Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

Steel grabbed her coffee and stood, ‘Well, come on then, let’s see it.’

‘But-’

‘Fettes is my case remember? DI Fatboy is just helping me out. So get your finger out and make with the film.’

She watched it all the way through in silence. ‘Let’s see it again.’

Logan set the DVD playing once more. There was a knock on the door as the mystery woman started dripping hot candle wax onto Jason Fettes’ back. PC Rickards stuck his head in and said, ‘Sergeant Mitchell said you wanted to see me, sir?’

‘I’ve got a list of pseudonyms I want you to go through and …’ he trailed off, realizing there was something wrong with Rickards’ face. Or more wrong than normal. His left cheek was all swollen. ‘What happened to you?’

‘DI McPherson.’ As if that was explanation enough.

Steel didn’t take her eyes off the screen, ‘What was the verdict?’

‘Broken arm, two cracked ribs and a concussion, ma’am. They’re keeping him in overnight.’

‘Wonderful. Of course you know who’s going to get stuck with his caseload, don’t you? Again .’

Logan waited for someone to elaborate, but they didn’t. So he pulled out the list he’d made of Jason Fettes’ BDSM contacts and gave it to the constable. ‘I need real names and addresses for all of them.’

Rickards blanched. ‘Ah, yes … er, sir, I can’ t … I mean it wouldn’t be ethical of me to … they …’

‘Come here,’ said Logan, pointing towards the screen where the hot wax had given way to the leather ping-pong paddle. ‘See that? That’s our victim, the guy who’s backside got turned the wrong way out. You think it’s more important for your bondage mates to remain anonymous, or for us to catch whoever killed him?’

‘Well … I … it’s just …’ The sound of spanking grew louder, mingling with muffled grunts from the shackled and gagged Fettes. And then the strap-on came out. ‘Look,’ said Rickards, blushing, ‘we can probably eliminate half the names, get rid of anyone not into penetration …’ he took out his pen and started scoring his way through the list. ‘Sometimes a top will change their MO to accommodate a bottom’s new fantasy, but most just like what they like.’

He watched until things got serious, then his blush went nuclear. ‘Er … that kind of fisting isn’t all that common …’ More names disappeared. There were only three left after Rickards had finished: ‘Big Dunk’, ‘Dirty Nicky’ and ‘Mistress Barclay’.

Insch was in his office, grinding his teeth as Logan handed the shortlist over. The fact that DI Steel was slouched in the inspector’s visitors’ chair, fiddling about with her bra strap, supervising , probably didn’t help. And Logan knew it would somehow end up being his fault. ‘We can forget about “Big Dunk”,’ he said as Insch scowled at the list, ‘I’ve watched that DVD a dozen times now and it’s definitely a woman in the rubber suit. Rickards says the other two are into the kind of stuff being done to Fettes, but they’re not likely to have screwed up like that. They’re experienced.’

‘Bring them in anyway. Big Dunk too. If we lean on them they’ll …’ The inspector ground to a halt and stared at DI Steel. ‘What?’

She shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing. I just think you’d have more luck playing this one a bit more softly, softly.’

Insch scowled at her. ‘Thank you for your valuable input, inspector , but I’ve no intention of pussyfooting around with a bunch of rubber-clad-’

‘Look, I’m only saying, OK? I’ve met a few of the spanking crowd and they’ll clam up like a virgin’s legs if you come on all rough and ready. They’re no’ wee scroats you can just push about: they’re accountants and lawyers and bloody business analysts.’

Logan had to agree with her. ‘It’s a pretty middle-class thing, BDSM.’

‘Oh for God’s … fine. OK, bring them in and we’ll give them tea and bloody biscuits.’

‘In the meantime,’ said Steel, giving up on her bra, ‘you should get a lookout request going for Jimmy Duff. Watch him though, he’s a slippery wee shite.’

Insch was rapidly heading from pink to purple. ‘Yes, inspector , anything else, inspector ?’

‘Oh, aye: I’m going to have to borrow Laz here for a wee while.’

‘But we-’

‘You let me know how you get on, OK? Be nice to see a proper result on this one. No’ like last time.’ She was out of the office door before the fat man started swearing, with Logan hurrying after her, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked, looking back over his shoulder at Insch’s door, almost expecting to see the inspector come crashing out into the hallway and go on the rampage like an angry pink Godzilla.

‘Sean Morrison’s: hate mail, threats, remember?’

‘But, Jason Fettes-’

‘You and I both know Insch is going to get bugger all done till they pick up Jimmy Duff. So what’s the point hanging about watching him screw up them BDSM interviews?’ She slapped Logan on the back. ‘Come on, think how much more fun you’ll have without his fat ugly face looming over you.’

But all Logan could think of was what Insch would do to him when he got back.

There was a Bon Accord Glass van sitting outside the Morrison house, a couple of guys struggling with a large sheet of plywood, trying to keep it from sailing off in the blustery wind. Hesitant raindrops made polka-dot patterns on the pale wood as they heaved it up against the shattered window frame and started fixing it into place. The view was stormy today: dark clouds, dark sea, and gloomy buildings, but Logan barely glanced at it as he hurried after DI Steel into the house.

Mr Morrison wasn’t coping well: the bags under his eyes were deep purple, his cheeks sunken and speckled with stubble, hair sticking out all over the place. He let them in without a word, slouched through into the living room, fell into an armchair and stared at the big sheet of plywood that blocked out half the light. A radio on the sideboard burbled out local news into the darkened room: something about floral tributes flooding in for Rob Macintyre, then on to a piece about some local band who’d just been signed to a major record label.

A large lump of granite was sitting in a splash-pattern of broken glass. It must have taken two or three people to heft something that heavy through the double glazing — the thing was huge.

‘Indoor rockery. Classy.’ Steel scratched away at her shoulder, then dug out a packet of nicotine gum, offering it round as if it were cigarettes. ‘Any more hate mail, or was it just the dirty big stone?’

Mr Morrison didn’t even look at her. ‘Someone could have been hurt. Gwen’s not well …’

‘Aye, you’re right. Sorry.’ Much to Logan’s surprise, she actually sounded genuine. ‘You still getting the phone calls?’

He shook his head. ‘We went ex-directory when Sean was … found.’

‘Well, that’s something at least.’ She picked her way across the carpet, glittering shards crunching beneath her boots, and peered out of the one remaining pane of glass. ‘What happened to all the journalists?’

Morrison shrugged. ‘We just want our son home.’

‘Uh-huh. Got any idea who’d chuck a lump of granite through your window?’

‘They’ll let him home to visit his mother, won’t they? She’s not well …’

Steel closed her eyes, rubbing at the bridge of her nose with nicotine-stained fingers as if she were trying to shift a headache. ‘Sergeant McRae, maybe you should go make us all some tea, eh?’ she said at last. ‘And see if you can find any biscuits.’