Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

‘ Good boy, such a good boy … Oh what a good boy …’

Logan told Rickards to turn it off.

‘ My good boy … Oh Craig …’ Click. Silence.

Mid-afternoon and the rain was drumming down from a lead-grey sky. The road glistened, reflecting back the rotating blue and white lights from Alpha Two Seven as Logan climbed out of his pool car and into the downpour. Hamilton Place was quiet — there was no sign of the Whytes’ people carrier.

‘You bring the warrant?’ he asked and Rennie nodded, digging it out of his jacket pocket and handing it over. Logan checked to make sure it was all signed in the right places before marching up to the front door and pounding on it like DI Insch. No response.

‘Maybe they’re not in?’

Logan tried again, waited, then marched round to the back of the house, Rennie and Rickards trotting along behind him. A small radio was playing in the shed at the bottom of the garden, the Rolling Stones’ ( I Can’t Get No ) Satisfaction mingling with the rain. Someone sang along, slightly off key. Mr Whyte Senior had a hand-rolled cigarette sticking out of the side of his mouth as he worked a chisel back and forth on an oil stone, pausing every now and then to check for sharpness. He looked up and smiled as Logan stopped just outside the shed. ‘Sergeant McRae, how are you? Anything I can do to help?’

‘I want to see your leg.’

The old man raised an eyebrow and ground his cigarette out on a china saucer. ‘On a first date? What kind of-’

‘This isn’t a joke.’ Logan held up the warrant. ‘I’m detaining you on suspicion of child abuse.’

‘Surely there’s been some mistake. I would never touch a child. It’s repulsive-’

‘You remember Sean Morrison, Mr Whyte? Remember how much he looks like Craig? Your wee boy? The one who ended up killing himself? Because of what you did?’

Whyte looked down at the chisel in his hand, then back up at Logan. ‘I’m not listening to this any longer.’ He tightened his grip on the handle. ‘I want you off our property.’

‘What did you do, play the surrogate granddad? You’re about the same age. He’s worried about his grandfather and you took advantage-’

‘If you don’t leave, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.’ He stepped forwards, the chisel weaving back and forth like the head of a snake. ‘Get out of my garden. Now.’

‘And you were stupid enough to video it!’

‘Lies!’ Whyte’s face darkened. ‘You’ve no business being here!’

‘We found it this morning. You abused an eight-year-old boy and you videotaped yourself doing it, you moron. The old sporting injury.’ Logan pointed at the man’s leg. ‘We’re going to match your scar to the one in the film and then I’m going to lock you up where you can’t-’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong!’ The words came out in a small shower of brown spittle. ‘You get out of here, NOW!’ Another step forward, weak sunlight glinting on the chisel’s freshly sharpened edge.

Logan pulled out a canister of pepper spray and levelled it at Whyte’s face. ‘Put the weapon down and step out of the shed.’

Whyte’s eyes darted over Logan’s shoulder, to where Rennie and Rickards stood. No way out. He looked at the canister in Logan’s hand, then dropped the chisel. It fell end over end, landing point down and burying itself in the sodden grass. ‘I want a lawyer, I-’

Logan sprayed the old man in the eyes. He screamed even louder than Sean Morrison had.

‘Fuck’s sake.’ DI Steel sat at her desk reading Logan’s report. ‘And he’d no idea Garvie was floggin’ the video to other kiddie fiddlin’ bastards?’

‘We don’t even know if he was. Kevin Massie’s come over all repentant now he’s looking at another stretch in Peterhead — says there were five or six of them, sharing homemade videos and pictures, and stuff they got off the internet. They encrypt it, so only they can see it, and upload it to Garvie’s server. Massie claims he never knew who the other members were: no one ever used their real names, so he can’t finger them.’

‘That’s convenient.’

‘Whyte’s not saying anything, but the scar on his leg matches the one in the video. So he’s screwed anyway.’

Steel nodded sagely. ‘See! I told you there was more to this Sean Morrison thing than met the eye.’

Logan didn’t bother answering that — DI Steel’s selective memory strikes again — instead he slouched in his chair and stared out of the nicotine-filmed window. ‘The IB’ve tried the encryption key we found at Daniel Whyte’s place on Garvie’s servers.’

The inspector’s face lit up, all the wrinkles looking excited. ‘Aye?’

‘Twenty video clips, that’s it. It won’t decrypt any of the other files. There’s still thousands and thousands we can’t get into.’

‘Oh …’ The excitement evaporated and Steel’s face fell back into its usual leathery sag. ‘Ah well, win some, lose some. Get all the other fuckwits who paid Garvie by cheque hauled in and we’ll give them a hard time. Meantime,’ she leant back in her chair, swivelling back and forth, ‘I had to cancel the search for Macintyre’s rapemobile. Fuckin’ thing’s nowhere to be seen and the DCS’s been banging his gums about the overtime bill. Apparently,’ she put on a Banff and Buchan Teuchter drawl, ‘DI Finnee’s operation taks precedence.’ She scowled. ‘Glory-hogging bastard. And see if you can get us some tea, eh? I’m gaspin’ here.’

Twenty past four and Logan was staring at the phone, debating the merits of calling Rachael Tulloch back and making up some excuse to cancel whatever he was supposed to be doing with her tonight. A large shadow loomed over him and he flinched, expecting to see DI Insch’s furious purple face. But it was just Big Gary with a pile of incident reports in one hand and a mug of tea in the other, a rowie clamped between his teeth. ‘Mmmwow, gowfffmmm mounnsmmmph.’

Logan just stared at him, so Gary took the cowpat-shaped roll out of his mouth and tried again. ‘Don’t tell Watson, but your girlfriend’s outside.’

‘What?’ How the hell did Gary find out about Rachael? And if Gary knew, it would be all over the station in a matter of minutes. Jackie would have his balls for earrings!

‘Ashley is it? Macintyre’s bint — she’s out front telling everyone what a bunch of shites we are. Only got out of court five minutes ago and she’s already giving bloody press conferences.’

Thank God for that. ‘Oh.’

‘Here,’ Gary said, dumping half of the incident reports on Logan’s desk, ‘Steel says you’re in charge of these.’ He took a big bite of rowie, and lumbered off.

Logan took one look at the pile of paperwork and decided he really couldn’t be bothered. He grabbed his coat and left the building instead: he had a sudden masochistic urge to hear what lies Macintyre’s fiancee was coming out with now.

The camera crews were packing up as he pushed through the front doors. Rickards was standing on the top step, watching the woman from Sky News doing a piece to camera. The welt on his cheek where Debbie slapped him had faded overnight, leaving nothing more than a pitiful, skelped-arse look. He gave a big puppy-dog sigh as Logan stopped beside him.

‘Well, what did Macintyre’s fiancee say?’

Rickards shrugged. ‘The usual.’

Logan scanned the dispersing crowds, looking for Ashley’s telltale brassy blonde hair. She was climbing into a taxi with Macintyre’s mother. ‘If you were …’ he frowned, watching as it pulled away. All that time they’d spent searching the city for the missing little red hatchback, when everyone knew the car would be a burnt-out hulk by now, dumped in the middle of nowhere, miles from civilization. But what if everyone was wrong? He grabbed Rickards. ‘Go: get a pool car, now!’