Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

‘That mean no more kicking the crap out of us all over the front page of the P amp;J then?’

‘ I’ll think about it .’ Another cough. ‘ Oh God .’

‘Well, if we’re all friends again …’ Logan hesitated, this was a perfect opportunity to get Rennie back — ask Miller to screw him over in the press. ‘Any chance you could dig up some dirt on someone for me?’

‘ Depends: who? ’

Rennie, Rennie, Rennie … Logan closed his eyes, bottling out at the last minute. He just couldn’t do it. Not even to Rennie.

‘ You there? C’mon — who? ’

Yes he could. ‘Detective Constable Simon Rennie.’

There was silence from the other end of the phone, and when Miller’s finally spoke, his voice had its professional edge back. ‘ Been up to some-thin’ has he? ’

‘Depends what you find out, doesn’t it?’

‘ And I get to publish what I dig up? ’

‘No skin off my nose. Just as long as you tell me first.’

‘ See what I can do .’ And then Miller hung up.

That was it: no turning back now. If there was dirt to be had, Miller would find it and Rennie would be splattered all over the Press and Journal . Ruined. It took nearly five minutes for Logan to start feeling guilty. Sitting on his own, in the dark, he covered his face with his hands and swore and swore and swore.

By the time he got back to the flat that evening — having spent most of the day sulking and brooding in his little room at FHQ — Jackie was just heading out, dressed up in her black cat-burglar outfit again. She paused at the front door. Scowled. ‘You hear about the rape?’

‘Dundee last night? Yeah.’ The worst one yet: Wendy Nichol, twenty-six, computer programmer with a games company, bringing up her five-yearold daughter on her own. If a taxi driver hadn’t seen her leg sticking out of a bush she’d have bled to death. Insch had gone through the roof when the call came from Tayside Police: DCI Cameron blaming the whole thing on the fat man’s inability to put Rob Macintyre behind bars.

‘Unbe-fucking-lievable, how the hell …’ Jackie stopped. ‘I’m going to have to go out again tonight.’

‘Really.’ Not a question. Trying to keep the anger out of his voice.

‘Aye. You know what it’s like.’

Logan nodded. He did indeed. He knew exactly what it was like. ‘I’m going out too. You going to see Cathy again?’ Trying to catch her off guard by using a random name.

‘No: Janette.’ The same name she’d given him earlier. Clever.

‘Right. Janette.’

Jackie looked as if she was about to say something, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek instead. ‘Don’t wait up.’ She banged out through the main door and Logan stood where he was for a moment, before turning round and following her. Sneaking out onto Marischal Street in the rain, watching her march up the road with her mobile phone clamped to her ear. Jackie got to the top and made a right onto Union Street, coming to a halt in the bus shelter opposite the Tolbooth. She stuffed the phone back into her pocket and stood there, breath streaming in the cold night air.

He hung back, loitering at the door to The Tilted Wig — where she couldn’t see him, but he could see her — cold rain plastering his hair to his head, seeping through his jacket. Three bendy buses had come and gone by the time an anonymous Citroen pulled into the stop, windscreen wipers going full tilt. Jackie threw her hands in the air, shouting, ‘About bloody time!’ then opened the passenger door. The interior light flickered on and Logan got a good look at the driver before Jackie climbed in and the door slammed shut. The Bastard Simon Rennie.

The car indicated, then drew out into the steady stream of traffic. Joining the rush hour. Soaking wet, Logan stood and watched until the car disappeared.

The Ferryhill House Hotel was one of the few places in Aberdeen optimistic enough to boast a beer garden — a collection of picnic benches sulking, unused, in the steady downpour. Logan marched through into the bar, looking like a drowned rat. Shivering, he peeled off his jacket and scanned the crowd. Not quite seven o’clock yet. No sign of Rachael.

All the tables around the open fire were taken, so he made do with the next best thing, hanging his dripping jacket over the back of a chair. Then went up for a pint of Stella, taking it back to the table and staring at it; wondering if it wasn’t too late to chicken out. Maybe he should just go home? This was-

‘You came!’ He looked up to see Rachael Tulloch taking off a bright orange waterproof. Too late to back out now. She pulled out the seat opposite and sank into it, little droplets of water falling from her hair to sparkle on the tabletop. ‘Oh, you’ve got a drink, I’ll …’ she went to stand, but Logan shooed her back into her chair.

‘It’s OK, I’ll get it. Gin and tonic?’

She blushed. ‘Please.’

By the time Logan got back to the table Rachael was putting a lipstick back in her bag. ‘Thanks,’ she said, accepting the drink, ‘you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. Cheers,’ Holding up her glass for Logan to clink his off.

They drank in silence. ‘Er …’ she said, coughed, and tried again. ‘We got someone in court today for those unlawful removals. In Tillydrone?’

‘Yeah? That’s great.’

‘Yeah …’ More silence. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’ She played with the glass in her hands, not looking at him. ‘Thought you’d make some excuse, or say no, or something …’

Logan tried for a laugh, but it came out sounding slightly strangled. ‘Sorry.’ He took a gulp of lager. ‘I’m glad you asked.’ Not sure if he was lying or not.

She smiled. It made her eyes shine.

The Indian restaurant on Crown Street was only a five-minute walk away, but they were both soaked to the skin by the time they hurried in through the door. At least eating would give them something to do in the awkward silences. Which were getting fewer. Mostly they talked about work: Logan told her about Zander Clark’s stash of Victorian porn, then launched into an anecdote about DI Steel chasing a prostitute who’d been shoplifting from Ann Summers, leaving a trail of vibrators, crotchless knickers and lubricant as she tried to get away. So Rachael told him about a man she’d prosecuted for trying to abort his girlfriend’s pregnancy with a bottle of bleach.

As the night wore on, Logan tried hard not to think about what Jackie was up to. It didn’t matter anyway, she was sleeping with Rennie: it was over. First thing tomorrow morning he’d ask her to move out. And that would be that. So he told jokes and stories, and tried to convince himself he didn’t care.

Outside afterwards, standing on the restaurant steps, waiting for the taxi. ‘You know,’ said Rachael, her voice coming out in a plume of steam, lightly scented with cardamom, cumin and garlic, ‘I’m really glad you came.’ She stared down at her woolly gloves, cheeks flushed and shiny pink.

‘So am I.’ And this time he meant it.

‘Would you …’ Deep breath. ‘Ah sod it.’ She grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him, her lips soft and warm and slightly spicy … And that’s when Logan’s phone rang.

‘Bloody hell,’ he mumbled, and she backed off laughing as he checked the number. It was FHQ. ‘Sorry.’ He hit the call button and Sergeant Mitchell’s voice burst into his ear, ‘… No I do not, now get your backside in gear … ’

‘What can I do for you, Eric?’

‘ What? Oh halleluiah, it’s got its phone switched on for once! You sober? ’

‘Yes.’ He’d been on pints of water since they arrived at the restaurant, not wanting to make a complete tit of himself. ‘Why?’