Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

‘What’s this?’

‘Read it.’

Inside were about two dozen bank statements belonging to Frank Garvie. ‘How did you-’

‘I didn’t. Whoever you got them from it wasnae me.’

Logan flicked through the sheets. Most of Garvie’s purchases were online, bits of electronic equipment and gadgets. ‘What am I supposed to be looking …’ He frowned — there was a payment into Garvie’s account every month marked BACS, that would be his salary, but there were others, cheques coming in at regular intervals.

Miller unwrapped a packet of extra strong mints and stuffed three in his mouth: crunching. ‘Bloke rents out encrypted server space.’

‘Did you-’

‘No idea what you’re talkin’ about.’ And the reporter marched back through the doors into the maternity hospital.

Logan called Force Headquarters, looking for Insch, even though he really didn’t want to speak to him. Voicemail. He left a vague message and tried DI Steel instead. ‘ Don’t care .’ Then there was a chest-rattling cough and some swearing. ‘ Better off when I was bloody smoking … Garvie’s no’ getting any less dead, is he? And I’ve got whoever battered Rob Bastarding Macintyre to worry about: search teams are a waste of bloody time, door-to-doors are useless and everyone who says they left the nightclub with the wee footballing shite can’t remember a thing. Blootered out their faces. And the CC’s getting right up my …’ she went on for a bit, but Logan had stopped listening. He was scribbling down the cheque numbers paid into Garvie’s account. When she finally hung up, he crossed his fingers and dialled the PF’s office, hoping to get anyone other than Rachael.

He wasn’t lucky. There was an awkward pause, then she said, ‘ You didn’t call .’

Bollocks. He wandered away from the maternity ward, heading back to where he’d parked as the first spits of rain put a dull sheen on the ranks of cars. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been … Macintyre and Fettes and …’ And he was a spineless bastard who should have phoned up and cancelled.

‘ Boeuf bourguignon . I had to throw half of it out .’

Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot. ‘I’m really, really sorry.’

Another pause. Then a sigh. ‘ I’ve never gone out with a policeman before. Is this what it’s like? Never knowing if you’ll be there or not? ’

Logan closed his eyes and tried not to think about where this was leading. ‘Pretty much, yeah.’ Tell her. ‘I-’

‘ What do -’ She stopped. ‘ You first .’

‘I …’ TELL HER! ‘I need to ID some people from their cheque numbers.’

He drove back to FHQ, cursing himself all the way. Rachael had forgiven him for not turning up and promised to get back to him as soon as she’d got a warrant together, so now he felt doubly guilty …

The incident room was quiet, just a single uniformed constable, dribbling information into HOLMES as it came in. Apparently the hunt for Rob Macintyre’s little red hatchback was running out of steam, they’d searched every street in a two-mile radius from the footballer’s house and come up empty. The question was: how did Macintyre’s mum know to get rid of the damn thing? His fiancee had given a pretty convincing performance this morning, as if she genuinely didn’t know what her beloved was up to — or didn’t want to believe it — that left the boot-faced old cow who’d been lying for Robert since the day he was born. It wasn’t hard to see her brow-beating Ashley until she toed the party line: ‘ Yes officer, Robert was with me all night .’

Ashley was the weak link. There had to be a way to break her.

He was still trying to figure out how when Insch stormed into the incident room looking about ready to burst — scarlet, puffy face, gritted teeth, angry, piggy eyes. Logan scrambled to his feet. Here it came.

‘Well, don’t just stand there: get your coat!’

‘But … Garvie: I’m waiting on-’

‘NOW!’

Logan grabbed his jacket and followed in the huge man’s wake as he thundered out of the room and down the stairs. Sergeant Eric Mitchell was halfway out of his seat as they marched past, then he caught the expression on Insch’s face and sat right down again, keeping his mouth shut.

All the way through the building and out to the rear podium car park, constables, sergeants, ancillary staff and inspectors got the hell out of the huge man’s way. He marched up to his filthy Range Rover, plipped the locks, then threw the keys to Logan. ‘You’re driving.’

There was a brand new Magic Tree air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror. ‘Where to?’

‘Can you believe that bastard Finnie? How the hell he ever got to be a bloody DI …’ Insch went hunting in the glove compartment, coming out with a tiny packet of Jelly Tots, shoving them in his mouth one at a time. ‘You’d think we were all supposed to be on the same side: solve crime, keep the streets safe, put bloody crooks away. But not Finnie, no he has to be the big man.’

Logan knew better than to ask. Instead he started the inspector’s car and pointed it in the direction of Mastrick, already having a pretty shrewd idea where the fat man’s rant was heading.

‘Where does he get off telling the DCS to cancel my lookout request? Not in the interests of his ongoing investigation, my arse!’ Insch threw the last little disk in his mouth and crushed the packet in his huge fist. ‘When I get my hands on him I’ll …’ The words stopped coming, but the inspector went on trembling with rage, breathing in and out through his nose, doing his calming-down exercises again. It was getting more alarming every time Logan saw it. Never mind thirteen stone, at this rate Insch would be dead long before he lost any of it. ‘Right,’ said the fat man, when he was finally back to a nearly normal shade of pink, ‘we’re looking for Jimmy Duff, so get your backside …’ he trailed off as Logan pulled up to the kerb, directly opposite the address Ma Stewart had taken them to last time. Where Jimmy Duff was supposed to live. ‘Oh … right.’

Logan went to unclip his seatbelt, but Insch’s huge hand covered his own. Holding it in place. ‘Well?’

Here it came. ‘I called her work this morning, then I checked with the hotel and convention centre in Bristol, and the airport, and-’

‘ Today , Sergeant!’

‘Her alibi looks sound, sir. Sorry.’

Insch nodded, but didn’t let go of Logan’s hand. Instead he increased the pressure slightly, until Logan’s bones started to groan. ‘You mean to tell me I pissed off the only person in my entire cast who was any bloody good because you got it wrong ?’ The pressure increased again. Now it was actively painful.

‘Ah … yes, sir, sorry, sir!’ Logan tried to make his hand go limp, before Insch squeezed the life out of it. ‘Do you think you could-’

‘If I can’t get her back, Sergeant, I’m going to have your bollocks on a plate. Are we crystal clear on that?’ And all the time the inspector’s voice never rose above a polite conversational level, his face didn’t even go red as he threatened Logan. Which somehow made it even worse.

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Good.’ He let go, then clambered out into the sunny morning, leaving Logan to lock the car. As soon as the fat man’s feet hit the pavement his phone started to ring — Behold the Lord High Executioner sounding in the cold morning air. He switched it off.

Then the Airwave handset in Logan’s pocket started bleeping at him. ‘McRae.’ He flexed his fingers, trying to get some life back into them as he followed Insch up the path to the front door.