Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

‘See? You imagine trying to explain that to a six-year-old? I tell you, I was-’

‘Get Insch. Get him here now !’ Logan sank down into the seat, watching the last dirty movie Jason Fettes ever made. ‘Move it!’

The image stuttered then froze into place: Fettes lying flat on his face, the person in the black bondage suit and strap-on fully visible in the mirror. Logan tapped the screen. ‘You see? Garvie was a big man, overweight, large belly. Look at the shape of the thighs and upper torso — yes the chest’s squashed flat, but I’m pretty sure this is a woman.’

Insch harrumphed. ‘But these suits distort-’

‘And Garvie’s suit is dark red, this one’s black. He didn’t have a spare.’

The inspector stared at the screen. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

Logan nodded. ‘We pretty much hounded an innocent man till he killed himself.’

‘The Chief Constable’s going to have my balls.’

The street was dark and silent, just the sound of the windscreen wipers to keep them company as Logan pulled up outside Ma Stewart’s house. All the lights were out. ‘Bloody hell.’ DI Insch closed his mobile phone and stuffed it back in his pocket. ‘I miss one sodding rehearsal and it all goes to hell in a handbasket.’

Logan knew better than to ask. Instead he picked the case file off the back seat, and climbed out of the car. It was cold: that penetrating, drizzly kind of rain Aberdeen did so well melting away the last remnants of snow, leaving the city grey and bleak. Insch had been in a foul mood ever since Logan dragged him in to watch the video — he never liked being proved wrong.

The inspector gave the nod and Logan leaned on Ma’s bell: a metallic prringgg sounded from somewhere inside. They waited and waited, but nothing happened, so Logan tried again — prrrrrringgggggggggg — keeping his finger on the button until a light blossomed on in the hall. But still no one came to answer the door.

‘Mrs Stewart!’ Insch hammered on the door with the palm of his hand, making the whole thing boom and rattle. ‘We know you’re in there!’ BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

A light came on next door. The curtains twitched as Insch did it again. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! ‘Police! Open up!’

‘Hoy! Keep it down!’ An irate-looking man in his late sixties, complete with walking stick.

‘Police, Mrs Stewart: Open up!’ BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

‘You leave her alone!’

Logan tried for the nice-cop approach. ‘Please go back inside, sir.’

‘Don’t you bloody tell me what to do! I pay your wages!’

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! ‘Come on, Mrs Stewart!’

‘Bugger off out of it: she’s done nothing wrong!’

‘We know you’re in there!’ BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

Logan tapped the inspector on the shoulder. ‘That’s probably not helping, sir.’

‘Did I ask for your opinion?’ BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! ‘Open up!’

By the time a rumpled Ma Stewart appeared at the front door, half the street was up: auld mannies and wifies in their dressing gowns and corduroys telling Logan and Insch they should be ashamed of themselves for hounding an old lady! Ma stood on the top step, blinking as if she was having difficulty getting them into focus. She looked terrible: heavy bags under her eyes, the folds of fat pulling her face out of shape. She just wasn’t the same without all the make-up and permanent beatific smile. She was old.

‘Mmmmph …’ she said, rearranging her features with a podgy hand. ‘Tea. I’ll make tea …’ A stifled yawn, then, ‘And cake. Everyone likes cake …’

They convened in the kitchen.

‘Tea, tea, tea, tea …’ Ma bumbled around, opening cupboards and closing them again. Logan steered her into one of the kitchen chairs and told her not to worry about it: he’d do the honours.

‘Do you know why we’re here?’ said Insch, while Logan was playing hunt the teabag. ‘One of the DVDs we seized from your shop turned out to be some sort of home-video footage.’ He paused, leaving a gap for her to jump in and fill. She just yawned. ‘It shows someone being strapped to a table and killed. It’s a snuff film.’ Which wasn’t strictly speaking true: Jason Fettes didn’t actually die on camera, but going by the date/time stamp in the bottom right-hand corner of the picture, he was dead less than an hour later.

‘Cake …’ she lurched to her feet, and squatted down in front of one of the kitchen cabinets, struggling with the cupboard door, and then a collection of Tupperware boxes, peering into each, then stacking them on the floor, one by one, like building bricks.

‘Mrs Stewart, the video?’

‘Can’t have our brave boys in blue starving to death now, can we?’

Insch slammed a fat hand on the worktop — it sounded like a gunshot. ‘Where did you get the video?’ He was already starting to turn scarlet.

‘You know,’ she said, taking hold of the inspector’s hand, ‘my Jamesy, God bless him, took a stroke when he was about your age; fell down stone dead. Just like that. You should try relaxing a bit more.’

And that was when DI Insch went off the deep end.

‘I think she’ll be OK now,’ said Logan, slouching back through to the lounge. The room was tidy, covered in flock wallpaper, china dogs, plates and photos of smiling grandchildren — just like the betting shop. A collection of crude watercolours depicting Benachie had been framed and given pride of place above the fireplace. The only thing that didn’t look like it belonged in an old lady’s house was DI Insch, sitting on the settee practising his breathing technique, eyes screwed shut, two fingers pressed against the side of his neck. Logan closed the door quietly and sank down into one of the armchairs, keeping his mouth shut until the fat man had finished. He was beginning to wonder how long it would take before something inside the inspector burst. There was no way this was healthy for a man that size.

‘We might be better off appealing to her sense of decency,’ said Logan, when Insch had returned to a more normal, human colour. ‘We could-’

‘Decency? You’ve got to be kidding me: she sells porn to schoolchildren!’

‘Yes, but she thinks that’s fair game. If she doesn’t do it, how will they learn about sex?’ He held up a hand before Insch could do more than open his mouth. ‘I know, but it makes sense to her. I think if we show her the video and maybe some PM photos she’ll come over all community spirited.’

The inspector snorted, but Logan ignored him. ‘She helps out with jumble sales for the old folks, she raises money for the local scout troop. She sees herself as a bastion of the community.’

‘She’s a bloody nightmare more like!’ He was starting to go purple again.

‘Er …’ he was probably going to regret this. ‘Are you OK, sir? You seem a bit …’ there was no good way to finish that sentence.

Insch glowered at him. ‘Thirteen stone, OK? You happy? That’s how much they told me to lose.’

‘Oh.’

‘How the hell are you supposed to lose half your body weight? Nothing like setting realistic bloody goals, is there? Bloody Fit Bloody Like — if I ever find the bright spark-’

‘I’ve made tea.’ Ma Stewart marched into the room looking a lot more like her normal self, wearing a floral skirt and blouse, pastel cardigan, beaming smile and far too much make-up. You’d never have known she’d just spent fifteen minutes bawling her eyes out because Insch had yelled at her. She even gave him the biggest slice of cake. And thirteen stone or not, the inspector ate it.

Logan waited until Insch had a mouthful before saying, ‘Ma, I’ve got a film I want you to watch.’ He pulled out the DVD case with cartoon penguins on it. ‘It’s the one we found in your shop.’