Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

The inspector had his eyes fixed on the old woman, but Logan was watching Ashley — she’d dressed all in black today, the ruby pendant joined by a matching bracelet and pair of earrings, her make-up perfect — and as soon as Insch mentioned the rapes she flinched as if she’d been slapped. But she kept her mouth shut.

Macintyre’s mum put her cup down and poked a finger at the fat man. ‘You’re the one who’s lying.’

‘Tayside police have identified your son from their cameras. He was there.’

‘I don’t speak to ugly, fat liars. I’m making a complaint.’ She stood, and glowered down at the inspector. ‘You can’t speak to me like this: my son’s in a coma!’

‘Let me just get this crystal clear,’ said Insch, settling back into the couch with a smile, ‘you’re telling me Robert Macintyre was here all night, every time. Never went out.’

‘I want you out of my house!’

‘Is that what you’re saying? That your son never took your sister’s car to Dundee to rape women?’

‘What’s wrong with you? YES: my Robby’s a good boy!’

‘What about you, Ashley?’

‘Tell him Ashley! You tell him Robby was here!’

Macintyre’s fiancee stared Insch in the eye, but Logan could see her left leg trembling. ‘Robert was here. With me. All night.’

‘Excellent.’ The inspector lurched to his feet. ‘Then I’m arresting you both for conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. We’ll continue this down the station.’

The swearing started when Insch pulled out the handcuffs.

‘Christ,’ Sergeant Eric Mitchell winced, standing in the corridor outside the women’s cells, ‘is she ever going to shut up?’

Logan shrugged, ‘Who knows?’ Macintyre’s mum had kept it up all the way through her interview, shouting at them for being corrupt and incompetent and out to get her poor wee boy. ‘Think she’ll upset the muggers and shoplifters?’

‘Fucking upsetting me.’

Back up in interview room number two, Rob Macintyre’s fiancee was fidgeting in the suspect’s chair. ‘This thing’s bolted to the floor …’ she said, as Logan returned from the canteen bearing three big, wax-paper cups of fancy coffee. ‘Did you know this chair’s bolted to the floor?’

‘It’s for the junkies and murderers,’ explained Insch, accepting his latte with extra cinnamon, nutmeg, chocolate and vanilla without so much as a thank you. ‘In case they hurt themselves.’

‘Oh …’ She stared at the coffee Logan placed in front of her. ‘I …’

The inspector gave her a chance to get the rest of the sentence out, but nothing came. ‘OK, Ashley,’ he said at last, ‘we know you’re lying about Macintyre’s whereabouts. We’ve got proof. That means when you give him an alibi you’re trying to pervert the course of justice. You can get seven, eight years for that. You’re a pretty girl,’ he said, taking a sip from his coffee, ‘probably do well in prison. Some butch lesbian makes you her bitch and you won’t have to worry about getting stabbed in the showers. The years will just fly by.’ All said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice.

‘I … I’ve … Robert’s a good man. He’s done nothing wrong.’ Wiping tears from her eye with the heel of her hand, smearing her mascara. ‘I … I don’t want to talk to you any more. I want to go home.’ Breaking down completely on the last word.

Insch reached out and took her hand, but she jerked it back as if she’d been scalded, hiding it under the table, letting the tears fall unchecked on the tabletop. The inspector nodded sadly. ‘It’s OK, Ashley, I understand. It’s hard. But if you talk to us, tell us where the car is, we can maybe do something about your sentence. We’ve got search teams out there already, we’ll find it sooner or later, but if you help us we can help you.’

But all Ashley wanted to do was cry.

The dynamic duo — Rennie and Rickards — were in full flow, joking and laughing about last night’s rehearsal, when Logan got back to the incident room. ‘Of course,’ said Rennie, checking his reflection in a lifeless computer monitor, ‘Liz was all over me.’

Rickards grinned. ‘In your dreams. She’s married!’

‘They’re the best kind. Anyway, you were getting very pally with Debs.’

The constable shrugged, but Rennie slapped him on the back and called him a leather-clad stud-muffin. Rickards blushed. ‘She’s very talented.’

‘Only one of us who is. Don’t break her heart for God’s sake, we’d be buggered if she took the hump and left.’

‘So …’ said Logan, choosing his words carefully, ‘Debs: she’s a Rankin fan.’

Rickards froze, and that was all Logan needed to know he’d been right: she was part of the BDSM scene.

‘I saw the book in her handbag.’

‘Oh.’ The constable shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Not a problem, is it?’

‘Not with me.’

‘Good.’

He supposed it wasn’t that surprising Insch’s top star was into bondage — that Tina woman in Cafe Ici kept banging on about performing being like pulling on a second skin. Being something and someone you weren’t. Just like wearing a full-body rubber suit. Which probably explained why Rickards was attracted to her. Logan wondered if that made her a top, or a bottom. Looking at the constable it was easy to see him as the spankee rather than the spanker, but you never knew.

He frowned, feeling the little wheels going round in his brain. ‘Shite.’ It was obvious when you thought about it.

‘Sir?’

Logan grabbed the DVD of Jason’s final performance and hurried from the room. There were a couple of things he needed to check, but he had a sinking feeling he knew what he’d find.

And DI Insch was not going to be happy about it.

‘No.’ The inspector scowled at the printouts Logan had spread across his desk. ‘Thi s isjust a load of-’

‘But if you look at the-’

‘No: it’s not her!’

‘Look at the pictures! She’s the same body shape as the woman in the bondage suit, she’s in the scene — ask Rickards — and she’s a switch, exactly what Fettes was advertising for. Plus she’s new, inexperienced, likely to make mistakes.’ It had taken some doing to get all that out of the constable without letting him know why, but eventually Rickards had spilled the beans.

‘It’s not her! You should be out there chasing up that search team, not in here wasting my bloody time!’

Logan shuffled through the images. ‘Here — the e-fit of the driver, if you lose the moustache, glasses and goatee it looks just like her.’ He’d cheated a bit on the second image, using the various Mikado posters Insch had stuck up all over the station for reference, making sure the new e-fit had Debbie Kerr’s eyes and mouth: the resemblance was uncanny. ‘There never was a second person, it was all her.’

Insch picked up both pictures and held them side by side. ‘Her face is more heart-shaped. This isn’t-’

‘Remember the impersonation she does of you? She’s a brilliant mimic, how hard would it be for her to slap on a fake moustache and Irish accent?’

‘Don’t be bloody …’ Insch went silent, staring at the printout. ‘It’s a coincidence.’

‘She even moves the same way — watch the video again and you’ll see! You know she’s a good enough actor to carry it off. They say BDSM lets people be someone else — someone without boundaries. That’s what she does on stage, isn’t it? Be someone else?’

The inspector sighed, screwed up his face and swore. Logan knew it seemed like a stretch, but he could feel it in his gut, between the scars: the amazing Debbie killed Jason Fettes. All he had to do now was prove it.