Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

Out in the corridor the lawyer stared at Logan as the CC’s door swung shut behind them. ‘But …’ He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Given the circumstances, I think it’s no longer appropriate for you to watch my client’s house.’

‘You remember what you said to me when I showed you Russell McGillivray’s photo?’

The lawyer frowned, ‘I … I called him an ungrateful bastard.’

‘You can see yourself out.’

Sitting with Jackie in DI Insch’s office afterwards, watching the inspector swearing his way into a jumbo bag of fizzy dinosaurs, Logan had to admit that he’d been expecting more of a celebration. Instead Insch picked up a manila folder from his in-tray and tossed it across the desk.

The contents had been emailed up by Tayside Police: another rape. ‘Bastard …’ Jessica Stirling, attacked just off the Kingsway — a huge dual carriageway that stretched across Dundee. She was only nineteen. Logan couldn’t even look at the victim photographs.

‘She was in town for a friend’s birthday last night.’ Insch picked up a purple brachiosaur and stared at it. ‘Studying musical theatre at RADA. Going to be a star …’ He stuffed the dinosaur back in the bag, uneaten. ‘Check the time.’

Logan skimmed through the report — the attack took place between twenty to and twenty past three. The exact same time they were being videoed watching Macintyre’s house.

Insch turned his back on the room, gazing out into the wintry afternoon. ‘It wasn’t him. All this time I’ve been dicking about chasing the little bastard and it wasn’t even him.’ There was a short humourless laugh. ‘If I hadn’t been so bloody convinced, we might have actually looked for someone else. And those girls wouldn’t …’ He stopped and ran a hand over his fat features, shoulders slumped. It was as if he’d aged a decade in as many seconds, his voice flat and listless. ‘Why don’t you two go home? Forget about this evening. It’s not him.’

‘But, sir-’ Jackie, not looking happy, ‘-the wee fuck attacked me! He has to be-’

‘IT’S NOT HIM!’ Insch spun round, face bright purple. ‘Understand? It was all crap! All of it!’ He snatched a pile of files from his desk and hurled them at the far wall. ‘It was never him!’

‘But-’

‘It’s over, Constable. Finished .’ Turning back to the window. ‘I screwed up. Go home.’

Thankfully Jackie didn’t say anything else, just grabbed her coat and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Logan caught up with her on the stairs as she stomped down towards the basement locker rooms. ‘Look,’ Logan made a grab for her arm, ‘I know it looks bad but-’

‘Don’t you dare patronize me!’

‘What am I supposed to say? He can’t have done the Dundee rape! We were watching him, you were there ! He didn’t go anywhere, he-’

‘Bloody Russell McGillivray had the right idea.’ She shoved through into the female changing room, closing the door in Logan’s face.

‘You OK?’

‘What? Logan looked up from his cup of tea to find Rickards and Rennie settling down on the other side of the canteen table. The bruise on Rennie’s face had taken on a bluish five-o’clockshadow tinge. ‘Oh, yes. Great. Never better.’

‘Tell you what,’ Rennie threw an arm round his companion’s shoulders, ‘why don’t we have a lads’ night out tonight, after rehearsals? Beer, balti, and talking bollocks.’

‘I can’t.’ Rickards blushed then mumbled about a prior engagement he couldn’t get out of.

‘Ah,’ Rennie leered at him, ‘going to see your bondage buddies, eh? On a promise are we? Oh, spank me Mr Mainwaring!’

‘You can f-’

‘What are they like?’ Logan asked. ‘People in the scene?’ Thinking about Frank Garvie and his encrypted data.

‘Well … they’re all … different.’

Rennie laughed. ‘I should bloody think so!’

‘No — I mean there’s no real “type”! Everyone’s different.’

‘Oh.’ That’s what Logan had been afraid of.

‘You know what,’ said Rennie, unwrapping a Tunnocks teacake, ‘you should totally go with him!’

Rickards scowled. ‘They’re people , OK? Not a freak show. You can’t just go play “laugh at the perverts”!’

‘Hey,’ Rennie held up his hands, ‘I was only saying.’

‘Well don’t! It’s-’

‘Actually,’ said Logan, finishing his tea, ‘that’s not a bad idea.’ It would give him a chance to ask around, see if anyone knew what Garvie had been up to with his dodgy rented servers. And it wouldn’t hurt to have an excuse to avoid the flat for a while: let Jackie and her foul temper calm down a bit. ‘I’d like to go.’

Rickards blanched. ‘But … but …’

‘It’s all right, Constable, I promise not to embarrass you.’

‘But …’

‘Then it’s settled!’ Rennie slapped him on the back. ‘Play your cards right and I’ll come next time. As the actress said to the bishop.’

The upstairs balcony bar in Cafe Ici had changed since Logan was in there last. In the old days it’d been covered in black and white tiles like a Victorian urinal; now it was all magnolia walls and projected lighting effects. The downstairs bar was virtually empty — not too surprising for six forty-five on a Sunday night, but upstairs seemed to be hosting some sort of reading group. As Logan cleared the top of the stairs he could see about a dozen people at various tables with well-thumbed paperbacks of Ian Rankin’s Black and Blue . The talk was low and animated.

Logan was about to ask Rickards if they’d come to the right place when the constable marched up to the nearest table and asked a heavily built woman in a suit if she wanted the same as usual. A number of the others turned and waved hello, then stopped to stare at Logan, before losing interest and going back to their conversations. He joined Rickards at the bar. ‘I thought you said this was-’

‘You want a pint, or a pint and a nip?’

‘Please.’ Logan turned and scanned the assembled book-lovers. They looked like lawyers, bankers, insurance brokers, accountants, middle managers … they looked … they looked normal. A couple could have been described as ‘a bit bohemian’, but he’d been expecting outrageous piercings, shaved heads and tattoos. It was all a bit disappointing.

‘Here you go.’ A pint of Stella and a tiny glass full to the brim with something very cold and clear. Rickards had the same.

‘You know,’ said Logan, taking an experimental sniff, trying to figure out what it was he’d just been given a shot of: vodka? ‘I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting this.’ He pointed at the people Rickards had come here to meet.

‘Told you it wasn’t a freak show.’

That was true. ‘What’s with the books?’

‘It’s how you tell someone’s in the Aberdeen scene. You all meet up in a certain place, and if they’ve got a copy of Black and Blue , you go say hello.’

‘I didn’t know Ian Rankin was-’

‘No: bits of the book are set up here and it’s called Black and Blue . Eh? Black and Blue !’ Really labouring the point. ‘Thought it was pretty obvious actually …’

Logan looked at him.

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘“Sir”, eh?’ A shortish, chunky woman with green eyes and a hazel ponytail, expensive-looking casual clothes and an empty glass. ‘You got yourself a new top, John?’

Rickards went the same colour as a baboon’s arse. ‘We’re not … he’s not … we …’

Logan stepped in and helped out. ‘I’m his boss. We work together. I’m not “in the scene”.’