Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

They took their tea and microwaved spicy American in Ma’s office: a small room out back, the walls and ceiling lined with varnished tongueand-groove wooden floorboards like a homemade sauna. Ma Stewart had a thing for little porcelain figurines of Scottie dogs, and photos of her grandchildren: the whole place was festooned with them. A little old-fashioned transistor radio sat on a high shelf, dribbling music into the potpourri-scented room as they ate. ‘Have you been watching that Celebrity Pop Idol ?’ said Ma, taking a big bite of reheated pizza. ‘I never would have thought that coloured man off the news had such a lovely voice.’

Logan tuned her out. She was always a nightmare to deal with. Not obstreperous, just … nice. And completely bloody oblivious. And how on earth did she find enough time to dust all these nasty wee china dogs? He looked around the room. Maybe they should just … There was a plain brown box sitting the floor by Ma Stewart’s desk, right next to Logan’s feet; the top open just far enough for him to make out the words Lesbo Nurses . He picked it up, and emptied it out onto the desk. It was a pick-and-mix of hardcore porn, and right at the bottom a copy of In Deep Sheep: Five and other ‘animal husbandry’ titles.

‘Oh Ma, not again!’

‘What?’ She dabbed at her scarlet lips with a pristine hanky. Logan settled back in his seat and stared at her, his bit of pizza solidifying on its paper plate. ‘Oh, all right!’ she said at last. ‘So sometimes I sell a few naughty movies to people who can’t get out on their own. Where’s the harm in that? Half these poor old dears can’t even get it up, never mind do anything else!’ She leaned forward, exposing her cleavage again, tapping on the desk with a bright-red nail. ‘If I can help spark the flames of their wrinkly ardour, I will. It’s my public duty. Not like it’s illegal or anything.’

Logan groaned. ‘Yes it is! You have to be a licensed sex shop to sell R-eighteen movies! And this stuff …’ he poked the cover of Farmyard Frolics, ‘isn’t legal anywhere .’

‘You’re not eating your pizza … You want some cake? We’ve got some Battenburg — Denise’s other half works in a baker’s and we get all sorts in here-’

‘Ma: the DVDs. Where did you get them?’

An exasperated breath sent the pale cleavage heaving. ‘Can we not come to some sort of arrangement? I mean, I didn’t know it was against the law! I would never-’

‘Where!’

She pouted. ‘You used to be such a nice young man … Are you sure you don’t want some cake?’

The search team Logan had called in from FHQ made bulls in china shops look like ballet dancers, much to the distress of Ma Stewart, who stood at the epicentre of destruction shouting, ‘Be careful with that! It’s a family heirloom!’

‘Everything’s a family bloody heirloom,’ muttered a PC, sticking one of the millions of china dogs in a cardboard box.

Ma turned pleading eyes on Logan. ‘Oh, do make them be careful!’

‘Find anything yet?’

Rickards pointed at a pair of cardboard boxes sitting on top of a cleared desk. ‘Movies. Nothing too filthy, just the latest blockbusters, all stuff still in the cinema.’

Logan gave Ma Stewart a chance to explain herself and she puffed up like a prize pigeon. ‘It’s for my old folks,’ she said with her nose in the air. ‘They can’t get out to the pictures, so I bring the magic of Hollywood to them. There’s nothing wrong with that!’

‘You know how long you can get for pirating movies? Kill someone you’d be out sooner. The Federation for Copyright Protection are like the Gestapo, only without the winning sense of humour.’

‘I didn’t pirate anything. I’m providing a service to the community-’

‘Have you checked the computers?’

Rickards nodded. ‘Nothing,’

‘What about the basement?’

‘Isn’t one: I checked. But we …’ Rickards trailed off, following the invisible line between Logan’s pointing finger and one of the desks: a scuffed Formica-and-chipboard job, the sort of thing you could pick up cheap from B amp;Q or Argos. It sat on a big red, brown and pink rug with elephants round the edge. The constable stared at it for a minute, then admitted he didn’t have a clue what Logan was on about.

‘Desk’s been moved. Look at the rug: you see the dark red bit with the dimples round it? That’s where it normally sits. And the wall behind it: you can’t see half the calendar — it’s hidden behind the edge of the desk.’

‘Ah,’ said Ma, ‘we had a book on feng shui and they said-’

Rickards grabbed a policewoman and got her to help shift the desk off to one side.

‘-bad luck to move it! It destroys the energy flow of the whole room! It-’

The edge of the rug was rolled back, exposing the dark border between trapdoor and floorboard. ‘Of course,’ said Logan, as an embarrassed Rickards apologized, ‘it probably helps that I’ve raided this place before.’

The basement didn’t quite stretch the length of Ma’s office. It was a claustrophobic space in white-painted concrete blocks, one end stacked floor to ceiling with cardboard boxes — cigarettes, whisky, wine, and for some unfathomable reason, nappies. The other side had been given over to a mini pirating empire — four PCs and a stack of DVD burners. It wasn’t even automatic: someone would have to manually change the disks. A small colour laser printer sat in the corner, a stack of labels sitting next to it, and a couple of boxes of blank DVDs.

‘I’m really just storing these things for someone else,’ said Ma with her best harmless-little-oldlady smile. ‘Now, would anyone like a nice cup of tea? We’ve got Eccles cakes.’

Logan arrested her.

‘You know,’ said Rickards when Ma had been processed and stuck in a cell, ‘I thought she’d be more … upset.’

Logan snorted. ‘She’s used to it. We’ve been doing her for peddling porn for years. We arrest her, she won’t tell us who her suppliers are because, “naebody likes a clype”, goes up before the Sheriff and does her, “I’m just a confused old woman” routine, he takes pity on her, she gets a small fine, some community service — which she actually enjoys — and about a year later we’ll catch her doing the same thing, and it all goes round again.’ He shook his head. ‘The circle of porn.’

‘Do we-’

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ DC Rennie, looking flustered and out of breath, ‘but DI Insch wants to see you in his office.’

‘Can it wait?’

Rennie shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, you see … there’s been another rape …’

Logan closed his eyes. ‘Fuck.’

‘That’s not the worst part.’

By the time Logan pushed through into the inspector’s office most of the shouting seemed to be over, but the air still crackled with pent-up fury. Insch’s face was a furious shade of purple, glowering at Jackie as she stood with her hands behind her back in front of his desk, flexing her fingers. The room’s other occupant was a uniformed PC, slumped in one of the visitor chairs, holding a big wodge of toilet paper to his nose and making groaning noises.

‘I was just-’ was as far as Jackie got, before Insch held up a fat finger.

‘Not another word!’ There was some mumbling from Mr Blood and Toilet Paper, but Insch wasn’t in the mood. ‘That goes for you too!’ Silence.

Logan’s heart sank. It didn’t take a genius to work out what had happened. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

‘About bloody time. Take this ,’ pointing at Jackie, ‘and have a word with it. Tell it that it’s this bloody close to getting suspended and if it doesn’t pull its bloody socks up I WILL KICK ITS ARSE FROM HERE TO BALMORAL!’ Flashes of spittle arced through the stuffy office. He turned a baleful eye on Jackie. ‘Get out of my bloody sight!’