Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

Don Macbeth, AKA Russell McGillivray, fidgeted in his seat, one hand going to the crotch of his trousers, making sure everything was still there after his abortive attempt to get past Jackie. ‘It’s … aye …’ His skin shone with sweat, his body twitching and twisting on its own, while he gnawed away on his fingers. Twitch, chew, twitch, fidget, twitch …’ Any chance of a fag? I’m gaspin’.’ Voice trembling, breath smelling stale and rancid, adding to the general stink of unwashed armpits.

‘So, Russell, you want to tell me why you were sat outside Rob Macintyre’s house at one in the morning?’

‘Aye … well … it’s …’ he coughed, bit the inside of his cheek for a bit, then said, ‘Go on, give us a fag … I’m fuckin’ dying here!’

‘Maybe. But only if you tell me everything. What were you doing there?’

More fidgeting. ‘I … I’m a big fan, like. Wanted tae get his autograph.’

Logan stared at him. ‘Yeah, and I’m Harry Potter.’ He pulled out McGillivray’s file, flicking through it until he got to, ‘Three counts for possession with intent, two for breaking and entering, one for possession of stolen property, one for driving under the influence …’ He looked up from the sheet and smiled. ‘Well, look at that, we’re going to have to do you for driving while disqualified as well. That’s on top of giving a false name and resisting arrest. And I see you’re on bail.’ Logan gave a low whistle. ‘Wow, sucks to be you.’

‘Aw fuck …’ McGillivray folded up, sweaty head on the tabletop, arms piled over the top.

‘So, come on then, Russell, before we cart you off to prison for violating your parole, what were you doing lurking about outside Rob Macintyre’s house?’

McGillivray peered out between his arms. ‘I’m no’ well, man, no’ well …’

Logan pulled a rumpled packet of Benson amp; Hedges from his pocket — filched from DI Steel’s office — and placed it on the table, drawing McGillivray’s eyes like a magnet, making him lick his lips in anticipation as Logan placed a cheap plastic lighter beside the cigarettes. ‘Now then, how about I start you off?’ The sweaty, shivering man sat up and nodded, never taking his eyes off Steel’s stolen fags. ‘While I was running your prints through the computer, guess what else I found? They match a set of partials we took from a Mr Moir-Farquharson’s car. He was assaulted yesterday evening at around nine fifteen, just before you got a free glimpse of some woman’s boobs, remember?’

‘I … no, I was at home with-’

‘I’ve got you on CCTV, Russell. So let’s try again, shall we? We caught you lurking outside Robert Macintyre’s house, and yesterday you were hanging round where his lawyer was beaten up. Want to explain why?’

Twitch, judder. ‘I … I was … Come on, just one ciggie …’

Logan shook his head and picked up the lighter, twirling it between his fingers, before sticking it back in his pocket. Then reached for the cigarettes-

‘Oh, come on! I’m beggin’ here …’

‘Must’ve been sweet,’ Logan pulled on an ‘all chums together’ smile, ‘kicking the living daylights out of some slimy lawyer, eh? Who’d blame you?’

‘One puff! Just a wee one. Come on …’

‘Talk first, cigarette later.’

It took nearly an hour, but in the end McGillivray came clean, and all for the price of a smoke. ‘I needed the money, OK? I need the money for, you know … for somethin’.’ Rubbing away at the crook of his arm, reliving the memory. ‘He’s a lawyer, right? Knew he’d be loaded. Cash and that … Thought the footballer would be good for a bob or two, too. You know?’ Whimpering like a puppy. ‘Come on, you said, eh? If I told you, you said!’

Logan let him help himself to Steel’s cigarettes.

‘Ungrateful bastard.’ Insch, stood with his back to the window in his office. Saturday lurked over the city behind him — slate-grey skies threatening a proper fall of snow to coat the thin crust of frozen slush that lined the pavements, street lights glowing like amber fires in the dark, dreary morning. ‘Hissing Sid gets him off with nicking some pensioner’s life savings four years ago, and McGillivray still goes and beats the living crap out of him.’ He chewed thoughtfully. ‘Not that I’m complaining, but honour among nasty wee bastards and all that.’ He unwrapped another chocolate toffee eclair and popped it in his mouth. ‘But it’s a result, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain.’

‘I’ve got Moir-Farquharson coming in at eight to get photographed,’ said Logan, checking the paperwork. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many people have been asking for an extra set of prints …’

‘Aye? Put me down for a couple too. If you can get a good one of his ugly mug all battered and bruised, it’s going on my Christmas cards.’ Insch levered himself off the desk and stretched, groaning his way into a yawn. ‘These late nights are killing me. I tell you: never, ever volunteer to direct a bunch of talentless half-wits doing Gilbert and Sullivan. Christ knows what it’s doing to my blood pressure …’ Two fingers going to side of his neck to check. ‘Don’t fancy coming along to prompt do you?’

‘I think I’m busy that night, sir.’

Insch just stared at him.

‘Ehm …’ Logan checked his watch. ‘Ah, well, I’ve got to go get the paperwork done for … that thing.’ Backing towards the door. ‘I’ll just …’ pointing over his shoulder, and out into the corridor. He almost made it.

‘Half-six, Baptist church hall on Summer Street. And wear your thermals: it’ll be freezing.’

A last-minute phone call from DI Steel — whinging on about how someone had stolen a whole packet of Benson amp; Hedges from her desk and what was the world coming to/police station her sharny arse — meant that Logan was running behind schedule. By the time he made it downstairs Sandy Moir-Farquharson had been sitting in the lobby of Force Headquarters for nearly fifteen minutes, while a procession of Grampian’s finest manufactured excuses to walk past and have a bit of an ogle at his battered face and black eye. ‘Are you quite finished?’ Logan asked as Big Gary marched through the coded entry door from reception into the corridor again with a big grin on his face.

‘Gets better every time I do it!’ he said, ‘Here, what do you call a lawyer with the shit kicked out of him?’

‘Gary-’

‘No, wait a minute, it’s what do you get if you kick the shit out of a lawyer?’

‘I’m taking him up to get his photo taken before he files another complaint.’ Logan went through into reception, trying not to listen as the desk sergeant shouted out, ‘A medal!’

It wasn’t much of a photo studio, just the corner of a room on the third floor with a rumpled roll of grey backing paper, a bare seat and a couple of fill-in flashes on tripods.

Sandy the Snake demanded the door be closed before he’d take off his shirt, disappointing the crowd in the corridor. The photographer clicked a huge Nikon digital camera onto a tripod and wired the flashes up while the lawyer struggled to get the sleeve over the cast on his broken arm.

It had only been a day and a half since the attack, but already the bruises were spectacular — a web of purple, black, green and blue that stretched nearly all the way around Sandy’s torso.

‘Trousers too, please,’ said the photographer, firing off a couple of shots, then checking them on the little screen.

‘I don’t see why I should-’

‘Relax, it’s just for evidence, we need-’

‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing! You and that bunch of jackals out there — you just want to humiliate me!’