Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

The Morrisons’ kitchen was a mess: unwashed dishes piled in the sink; overflowing laundry basket; a black, oily crust of burnt-on food like scabs on the hob; stuffed black bags sitting next to the bucket, as if Sean’s dad was scared to go outside and put them in the wheely bin for collection. Feeling nosy, Logan had a good rummage through the kitchen, pretending he was looking for tea bags. The cupboards were bare, not so much as a tin of soup. Like it or not, Mr Morrison was going to have to go outside soon, or they’d starve to death in here. Logan wondered if the man would be safe enough ordering takeaway, or if it would come delivered with a free side order of sputum and dog shit. Nothing like being the parents of an infamous child.

There was a small container on the work surface marked TEA, but it was as empty as the food cupboards. In fact, other than plates, gadgets and cutlery, the only thing Logan could find in the kitchen was a drawer full of envelopes. Some opened, most not. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and pulled one out: YOUR SON IS AN ABOMINATION! THAT OLD MAN DESERVES BLOOD! It went on for a page and a half, but the basic message was that they should bring back the death penalty and give it to Sean Morrison. Even if he was only eight. And hanging was too good for him.

Logan picked them all out of the drawer and carried everything through to the lounge. ‘Sorry,’ he said, setting them down on the coffee table, ‘there’s no biscuits. Or milk. Or tea.’

‘Oh.’ The inspector looked disappointed, but she perked up again when she saw the stack of letters.

‘I found them when I was looking for the teabags.’

Morrison shuddered. ‘We’ve been keeping them, like you said. I don’t open them any more …’

Steel nodded, borrowing Logan’s gloves so she could poke through the pile, pulling sheets from the open ones and squinting at them in the dim light. ‘Aye, nasty wee shites one and all.’ She flicked through another couple then asked if Logan had an evidence bag on him. ‘We’re going to take these away and see if we can get anything off them. And I’ll get someone from fingerprints to come down and give your rock the CSI treatment. OK?’

Morrison didn’t reply, just went on staring at his boarded-up window.

‘I was wondering,’ said Logan as they stood to leave, ‘Sean’s friend: Ewan. Has his dad been in touch with you at all?’

The man looked puzzled, as if trying to remember why they were there. Logan got the feeling he probably hadn’t slept in a week. ‘No. Not since Sean stopped going round there. Not since we came back from Guildford.’

‘So he hasn’t said anything to you about his house getting vandalized?’

‘Look, I’m sorry but Gwen needs her medication.’ He levered himself out of the armchair. ‘She’s not been well.’

They let themselves out, scurrying through the rain to the car. ‘Can you no’ keep your mind on one thing at a time?’ asked Steel as Logan cranked the blowers up to full. ‘Vandalism, my sharny arse.’

‘You never wondered about Sean-’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake, no’ this again: I get enough grief from the bloody social workers. He’s a wee shite. That’s all there is to it.’

Logan pulled out from the kerb, heading downhill back towards FHQ. ‘I don’t buy it: you don’t go from being a well-balanced wee boy to a thieving little thug who knives old men and policewomen for no reason. Something happened.’

Steel sighed. ‘Look, and I want you to pay attention this time: I — don’t — care! OK?’

‘Oh, come on, you’ve got think it’s a bit-’

‘I — don’t — care! Bloody hell. In the good old days you caught the bad guy, you banged them up, and you forgot about them for seven, eight years. Nowadays it’s all “community-fuckingservice” and “addressing offender behaviour”. That social work department needs a stiff kick up the arse with a pointy boot!’

‘Why was he vandalizing his ex-best-friend’s house?’

‘We speakin’ the same language here? Hello? I couldn’t give a rat’s arse!’

‘How come the family never reported him for all the damage he did to their house? They knew it was him. We-’

‘OK! OK, FOR GOD’S SAKE!’ She sat and seethed. ‘Ten minutes. We go round there for ten minutes, and if we don’t find anything you never, ever get to mention that wee shite again? Understand? Like a bloody broken record …’

Ewan Whyte — Sean’s ex-best friend — was still at school and his dad was at work, but his mother and little sisters were in: the girls finger-painting in the kitchen while Mrs Whyte made sure they didn’t do anything stupid, like eat the paint, or start colouring in the walls. DI Steel begged a cup of coffee and a custard cream while Logan went outside to talk to the grandfather.

The old man was in the shed at the bottom of the garden, the little wooden hut smelling of engine oil and hand-rolled cigarettes as he cleaned the blades of an old-fashioned lawnmower. Rain drummed on the roof. He smiled and waved when Logan shouted, ‘Hello?’

‘Here, hold this bit, will you?’ Mr Whyte Senior tipped the mower up on its side.

‘You remember when I was here before,’ said Logan, as the old man started in with the WD40, ‘we talked about Sean Morrison?’

Whyte nodded. ‘I read all about his arrest in the paper — can you believe they used pepper spray on the poor wee soul? He’s only eight … Thanks, you can let go now.’

‘I wonder why your son didn’t report Sean — for all the vandalism.’

The old man smiled sadly. ‘Oh, he wanted to, but there was never any proof, and I thought Sean had enough to deal with without all that. What with his granddad being at death’s door and problems at school. It wouldn’t have been right.’ He levered the mower down from the worktop with a grunt. ‘Old sporting injury. Always gives me gyp when it’s wet out. Now, would you like a cup of tea? It’s no bother.’

They were walking back across the lawn when Mr Whyte stopped at the koi pond. A large orange and white fish broached the rippled surface, then disappeared back into the shadowy depths. ‘My son’s a good man, Sergeant. A better father than I was in many ways. He just gets a bit stressed from time to time. I’m sure he’ll forgive Sean eventually. His brother’s death hit him hard, and Sean looks so much like Craig.’ He shivered. ‘Anyway, what about that tea?’

In the rain FHQ looked even more miserable than normal, the lobby slick with dirty grey water walked in off the streets. Sergeant Mitchell collared Logan as soon as he was back in the building. ‘Hoy, what the hell is it with you and mobile bloody phones? Do I look like your secretary?’ Moustache bristling.

Logan pulled out his phone and peered at it. The battery was dead, but he wasn’t about to admit it. ‘You sure you’re calling the right number? I-’

‘We give everyone a sodding Airwave handset for a reason!’

‘What’s the message?’

‘That Weegie reporter of yours has been on half a dozen times — call him back for God’s sake. I have to listen to his soap-dodging nonsense once more I’m going to kill someone. The rest are in your bloody email.’ He wagged his finger under Logan’s nose like an irate schoolteacher. ‘And switch your bloody phone on, or I’m going to report you. Got better things to do than sod about after you all day!’

There was always a big mess of phone chargers in the CID office, so Logan helped himself to one that fit and plugged his mobile in, then rummaged through his desk until he found his Airwave handset. It was about four times the size of his normal phone, but it would have to do. The battery was nearly fully charged, which wasn’t surprising: he’d barely used the thing; it had spent most of its life switched off in a drawer. He tried calling Miller, but it went straight through to voicemail so he left a message and contact number. If it was anything important the reporter would call him back soon enough. Until then Logan had some digging to do.