Broken Skin

‘Ah … er … yes … it … erm …’ Rickards blushed, the twisted line of scar tissue that snaked up the middle of his top lip standing out white against red, as if someone had tried to give him a hair lip with a broken bottle. Logan smiled — it looked as if the constable wasn’t exactly a man of the world. He resisted the urge to take the piss, and went back to watching the world go by.

The old lady’s house was three-quarters of the way down Abbotswell Crescent, with a view out across the dual carriageway, over the Craigshaw and Tullos industrial estates. Lovely. Especially with Torry in the background, the sunshine and blue skies fighting a losing battle to make it look attractive.

Fifteen minutes, two cups of tea and some Penguin biscuits later, they were back in the car.

‘So much for that.’ Logan called DI Steel with the bad news, only to be given another two addresses: one in Mannofield, the other in Mastrick. Both of which were equally useless.

Rickards squirmed in his seat, as if his underwear was trying to eat him. ‘So what now?’

Logan checked his watch: coming up for eleven. ‘Back to the station. We can-’ His mobile phone went into its usual apoplexy of bleeps and whistles. ‘Hold on.’ He dragged it out. ‘Hello?’

‘Where the hell are you?’ DI Steel, sounding annoyed.

‘Mastrick. You sent us here, remember?’

‘Did I? Oh … Well … in that case, why haven’t you finished yet?’

‘We have. We’re just heading back now.’

‘Good — press conference is at twelve. We’re going to be on the lunchtime news. And when I say ‘we’ I mean you too. Don’t be late. And you can check out another address on your way in — woman phoned to say the dead guy lives next door with his parents. And remember: if you’re no’ back here by twelve, I’ll kill you.’

Logan took down the address and hung up with a groan. ‘Change of plan — we’ve got one more stop to make.’

Blackburn was more like a building site than a dormitory town: sprawling developments of tiny detached houses crammed into minuscule plots of land, spilling away to the north and west, costing an arm and a leg, even though it meant living like a battery chicken. The address Steel had given them was for the second-last house in a half-completed cul-de-sac that didn’t even have a proper road yet, just a thin layer of rutted tarmac covered in drying mud and potholes, the rumble of earthmovers battling for supremacy against the screech of circular saws and the bang of nailguns. Everything was slowly disappearing beneath a pale cloud of cream-coloured dust.

Number seven was a four-bedroom ‘executive villa’ built on a postage stamp. Logan got Rickards to ring the doorbell while he stared out over the rolling hills to the north. Wondering how long it would take the developers to carpet them in more houses.

The door was answered by a flushed-looking woman in baggy T-shirt and jogging bottoms, balancing a small child on one hip. ‘Hello?’ Sounding slightly nervous.

Logan went for a reassuring smile as the woman’s kid stared at him with open mouth and wide blue eyes. ‘Mrs …’ he checked his notes, ‘Brown? Hi. You phoned us this morning about this man?’ Logan held up the photo.

She nodded. ‘I think so. He sort of looks like the guy next door’s son. Jason I think it is.’ The toddler wriggled and she shifted him, bringing him round till he was sitting in the crook of her arm, clutching her hair and peering out at the policemen on the doorstep. ‘He’s looking after the house while they’re on holiday.’

‘You’re sure it’s him?’ Logan handed her the picture and she bit her bottom lip.

‘I … It looks a lot like him …’ Nervous giggle. ‘I asked Paul and he said it might be …’

‘When did you last see Jason?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s been kind of hectic. Couple of days?’

‘OK.’ Logan took the photo back and the child began to squeal. ‘What’s Jason’s last name?’ Having to speak up over the noise.

‘Sorry: we only moved in three weeks ago, everything’s still in boxes.’ She bounced the child up and down, making cooing, ‘Who’s Mummy’s big boy?’ noises. ‘Maybe the site office would know?’

‘Thanks for your help.’

Logan and Rickards went next door, tried the bell, peered in through the front window — a pristine living room with tasteful furnishings and paintings on the wall — then walked round the house. The back yard was a morass of mud flecked with grass seed, a solitary whirly standing in the middle like a marooned antenna, the yellow plastic cable sagging and empty. There was nothing in the garage either, just a dark black splot of leaked motor oil.

Rickards walked back to the unfinished road, staring up at the house’s empty windows. ‘What do you think?’

‘Much the same as every other sighting we’ve had today — bloody useless.’ Logan climbed back into the car and checked the time. ‘Jesus, it’s twenty to twelve! Come on, we’d better get a shift on: Steel will kill us if we’re late.’

6

They made it back to the station by the skin of their teeth. The room was already filling up: television cameras, journalists, and photographers staking out their territory among the rows of folding chairs, all eyes focused on the raised stage and table at the front. ‘Thought you was never going to turn up!’

Logan turned to find DI Steel standing directly behind him, fiddling with a packet of cigarettes, turning them round and round in her hands, like nicotine prayer beads. ‘You get anything from those addresses?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Bugger.’ The cigarette packet got a few more twists.

‘Problem?’

Steel shrugged, looked over her shoulder, then back at the gathering mass of reporters. ‘Just could do with a swift result on this one. We’re keeping a lid on the cause of death, but you know what this place is like: sooner or later, someone’s going to say something stupid.’ She paused and sneaked a glance at Logan. ‘Course, you know all about that.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’ She backed off, grinning. ‘Who cares what the Daily Mail says anyway? Shite, there’s the ACC …’ Logan watched her go, wondering what on earth she was talking about.

The briefing started at twelve o’clock prompt, and as the ACC launched into his ‘thank you all for coming’ speech, Logan let his attention wander. He wouldn’t be needed until they threw the thing open to questions and probably not even then. So instead he scanned the assembled journalistic horde, looking to see if he recognized anyone. Colin Miller was sitting in the third row, face like a wet fart, mumbling into a small digital recorder. Probably getting ready to give Grampian Police another kicking in tomorrow’s P amp;J. There were a couple of others Logan knew from previous conferences, and some he recognized from the telly, but his eyes kept going back to Miller, his surly expression, and his black leather gloves. Not exactly playing the happy expectant father. The reporter looked up from his Dictaphone and saw Logan watching him. He scowled back, obviously still blaming Logan for the loss of his fingers, as if he’d been the one wielding the poultry shears …

The ACC threw the conference open to questions and the moment was gone.

* * *

As soon as they were finished, Logan hurried down to the incident room. Steel was the second person to make cryptic comments about the Daily Mail and Logan wanted to know why. The copy Eric had thrown at him was still sitting where he’d left it, so Logan skimmed quickly through the paper, looking for DS LOGAN MCRAE SCREWS UP AGAIN! but not finding it. What he did find was a centre-page spread titled, POLICE HOUND ABERDEEN STRIKER! with a big photo of Rob Macintyre’s ugly face and an article charting his meteoric rise to fame; describing Grampian Police’s investigation as part of ‘an ongoing campaign to cripple Aberdeen Football Club’s only chance of winning the Scottish Premier League’.