Stuart MacBride - Broken Skin

A grumbling PC Rickards appeared from a filthy, battered pool car, carrying armfuls of chips papers and old burger boxes. He’d changed into his ‘going out’ clothes — the crumpled shirt and tie replaced by a black T-shirt and stab-proof vest. With the fluorescent yellow waterproof jacket on over the top, he looked like a short, grumpy lollypop man. He dumped the rubbish in the wire-mesh bin at the back of the building. Then went back for another load.

‘Honestly,’ the inspector pulled the gum from her mouth and squeeged it into the brickwork by the door, ‘some people treat this place like a tip.’ She grabbed Rickards as he deposited his load of rubbish in the bin. ‘Right, that’ll do. Fun though this is, I’m freezing my tits off here.’

The address Jimmy Duff had given them was for a small, bland, two-up, two-down on the outskirts of Blackburn. It sat in the middle of a row of identical houses, all sulking away beneath the featureless grey sky. A wee blue mini was parked at the kerb, in front of a neglected garden decorated with gnomes.

‘You know,’ said Steel, as Rickards pulled up opposite and killed the engine, ‘I’m thinking of going blonde.’

Logan checked the details he’d printed off back at the station. ‘Vicky Peterson … You sure you don’t recognize the name?’

‘They say blondes have more fun. But they also say two’s company and three’s a crowd, and we know that’s shite, don’t we, Spanky? Three’s a very fine number in the bed department.’

‘Er …’ Rickards coughed, then looked back between the seats at Logan. ‘It doesn’t ring any bells, but she might not go by her real name at munches.’ And then his face fell. ‘Not that I’ll ever be able to set foot in one again. I’m-’

‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel clambered out into the cold morning. ‘We’ve put up with your whinging all the way from the bloody station: OK, we get it. Your life’s ruined. Everyone hates you. It’s no’ fair. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Now shut up about it.’ She slammed the car door and Rickards sagged even further into his seat.

‘She doesn’t understand! Nobody understands … they were my family. The only people who understood what it’s like.’ He sighed. ‘How would you feel if you could never speak to your family ever again?’

Logan didn’t even have to think about it, ‘Fucking delighted.’ It wasn’t the answer the constable was expecting, but at least it shut him up.

Steel was waiting for them at the front door, stomping her feet and blowing into her cupped hands, making little clouds of steam. ‘About time.’ She hoicked a thumb at the bell. ‘Spanky, you’re on point.’

A long-suffering sigh, and Rickards leant on the bell. Brrrrrrrrrrrringgggggg.

‘What d’you think?’ Steel asked as they waited.

‘Well,’ Logan looked up at the building, ‘I checked with records — no one reported a break-in at this address. Wouldn’t be the first time Duff’s sold us a line. He’s not exactly the font of all honesty.’

Steel slapped him on the arm. ‘Not bloody Duff! Me: blonde or auburn?’

‘Oh, er …’ Saved by the answer to the bell. The door creaked open revealing a familiar-looking woman: slightly shorter than Rickards, green eyes, shiny brown ponytail, overweight, expensive casual clothes, shocked expression-

‘Tina?’ The constable waved and Logan groaned. Tina. The intense one from Rickard’s bondage group, the one who wouldn’t shut up about Jack and his Bloody Beanstalk. ‘Er … can we come in?’

Tina, AKA Vicky Peterson, looked Rickards up and down. ‘You never said you were a policeman.’

‘Er … sorry about that.’

There was an awkward silence. ‘Do they let you take your handcuffs home?’

The constable got as far as another, ‘Er …’ when Steel poked him in the back and said, ‘Get a shift on, Spanky: we’re freezing out here!’

Rickards went bright red. ‘Can we … er …’

Tina rolled her eyes, gave a big, dramatic sigh, then turned and marched into the house. ‘Sure, why not. Wipe your feet though.’

Logan hung back, cursing Jimmy Duff’s name.

‘What’s up with your face?’ hissed Steel as they followed Tina and Rickards through the rubber-scented hall and into a tidy lounge.

‘It’s not her. She’s a bottom. Whoever fisted Jason Fettes was a top, or a dom. And look at her: she’s too short and heavy to be the woman on the video. That bastard Duff lied to us.’

Steel swore. ‘Just what I need, another wild bloody goose chase.’

‘So,’ said Tina, striking her pantomime pose again, fist on hips, legs spread wide, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure?’

Rickards cast a panicked look at the inspector who just shrugged and passed the buck on to Logan. ‘Ah …’ he said, ‘we’re … Burglaries.’

‘Burglaries?’

‘Burglaries. We’ve had a number of break-ins reported in the area, and we’re going door to door to see if anyone saw anything. And, you know, if their properties are secure.’

‘Oh.’ Tina stood with her head to one side, like a cat. ‘I know Mrs Ross had her car nicked, but I thought that was in town.’

‘So you haven’t seen anything?’ Brazening it out.

‘Nope.’

Logan nodded, as if he’d feared as much. ‘Right, well, we’d probably better take a quick look round. Make sure everything’s secure before we go next door.’ And if they were lucky she’d never even know she was under suspicion. After the fiasco with Insch’s star performer, the last thing Logan needed was someone else shouting about sexual bias and making official complaints.

They started the ‘security inspection’ in the kitchen, then through to the tiny dining room, then the lounge, then up the stairs. The master bedroom was nothing out of the ordinary: pile of books on the bedside cabinet — Marian Keyes, a couple of those true-crime serial killer things, and a psychology textbook — towelling dressing gown draped over the back of a chair, one rogue sock poking out from under the bed. Bathroom: the window was open, so Logan got to do his ‘crime prevention’ talk about giving burglars an inch and them taking everything you’ve got. And last up was another small bedroom, completely empty except for a flat-pack wardrobe and that rubbery/fabric odour again, fighting against the smell of fresh paint and one of those plug-in air fresheners. He scuffed his shoe across the carpet beneath his feet, back and forth and back and forth, making a little lozenge of blue fuzz.

Steel grimaced and clutched at her stomach. ‘Any chance I could use your loo?’

‘Oh … yes. Down the hall.’ Tina pointed at it, even though they’d just come from there. ‘Watch the lock though, it’s a bit temperamental. What about you two?’ she asked as the inspector hurried off. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? That’s what you’re supposed to offer policemen, isn’t it? They always do on the telly.’

Logan nodded. ‘Please.’ Not really paying attention as Tina and Rickards headed back down to the kitchen. Back and forth and back and forth… ‘New carpet?’

The answer was shouted back up the stairs. ‘Yeah, I’m doing the spare room up, spilt a whole tin of barley white. Ruined the carpet in there and the one in the hall too.’ The sound of a kettle starting to boil. ‘Bloody insurance said I wasn’t covered for DIY, can you believe that?’ Some clanking. ‘What do you both take?’

Rickards: ‘Just black for me, he’s milk, no sugar. The inspector’s milk and two. You want a hand?’

Logan stepped back into the spare room. No wonder the carpets looked so clean. He reached for the wardrobe door and pulled it open: one full-body rubber suit; a collection of paddles, buckles and straps; a corset; ball gags, and masks with strange inflatable bits; thigh-high black high-heeled boots; the box for an electrastim set; and a large collection of sex toys. All neatly hung on their own little hooks, or placed on shelves. And there, stuffed in beside the suit, was a full-length, gilt-edged mirror.