the outside. What he did to her will never heal.’

Logan couldn’t think of an answer to that, but then Insch didn’t seem to want one. The inspector folded his massive arms over his chest and closed his eyes. Up front, the driver clicked on the radio and seventies rock and roll sounded through the car as it ate up the road and the miles from Dundee.

Jackie didn’t appear back at the flat until nearly quarter to eight. She stomped her feet in the hallway, muttering curses under her breath, clambering out of her huge padded jacket then draping herself over the radiator, complaining about the weather. ‘Not supposed to snow till the weekend …’ Her nose was AFC-red. ‘Make us a cup of coffee, will you?’

‘Where have you been? It’s nearly eight!’ Logan followed her through into the lounge where she kicked off her shoes and stood with her back to the electric fire, holding one foot inches from the glowing bars. ‘You’ll get chilblains.’

Jackie didn’t seem to care. ‘Steel was looking for you. Something about a PF review for the Morrison case tomorrow?’

‘Wonderful.’ So much for a day off. ‘Anyway, come on, you need to get a shift on if you want a shower before we go: taxi’s booked for eight.’ He picked up her discarded boots and carried them through to the hall, calling back over his shoulder, ‘Got a card and a sort of elephant wind-chime thing.’

‘Oh Christ, that’s not tonight, is it?’ There was a pause and then some swearing. ‘Why the hell does it have to be tonight?’

‘Because it’s her birthday. Let’s not do this again, OK?’

‘I was only saying.’

Shaking his head, Logan left her to it and went to get ready.

Twelve minutes past eight and a car horn brayed from the street outside. Logan peered through the curtains: there was a taxi sitting in the middle of the road. ‘About bloody time. Jackie, you ready?’ No reply. He picked up the parcel and birthday card, then stuck his head out into the hall. Empty, but he could hear her in the bedroom, talking to herself. ‘No, I can’t. Got to go to this stupid bloody birthday thing … no …’ Logan’s hand froze over the doorknob, listening. ‘Yes … Look I was at it all last night, and the night before. I’m knackered, OK?’ A longer pause, then, ‘Nah, he doesn’t suspect a thing. Look, it’ll have to be tomorrow … Yeah, me too.’ The phone beeped as she hung up.

Logan backed away, staring at the half-open bedroom door.

Another honk on the taxi horn and Jackie emerged into the hall, pulling on her coat. She froze for a moment, seeing him standing there. Then said, ‘Well, come on then, thought we were in a hurry.’

The birthday party wasn’t as horrible as Logan had been expecting: it was much, much worse. Jackie kept checking her watch, as if she had somewhere better to be, and Logan watched her grumbling her way through the party like a spoiled child.

How long had it been going on — her and the man on the phone? How long had she been lying to him? Sneaking around behind his back. Janette’s fictional break-up, the rehearsal on Sunday that wasn’t: lies.

What was it Ronald Berwick — champion housebreaker — had said? ‘ Never trust a woman, they’ll fuck you over every time .’

Last night’s snow hadn’t come to much, just a thin veneer of white that melted away as soon as the sun touched it, making the roads steam. Logan stood at the window of DI Steel’s office, not really watching the people marching by on the streets below — enjoying the brief respite from winter — he was too busy brooding. When he’d punched 1471 into the phone to find out who Jackie had been speaking to last night it was Rennie’s number that came back. He should have known: the two of them had always been close. Simon Bloody Rennie. Two-faced, backstabbing-

‘… or am I just being a vindictive old cow? Hoy, Earth to Lazarus, come in Lazarus!’

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘miles away.’

‘I said the wee shite’s lookin’ at eight to twelve years before he gets out. The PF’ll try for more, but you know what judges’re like when it comes to sentencing wee kids. Soft bastards.’

‘Oh, Sean Morrison …’ he turned back to the window. ‘You ever wonder what happened to him? You know, to make him that way.’

‘Nope. Don’t know, don’t care. We caught the wee bastard and he’s going away for a long time. That’s all I need to know.’

‘Hmm …’ A patrol car turned into Queen Street, the sunshine glinting off the windscreen as it stopped to let an old lady cross the road. ‘Six months ago he was a normal little eight-year-old boy, and now he’s a murderer. Big step for a small kid.’

‘You sound like a bloody social worker. He’s a spoilt wee shite and that’s all there is to it.’ The noise of a petrol station lighter scritch-scritchscritching, and a curl of white smoke snaked its way towards the window.

‘You don’t kill an old man just because mummy and daddy won’t buy you a pony.’ He looked back over his shoulder — Steel was stretched out happily in her chair, heels dug deep into the carpet, arms up over her head, like a dishevelled cat, puffing away happily to herself. ‘Something must have happened.’