Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

Over an hour later he was no further forward. As far as the various police databases were concerned, Sean’s ex-best-friend’s family were clean. Not so much as a parking ticket. In fact, the only blemish on the Whytes’ family tree was Craig, the dead brother. He’d got into a fight when he was sixteen and ended up crippling a lorry driver with a snooker cue. The man had accused him of being gay. There was a spell at Her Majesty’s pleasure, followed by a battered girlfriend, therapy, then an overdose of sleeping pills. Daniel had no reason to be jealous of his younger brother — he’d not even made it to twenty-four.

When the Airwave handset started ringing it was such an unfamiliar noise that Logan nearly didn’t answer it. ‘Hello?’

‘ Where the hell you been, man? I been callin’ you for ages! ’ Colin Miller sounding agitated, which was pretty much par for the course these days.

‘Afternoon.’ Logan tried for one last mouthful of coffee, only to find it stone cold. He spat it back out into the mug. ‘Urgh, Jesus …’

‘ She’s done it! ’

He peered at the marbled liquid then tipped it into the nearest pot plant. ‘Done what? Who’s done it?’

‘ It’s a wee boy! Seven pounds! He’s fuckin’ brilliant! Wee fingers an’ toes an’ everythin’! ’

‘Oh …’ There were things you were supposed to say to new fathers: ‘Congratulations. How’s Isobel?’

‘ Knackered. Says if I come near her again she’s going to chop ma dick off!’ He laughed. ‘Can you believe it: six days early? ’

‘Well, I suppose it’s-’

‘ You gotta come see him! ’

‘Thing is, Colin …’ Logan looked at his desk. It wasn’t exactly overflowing with urgent actions, just DI Steel’s paperwork — all the things she was supposed to do, but never did. And the sooner he reported back to Insch, the sooner the grumpy sod would shout at him for being dragged away in the first place. As if Logan had any say in the matter. ‘No, sounds good. See you soon.’

He abandoned his CID pool car as close to the maternity ward as he could and hurried in out of the rain. A nurse gave him directions and after a brief shopping spree in the Women’s Royal Voluntary Service shop, he was marching down the corridor, clutching a cat-shaped helium balloon, a box of chocolates and a Hallmark card with IT’S A BOY! on it. As if the parents didn’t already know.

The reporter was waiting for him at the maternity ward door. ‘Laz, my man! Come see the bairn!’

The next twenty minutes passed in something of a blur. The baby, no matter what his proud father said, looked like a shaved monkey, but Logan kept quiet about it and pretended not to notice. Isobel looked dreadful: pale, tired and sweaty, with dark purple bags under her eyes. She clearly wasn’t up to a prolonged visit, so Logan made his excuses, promising to meet up with Colin when the fathers were kicked out at nine, to wet the baby’s head with some thirty-five-year-old single malt whisky the reporter had bought specially.

Outside, the rain had stopped, late-afternoon sunlight cutting through the low clouds, painting everything gold and ochre, casting long blue shadows as it sank towards the horizon. Logan climbed into the pool car and switched his handset back on, trying to remember how to check for any messages and failing abysmally. So he called Control and asked Sergeant Mitchell.

‘ For God’s sake! I’m not your -’

‘Bloody secretary, yeah, I know. Look, I’m using the damn thing, what more do you want?’

‘ Will wonders never cease? Insch is looking for you .’

‘Any idea what-’

‘ No. So don’t ask .’

Logan hung up. It was just on the cusp of five: if he could stay out of the inspector’s clutches for another ten minutes he could sign out and slope off home, putting off the inevitable shouting at till tomorrow. But that would mean going back to the flat and dealing with Jackie … He dialled Insch’s mobile.

‘ Where are you ?’

Logan thought about lying, but it probably wasn’t worth the aggravation. ‘Up at the hospital.’

‘ What ?’ There was a moment’s pause, then the inspector said, ‘ How did you get …? No, never mind. Is that slimy bastard there yet? ’

‘Er …’ He looked up and down the car park, trying to figure out what Insch meant. ‘Which one?’

‘ Hissing Bloody Sid — who do you think? Soon as the TV cameras turn up he’s all over the place like a foul smell .’

‘Ah, right, not seen him yet.’ Which was true.

‘ I’ve got a rehearsal at half-six, so I’m relying on you: don’t let the wee shite say anything stupid, OK? Last thing we need is more grief .’

Logan didn’t have a clue what the inspector was on about, but it would probably be bad. It usually was.

They were gathered outside the main entrance, holding up placards with things like WE LOVE YOU ROB! GET WELL SOON! and AFC CHAMPIONS! scrawled on them. Floral tributes were piled up to either side of the hospital doors, with the occasional teddy bear dressed up in Aberdeen Football Club colours thrown in for good measure. Half the crowd had their replica shirts on under their thick jackets, and all of them were tearfully singing football songs.

‘Oh for God’s sake …’ Logan stood next to one of the uniformed constables stationed at the hospital, staring out at this public display of grief. ‘They been at this long?’

The constable nodded, her face puckered up like a chicken’s bum. ‘Aye, ever since it was in the papers this morning. One bugger drops off a bunch of manky carnations from a petrol station, and suddenly everyone’s at it. Like he’s Lady Fucking Di or something.’ She pointed off into the middle distance where a group of TV journalists were hanging about drinking tea and coffee from polystyrene cups. ‘And those bastards aren’t helping.’

It was nearly half an hour before things kicked off: Rob Macintyre’s mum and her grieving daughter-in-law-elect emerging from the hospital blubbering bravely for the fans and cameras. The sun had long since disappeared, but it’d been replaced by the harsh white glare of television lights. Macintyre’s mother shuffled forwards and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I want to thank you all for coming to wish my wee boy well,’ she said, launching into a speech about how her little darling was the best son in the world, who didn’t deserve this, and if anyone knew who was responsible … pretty much the same thing she’d said at the press conference, only this time Sandy Moir-Farquharson was nowhere to be seen.

‘Good wee boy, my arse,’ said the constable, keeping her voice down, in case anyone overheard. ‘Little rapist fucker got what he bloody deserved. Whoever did him wants a medal.’

Then the questions started from the press, most of which were variations on the theme of, ‘How does it feel to have your son in a coma?’ as if his mum and fiancee were going to say it was great. Then it was onto Macintyre’s medical condition and what it meant for the wedding plans. Ashley struck a determined pose, one hand over her tiny pregnant bulge. ‘We’re still getting married! Robert will get better — his baby needs a daddy and I’ll always stand by him!’

‘Aye,’ hissed the constable, ‘and his seven-figure book deal. How much you think she’s in for, fifty per cent with the mother? They’ll be rolling in it.’

‘Well,’ said Logan, ‘the guy is in a coma-’

‘Best place for him.’

The questions kept coming. Up till now, Hissing Sid had handled the media side of things, manipulating, spinning, lying, but without him Macintyre’s mother was forced to take centre stage, and she was doing a surprisingly good job of it too, only wheeling Ashley out for the emotional bits.