Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

As the constable scurried off, Logan pulled out his mobile and called the inspector in charge of the CCTV room, telling him to get his cameras tracking the Rainbow taxi currently turning right onto Broad Street. ‘And I need backup — a couple of-’

‘ Aye, right, Finnie’s got a big drug bust going on; every bugger’s off playing Miami Vice. They’ve no one spare. Tell you, I had a gang of shoplifters …’ He was still moaning two minutes later when Rickards puttered up in front of the station in a fusty old Vauxhall that smelled of armpits.

Logan jumped in the passenger seat. ‘What the hell took you so long?’

‘It was-’

‘Well, get a shift on! Out, left on Broad Street …’ he held the phone to his ear again, ‘Schoolhill …’

Rickards put his foot down and the scabby car lurched out onto the road, pausing at the junction to let a huge bendy bus hiss and judder past. The constable strained forward in his seat, looking for a gap in the traffic. ‘I don’t get it: why are we-’

‘They’ve just got out of court, they’re charged with perverting the course of justice, they know the only way we’re going to prove Rob Bloody Macintyre’s guilty is if we find that little red hatchback. No car: no forensic. No forensic: no conviction. If you were them, what would you do?’

‘Oh.’

‘Exactly.’ They followed the trail of CCTV cameras, Logan relaying instructions as Rickards did his best to catch up with Macintyre’s nearest and dearest.

‘There!’ Logan jabbed a finger at the windscreen — the taxi was at the head of a queue of traffic, waiting for the lights to turn green and let them out onto Union Street. Red, amber… and they were off, trailing more than a dozen cars behind. A taxi ahead of them jerked to a halt as a pissed teenager lurched out on to the road, swinging her arms and singing incoherently for the benefit of her equally drunk friends. A sudden braying of horns, some swearing, threats and the vomit-spattered girl staggered back to the kerb, giggling. The traffic started moving again, just in time for the lights to do their slow parade back to red.

Rickards snapped on the siren, the noise wailing out into the rain-speckled afternoon, but nothing happened. The cars were too tightly packed on Chapel Street to get out of their way. By the time the lights were green again the taxi was nowhere to be seen. Logan got an update from the CCTV team and Rickards floored it, siren blaring, nipping between cars and buses as they pulled over to let them past, traumatizing an old lady with a shopping trolley halfway across a pelican crossing on Union Grove.

Logan grabbed the dashboard as the constable slammed on the brakes, trying not to make OAP pate. ‘Switch it off!’

‘Eh?’

‘The siren, you idiot — switch it off! If they hear us coming they’re not going to lead us to the car, are they?’

Rickards did as he was told.

The pasty-faced old woman hobbled out of the way, clutching her chest as Logan checked in with the CCTV team again. They were screwed: the taxi had disappeared off the network. Wherever the car was, they’d run out of camera coverage. ‘Fuck!’ Logan slammed his hand off the dashboard.

Rickards cringed. ‘It wasn’t my fault!’

Ignoring him, Logan punched the number for Rainbow Taxis into his mobile and listened to it ring. ‘Come on, come on-’ Someone picked up at the other end. He cut them off before they could get into the whole introductory spiel. ‘You had a pick-up from Queen Street — the police station — ten minutes ago. Where’s it going?’

‘ I’m sorry, I can’t give out that kind of information over the phone -’

‘Fine: you call Grampian Police and you tell them where that taxi’s going. OK? You tell them that DS McRae needs to know urgently.’

‘ Well … we -’

‘Urgently!’

The woman on the other end said she’d do her best.

His phone went not long after — Control with the address from the taxi firm. It was Rob Macintyre’s house. Logan swore. So much for that theory. ‘ Aye, they say the driver dropped the mother off, then took the younger one to another address .’

‘Where? Where did he take her?’

‘You’re sure it was here?’ said Logan, looking around the flat, featureless car park, sitting in the shadow of a tower block on the outskirts of Kittybrewster. The wind was picking up again, sending an empty polystyrene carton bouncing across the damp concrete.

‘Aye.’ The taxi driver pointed a stubby finger at the far corner, where a ragged opening punctured the chain-link fence. ‘Dropped her right here an’ she tottered off ower there wie her box.’ He sniffed, looked up at the cold, blue sky, and said, ‘Nae bad weather for a change, eh?’

‘Box? What box?’

A shrug. ‘No idea. The mother goes intae the house and comes out with this cardboard box and gives it to the blonde bit in the back. Tells me to drive her here.’

The box — Macintyre’s trophies, the ones the search team couldn’t find — they were getting rid of the evidence. Logan thanked him and hurried off towards the hole in the fence, trying not to listen to Rickards moaning on about how Debbie Kerr would tell everyone in the Aberdeen scene he was a rotten wee shite and not to be trusted as he slouched along behind.

A churned mud path reached through the grass from the fence towards another tower block. Logan ducked through. Four o’clock on a Friday afternoon and the parking spaces in front of the tower block were empty. There were another two eighteen-storey blocks in the development — bland concrete towers that dominated the skyline — but their car parks were virtually empty too. No sign of a little red hatchback.

According to the taxi driver he’d dropped Ashley off only a couple of minutes earlier: so where the hell was she?

‘I mean it’s not as if I did it on purpose! Why did Debs have to-’

‘Look, would you shut up about your bloody bondage buddies for two fucking minutes and help me find Macintyre’s car?’

Rickards blushed and mumbled an apology, but five minutes later he was whinging again.

There was a small road lined with lock-up garages, tucked down the side of a cluster of shops. Puddles shone with oily rainbows, glittering in the sunlight as Logan picked his way between the potholes. The garage doors were peeling and chipped, bare metal showing through ancient paintwork; only one was open, down at the far end, the sound of someone talking to themselves just audible over the chattering of a single magpie and Rickards’ incessant whining.

‘What am I supposed to do? I mean it’s not as if-’

Logan hit him. ‘Shhh!’ pointing at the open garage door. ‘Down there.’

They crept forward, the voice becoming clearer with every step. It was Ashley, swearing away to herself. ‘Fucking bastards with their fucking fuck … shit …’ Something clanged.

Logan peered inside: Ashley was on her hands and knees fishing about beneath a little red hatchback, her pert, rounded backside wiggling in the air. Logan resisted the urge to take a running kick at it. ‘Lost something?’

She froze. Swore. Then slowly turned to stare at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. ‘This … you … private property, you can’t-’

‘Step away from the vehicle please, Miss.’ It was hard to keep the grin from his face, so Logan didn’t even try. They finally had … He frowned, beneath the smell of dirt and oil was something a lot more worrying: bleach. The box — the one she’d collected from Macintyre’s house — was full of cleaning products and a tiny, handheld vacuum cleaner.

‘I was …’ She looked over Logan’s shoulder, eyes wide: ‘What the hell?’