Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

‘Soon as you’re ready.’

Logan poked his head round the open door and shouted, ‘We only want to talk!’ That got him four tins of Tennants and a bottle of Merlot. The wine smashed, but the cans just dented, then fizzed out spumes of lager all over the place. Taking a deep breath he dashed inside. The shop was a long rectangle, stretching away from the front window — shelves on all walls, counter and glass-fronted fridges on the right, display stands of wine on the left — and a limp leg being dragged behind a stack of Australian sparkling. Logan charged for the counter, vaulting it as a Drambuie hand grenade exploded on the shelves beside him. He dived to the floor, scrabbling forwards on his hands and knees as more glass burst above, showering him in gin, whisky and vodka.

DI Steel shouted in from outside: ‘You got him yet?’

Swearing quietly, Logan eased himself to the edge of the counter and peeked round. The intruder was slumped back against a stack of Italian wine, swigging from a bottle of Talisker, his left leg bent back at a very funny angle. He pulled the bottle from his mouth and belched, and that was when Logan recognised him. ‘Tony?’ The man turned a bleary, bloodshot eye in his direction, the other squinted shut, presumably to help him focus. ‘Jesus, Tony, what the hell have you done to yourself?’

‘Fffff …’ He waved the bottle at Logan. ‘Fffffuckin’ fell, did … didn’t I?’ He pointed at the unnaturally bent leg and Logan realized what the lump sticking out of the side of Tony’s calf was.

‘We need to get you an ambulance Tony, OK? You’ve fractured your leg.’

The man wobbled a bit. ‘Does … doesn’t hurt … at all!’ And took another swig. ‘Fffffukin’ skylight bastards !’ He grabbed a bottle of rioja and sent it flying out the front door. Even drunk on his arse the man’s aim was impressive.

‘Come on, Tony, let me help you. I’m drowning in booze here …’

‘Iss, isss …’ He belched, winced, and rubbed at his chest. ‘Iss too late. Only wannnned some money. Couple of hunnerd, tops. Juss … juss enough. Eh?’ More Talisker disappeared. ‘Passssport. Gonnae take mother on … on … Florida! See Mickey Mouse! Big … big fuckin’ mouse.’

Logan pulled out his phone and called for an ambulance.

‘Cannnn go see Mickey Mouse withow … withow passport.’

‘Ambulance is on it’s way Tony. You’ll be OK. You going to come outside with me? Sit in the sun? Much nicer out there.’

‘Fffffff … no — can’t get passsssport back. Have … have to … you like horses?’ Tony giggled and helped himself to more whisky. ‘I like horses! But … but money … too much money …’ He leant forward, tapping his nose conspiratorially, his voice a wet, loud whisper as he keeled over onto his face, ‘Ma woan … woan let me …’ THUD! ‘Passssssport. Big fuckin’ mouse …’ He was snoring long before the ambulance got there.

‘You smell like a brewery.’ Steel was sitting on a low granite wall, rewarding herself for her inspirational leadership with a cigarette.

‘Thanks for your help.’ Logan peeled off his coat and tried wringing the alcohol from the sodden sleeves, already starting to feel a little light-headed from the fumes. ‘He breaks in about three in the morning, bypasses the alarm with a set of crocodile clips, only the rope he’s using to lower himself in through the skylight breaks. He falls about eighteen feet, smashes his mobile phone, breaks his leg and lies there in agony. Then realizes he’s surrounded by bottles of DIY anaesthetic-’

Steel laughed, bellowing out a cloud of secondhand smoke that ended in a coughing fit. ‘Christ,’ she said when it had all settled down again, ‘think I weed myself a little bit …’

‘Owner turns up at half eight to open up and do a stock take, only before he can enter the alarm code he’s being pelted with pinot grigio and sweet sherry.’

The inspector doubled up, slapping her thigh and hooting with laughter as Logan told her how Tony Burnett had only done it to get back his passport — security against a loan from Ma Stewart to cover his losses on the Hennessy Gold Cup.

‘Brilliant,’ she said, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘Silly bugger could have just gone got himself a replacement passport, but he goes and does a Mission Impossible in Oddbins instead!’ And she was off again.

It didn’t look like much from the outside, which just went to show: sometimes you could judge a bookies by its cover. J Stewart amp; Son — Bookmakers est. 1974 — was the sort of place that gave old men and their phlegm somewhere to hang out drinking tins of special till the last race was run and it was time to go home for their tea. The betting shop’s name was purely ornamental: J Stewart Snr was long dead, and the ‘ amp; Son’ had run off to London with a marine biologist called Marcus. So now it was just Donna ‘Ma’ Stewart: sole proprietor, widow, and one of Logan’s first-ever arrests.

The place wasn’t quite empty: there was a handful of auld mannies in bunnets and anoraks, fidgeting uncomfortably under the NO SMOKING signs as the horses for the Sparrows Offshore Handicap Hurdle from Ayr jerked and pirouetted to the starting line on half a dozen widescreen televisions bolted to the wall.

Ma Stewart was behind the counter, draped over some shiny celebrity gossip magazine, one fat cheek supported by a beringed hand as she flicked through the pages, giving Logan and Rickards a perfect view of pasty, wobbling cleavage. Ma’s ratty grey hair was swept up on top in a bun, the chain for her glasses glittering against a violently colourful blouse. She didn’t look up till they were standing at the counter. ‘Afternoon, what …’ and then she recognized Logan and beamed at him. ‘Sergeant McRae! How lovely! You don’t come round nearly often enough! Have you eaten?’ Turning to bellow through the back, ‘Denise! Get the kettle on, and see if we’ve still got any pizza left.’

A muffled, ‘A’m busy!’ came from the open doorway behind the desk.

‘Get the bloody kettle on, or I’ll make your Michael look like a bloody pacifist!’

‘A’ right, a’ right …’

And the matronly smile was unleashed on Logan again. ‘There we go. What can we do for you? You’re looking lovely by the way; you got some sun, didn’t you? Hasn’t the weather been dreadful!’

Logan knew Ma Stewart wasn’t a day over sixty, but she looked anything between fifty and a hundred and three in that strange, ambiguous way fat old ladies have. The wrinkles smoothed out from the inside by layers of subcutaneous lard. He tried not to cringe as she lent across the desk and pinched his cheek. ‘Honestly,’ she tutted, ‘you’re nothing but skin and bone. That woman of yours isn’t feeding you properly! Marcus is just the same with our Norman, it’s all tai chi and no tatties.’

‘I need to speak to you about Tony Burnett, Ma.’

‘And who’s your little friend?’ She turned the smile on Rickards who stammered and stuttered.

‘Oh, a shy one! We like him ! Denise! Where’s that bloody tea?’

‘Coming! Fuck’s sake …’

‘Anyway, I was just saying the other day that we don’t get enough policemen in these day. Oh it’s not like it was when my Jamesy was alive, we-’

‘We’ve asked you not to confiscate passports as collateral, Ma.’

‘Especially with the Cheltenham Gold Cup coming up; you could have a sweepstake down the station!’

‘The passports, Ma …’

A short woman with a black eye pushed through from the back room, carrying a tray with four teas on it and what looked like reheated pizza slices. ‘I’ve no milk, so it’s that evaporated stuff from a tin or nothin’.’