Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

‘Can you believe they’ve still not picked the bastard up?’ said Insch, swinging onto Summer Street, ‘Oh, they say they can’t find Duff, but we all know the truth, don’t we? They don’t want to do any sodding work, so- LEARN TO BLOODY DRIVE!’ The Range Rover’s horn blared at a wee blue Mini Metro trying to turn right from Crimon Place. ‘That bastard Finnie’s asking for a punch in the teeth. Bloody drugs squad think they own the place …’ The tirade dried up as Insch fought his huge car into a tiny parking space just up from the church hall. He clambered out into the chilly evening.

‘You,’ said Insch, poking Logan in the chest with a fat finger, ‘are going to light a fire under uniform tomorrow — I want Jimmy Duff picked up. If Finnie isn’t going to do his bloody job, we will!’

Inside the church hall it was chaos. Half of the inspector’s acting crowd were in costume, the other half struggling to get dressed, everyone talking at once.

‘Can we not just get the DCS to pull rank on him?’ asked Logan as Insch settled his huge frame into a creaky plastic chair. ‘Tell Finnie to get his finger out?’

‘Bloody DCS wants the drug bust. According to him it takes precedence over some wee pervert who rented himself out to bondage freaks.’ He turned to face his cast, pulled on a smile that reeked of false bonhomie, and said, ‘Places everyone please — we’re going all the way through tonight.’

The men scurried into position, freezing into oriental poses, holding paper fans and jars and plastic samurai swords. The ladies hung back against the hall’s dingy walls, waiting for the chorus of schoolgirls and their chance to shine. Logan scanned their faces, trying to pick Debbie Kerr out. ‘What about the CC?’

The piano lurched into the overture and Insch nodded. ‘Got a meeting with him: half-eleven tomorrow morning.’ The piano changed tune and suddenly all the posing figures came to life, chasing one another around the masking tape stage in shuffling steps.

And then they started to sing.

Logan watched a look of pain crawl across the inspector’s face. It was going to be a long, long night.

Logan never wanted to see another Gilbert and Sullivan operetta as long as he lived. He’d not been a big fan to start with, but having to sit through Insch’s production yet again was torture. Afterwards, when it was all over and the inspector had conducted his ritual post mortem, the gentlemen and ladies of Japan clambered out of their costumes and back into their heavy, winter jackets. Insch called his star performer over. ‘Debs, you were brilliant. Loved Bellow of the Blast , gets better every time.’ She flushed slightly, enjoying the compliment while she untangled her wavy brown hair from the severe bun she’d put it into to play the part. The inspector paused, shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat. ‘I need to ask you a couple of questions …’ A gaggle of middle-aged women chattered by and Insch smiled at them, told them they’d all been great tonight, then led his star off into the corner and out of earshot.

Logan stayed where he was, watching as Insch ejected Rickards from the prompting desk so he could settle one huge buttock on top of it while he talked to her. It didn’t matter how obvious it was that Debbie Kerr had been involved in Fettes’ death, the inspector refused point blank to do anything more formal than have a quick chat at rehearsal. Now that his best actor was a suspect, the fat man was a lot more inclined towards the ‘unfortunate sexual adventure gone wrong’ way of thinking. So much for ‘Jason Fettes died in agony,’ and ‘we’re going to treat this as a murder enquiry’. Hypocrite.

Rickards wandered over, hands in his pockets, looking back over his shoulder as the cast slowly drifted out through the door, heading for the pub. ‘Wish I’d got here a couple of months sooner. I’d love to be on stage …’

‘Uh huh.’ Logan wasn’t really listening, he was watching to see how Debbie Kerr reacted to Insch’s questions. Right now she was shaking her head, arms folded across her chest, wearing a frown.

‘I mean I know all the words and all that. I could probably pick up the moves easy enough.’

Insch was holding up his hands, making calming, placatory gestures.

‘You think the DI would let me? Bit late in the day, I know, but-’

An angry: ‘NO!’ rang out across the hall and everyone froze, turning to stare at Insch and Debbie. ‘What, just because I’m in the scene you think I’m guilty? You’re questioning me because of my sexuality ?’

The only person not watching the floorshow was Rickards, he was staring at Logan instead. ‘Oh Jesus … oh, you didn’t, did you?’ His face went deathly pale. ‘Please tell me you didn’t!’

Logan shushed him.

The inspector said something, his voice too low to be heard from where they were, but Debbie’s carried loud and clear. ‘Who’s next? You going to arrest all the homosexuals? Jews? Why not round up all the ethnic minorities while you’re at it? You narrow-minded, pig-ignorant, fat bastard !’ She turned and stormed off with the inspector hurrying after her. Pleading.

‘Debs! I had to ask! It wasn’t my idea; we just needed to eliminate you from our enquiries, we-’

‘And you!’ She marched straight up to Rickards and gave him a huge ringing slap across the face, nearly knocking him off his feet. ‘I trusted you! Don’t think I won’t tell everyone what a shit you are,’ cos I will! You won’t be able to put foot in a munch ever again!’

‘But-’ Rickards.

‘Debs, if we can all just calm down-’ Insch.

‘Fuck the lot of you!’ And she was on the go once more, the inspector trying to convince her he hadn’t meant anything by it, all the way out of the hall.

He was back two minutes later, looking more shocked than angry. ‘She’s quit the show …’ He looked around at the remaining members of his cast. ‘We …’ he cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Just a small misunderstanding. Nothing to worry about. It’ll be fine.’

Rickards stood with one hand covering his cheek, a red weal already starting to bloom. ‘She’ll tell everyone! Oh God …’

‘What about Fettes?’

Insch turned back to Logan, ‘She wasn’t even in the country that day — away at an IT conference in Bristol. With about half a dozen people from work …’

‘I’ll check it out tomorrow morning. She could still be-’

The inspector buried his face in his hands. ‘Why the hell did I ever listen to you?’

Under the circumstances Logan decided to give the pub a miss. Insch’s shock would wear off soon enough: then there would be recriminations and shouting. All directed at him.

The sound of something dreadful on television filtered out into the hall as he unlocked the flat’s front door. That meant Jackie was home. Sighing, he peeled off his work clothes in the bathroom, then climbed into the shower without saying hello. She was through five minutes later, talking to him over the drone of the blow heater. ‘Are you still sulking?’

‘I’m not sulking.’ Standing under the hot water and lying.

‘Then what? You want a divorce? You’re just trying to piss me off? Aliens stole your balls? What?’

He hung his head and closed his eyes. Trying to keep his voice neutral. ‘Just had a bad day, OK?’

‘You’ve been ignoring me all week! I left God knows how many messages on your bloody phone!’

And that’s when Logan remembered where he’d left his mobile: charging in the CID offices. ‘It’s not working. I’ve been on an Airwave thing since yesterday.’

‘That’s not the point. You’ve not been around for days — you’ve been avoiding the flat, and don’t bloody tell me you’ve not, because you have!’