Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

‘Already dead. I checked.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Dead bodies don’t twitch.’

Logan pointed at the small transformer lying on the Persian rug. Two thin wires stretched from there to the little flap in the crotch of the suit, a third disappearing into a similar hole in the backside. ‘You want to see?’

Isobel nodded so Logan picked up the plug and stuck it back in the wall socket where he’d found it. Immediately the body began to twitch. ‘It’s an electrostim set,’ he said, as Frank Garvie’s corpse danced for them, ‘it’s supposed to heighten orgasm.’

‘Turn it off.’

FHQ was almost deserted, just the wub-wub-wub of a floor polisher somewhere down the corridor breaking the silence as Logan made himself a cup of coffee at the small kettle in the corner of the CID offices. The milk in the fridge looked like an unexploded bomb, the plastic carton swollen and well past its sell-by date. He had it black.

It had taken him two hours to get all the paperwork done for their visit to the house and the discovery of Garvie’s body. He slumped back in his seat and stared at the computer screen, scrolling through the transcripted door-to-door interviews they’d done while the one-woman IB team worked the flat. He wasn’t really reading them, just killing time. Putting off going home and the inevitable confrontation with Jackie. The accusations, the lies, the shouting … The betrayal. And the worst part, the very, very worst part, was that beneath all the anger and resentment and desire to ram his fist down Rennie’s fucking throat — he still loved her.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t over.

So he went back to the witness statements, reading their lies instead. No, they hadn’t done anything to the man in flat four. Graffiti, Officer, me? Piss through someone’s letter box? Never!

A familiar shape lumbered into the CID office, carrying a huge steaming mug: Big Gary. He stopped when he saw Logan. ‘Er …’

‘Don’t bother,’ Logan told him, ‘there’s no milk left to steal.’

‘Bugger.’ Big Gary peered into his mug. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t going to steal it …’

‘You’re a dreadful liar.’

Gary shrugged. ‘That’s why I never made the move into CID: too honest. What you still doing here?’

‘Making sure everything’s done before Insch comes in.’

‘Aye, well … Don’t forget to tell him he’s got till noon if he wants to put in for the Ice Queen’s leaving present.’ A sad look slid onto Gary’s fat features. ‘Been a hard sell: at this rate we’ll be giving her something nicked from the lost and found and a homemade card.’

Logan blushed and dug out his wallet. ‘Put me in for a …’ Five? Ten? They did sleep together for six months and at least she’d never cheated on him. He pulled a dog-eared twenty out and handed it over.

Gary took the note with an impressed whistle, then held it up to the light. ‘God, it’s a real one too! Come down to the front desk when you get a minute, you can sign the card.’ He turned and lumbered off, calling back when he got to the door, ‘And take some bloody time off, you’re screwing up the overtime bill.’

‘Hoy, Rip Van Winkle.’ The smell of coffee, smoky bacon, and stale cigarettes. ‘We’re no’ paying you to sleep on the job.’ Logan peeled open an eye to see DI Steel looming over him.

Groaning, he swung his legs off the blue, plastic-coated mattress and onto the cold brown floor, searching blearily for his shoes.

‘Jesus,’ said Steel, ‘you look rough.’

‘What time is it?’ Yawning and stretching. The lining of his brain seemed hotter and rougher than normal, as if someone had pebble-dashed the inside of his skull with warm gravel while he’d been asleep.

‘Here,’ she handed over her mug of milky coffee, ‘I’m no’ needing this as much as you.’

Logan hesitated for a second … then accepted it, taking a deep gulp before putting it down on the floor so he could struggle into his suit jacket. It took two goes to get his watch in focus enough to read the hands. Eight seventeen. He’d managed a whole two hours’ sleep.

Steel sat down on the cell mattress next to him and finished off her bacon buttie while Logan got his shoes on. ‘Least they let you keep your laces.’ She sooked the tomato sauce from her fingers. ‘Let me guess: trouble in paradise?’

‘Has Insch been in?’

‘Nope. Detective Inspector Fat-and-Grumpy is stuck on the road in from Oldmeldrum. Some idiot tried overtaking a tractor and got smeared all over the front of a dirty-big truck. So he’ll be in a right crappy mood when he finally gets here. Same as usual, eh?’ She smiled, looked him up and down, then patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘Go home.’

‘Can’t,’ he said, levering himself to his feet, ‘got to hand over the Frank Garvie case, and the post mortem’s at ten.’ And Jackie was supposed to be on a day off today, so he didn’t want to go back to the flat.

‘Aye … Well, have a shower then. You smell like day-old curry.’

His hair was still wet when Insch arrived, already three shades redder in the face than normal. The inspector bellowed, ‘McRae, my office!’ and stomped past, PCs scurrying to get out of his way.

Insch’s office was filled with ominous muttering as he skimmed the pile of paperwork Logan had left on his desk the night before. The fat man pulled the last sheet from the case file: Garvie’s suicide note, wrapped in a clear plastic evidence bag. ‘“I’m sorry” — is that it?’

Logan stifled a yawn. ‘There’s a poem on the back.’

‘I’ll bet there is.’ Insch flipped the evidence bag over and read it, his lips moving as he went. ‘Actually,’ he said at the end, ‘that’s quite good.’ He went back to the front. ‘“I’m sorry” … Well, it would’ve been better if he hadn’t left off the whole “for killing Jason Fettes” part, but I suppose it’ll have to do.’ Insch slipped the note back into the folder. ‘What about that encryption key?’

Logan held up a small evidence bag, the bottom littered with shattered bits of plastic and slivers of twisted metal. ‘We found it in his kitchen.’

The inspector snatched it out of his hands, frowning at the contents. ‘Can we-’

‘IB says it’s been repeatedly smashed with a hammer. Anything on there is gone.’

‘Hmph.’ Insch dumped it on his desk and stared thoughtfully at his big Mikado poster. ‘Did we get anything back from Computer Forensics on that email address for Fettes?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Oh for crying out loud! You had Fettes’s hotmail address days ago!’

‘I’ve been chasing them up,’ he lied. ‘I was planning on trying again after I’d seen you.’

‘Well tell them to get their finger out. Just because Garvie’s dead doesn’t mean we’re not going to finish this investigation properly. I do not want them slipping it to the bottom of the pile. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Post mortem?’

‘Ten.’

Insch glanced at his watch. ‘Then what are you hanging around here for? Get those lazy IT morons onto it! And tell Rennie I want to see him.’

Logan nodded, feeling something catch fire in his head. Just because he was avoiding Jackie didn’t mean he wouldn’t ‘have words’ with DC Simon Fucking Rennie.

‘ DC Rennie — what’s up? ’

‘Where are you?’

‘ Eh? Downstairs. Getting the teas in again. Do you- ’ Logan hung up on him and marched down to the second floor.

The constable was slouched against the wall, yawning his head off as a kettle rumbled to the boil. He looked up as Logan approached and pulled on a smile. ‘Never guess what,’ he said in a theatrical whisper, ‘Beattie’s missus was up for one of those High Street Honeys things! Look …’ He rummaged around in his pockets, coming out with a small, shiny, dog-eared booklet from one of the more risque lad’s mags, holding it up so Logan could see the picture. ‘I mean, we always suspected she was a bit-’