Broken Skin

‘Are you mental? He just knifed an old man and a policewoman. He’s no’ Christopher Bloody Robin. I think the vicious little bastard’s got somewhere to lie low…’

‘Well, he can’t stay hidden for ever,’ said Logan, pulling away from the kerb and pointing the car back towards FHQ, ‘he only got fifty quid from Cochrane’s wallet and it’s not like he can actually spend it — can’t be a single person in Aberdeen who doesn’t know what he looks like by now.’ They’d tried telling the media that Sean was just a missing child, released his picture and asked anyone who saw him to come forward, but one of the witnesses from the St Nicholas Centre spotted the photo on the news, rang up the Daily Record and ID’d Sean as the kid who’d knifed Jerry Cochrane. And the press had a field day — EIGHT-YEAR-OLD KILLER! THE NEW FACE OF EVIL! SCHOOLBOY KILLS OAP! — it had made every second-edition front page in Scotland and quite a few south of the border too. ‘We could try following his mates; someone’s got to be getting food to him?’

She thought about it for a moment, head on one side, chewing on the inside of her cheek. ‘Nah, that’ll take for ever. If I was him I’d be on the first bus south to London, or Brighton, or some other godforsaken hole.’

‘He’s eight.’

‘Blah, blah, blah. When did you last have anything to do with kids, eh? Eight’s the new thirteen. Oh, they look like butter wouldn’t bloody melt, but they’re smacked out their tits half the time trying to get each other pregnant.’ She pulled out her cigarettes, shoogled the packet, then put it away again with a sigh. ‘Let’s get the little bastards picked up and dragged down to the station: give them the fright of their lives. See if one of them’ll shop him. And you’d better check the CCTV for the train and bus station too. And get some uniforms down there to speak to the drivers… Oh, and when you’ve got that lot organized, you might as well do that update report on Jason Fettes. No point sitting about twiddling your thumbs all day, is there?’

By the time Logan had finished doing the inspector’s job for her, the first of Sean Morrison’s ‘little chums’ was sitting in interview room number two with her father. There was an unpleasant smell of stale socks and ancient coffee with an underlying whiff of sour garlic, slowly marinating everyone present. DI Steel sat back in her cheap, plastic chair and stared at the little girl sitting opposite. Natalie Lenox: eight years old; long, dark brown hair; pale face; all her fingernails bitten down to tiny nubs; a furious scowl pulling at her chubby features. Her father was a bigger version of the same thing, only without the hair. He glowered as Logan wheeled a trolley with a TV and video on it into the corner and plugged them in. ‘I want my lawyer present.’

Steel sighed. ‘We’ve been through this. Twice. No lawyer.’

‘Then I’m not saying anything more.’

‘That’s fine with me, keep your trap shut and I’ll speak to Natalie instead.’

‘She’s not saying anything either.’

The inspector put on her most charming smile, which wasn’t saying much. ‘If you continue to be obstructive Mr Lenox I’ll have you replaced by an appropriate adult, how about that?’

‘You can’t do that!’

‘Want a bet? Natalie here was involved in the murder of a seventy-two-year-old man, I think-’

‘She had nothing to do with it!’ He poked his child in the shoulder. ‘Tell them, tell them you had nothing to do with it.’

‘I hid nuthin’ to dae with it.’ The kid’s accent was broad Aberdonian, and as sullen as her mashed-potato face. ‘Nuthin’.’

‘Uh huh.’ Steel told Logan to start the tape. ‘Then how do you explain this?’ The screen flickered, a jagged line of static creeping upwards, revealing the inside of the Union Street end of the St Nicholas Centre. People wandered past, laden down with shopping bags and baby buggies, and then a pregnant woman lurched into view, carrying a huge handbag and a plastic carrier from The Body Shop. She’d just passed the lottery booth when half a dozen children arrived — most wearing hooded tops, keeping their faces shielded from the camera. The inspector hit pause. ‘Bottom left, the girl in the green top.’

She hit play and the girl darted forward, banging into the pregnant woman hard enough to make her drop her handbag. The woman staggered, the girl helping her stay on her feet, grinning up at her, mouth going twenty to the dozen. It was Natalie Lenox — her fat little face and long hair clearly visible on the screen — probably apologizing for being so clumsy while two of her friends helped pick up the nice lady’s things. Helping themselves to her purse in the process. Sean Morrison handed the bag back with a modest tilt of the head, but the pregnant woman wasn’t buying it. She grabbed him by the sleeve and started shouting.

‘I…’ Natalie’s father licked his top lip and tried again. ‘So she bumped into someone. That’s not a crime.’

‘This isn’t the first time. We’ve had about a dozen other complaints of bags, wallets and purses being stolen. All the victims remember being banged into by a little girl and her friends. Want to bet they recognize Natalie when we show them her picture?’

On the screen Sean lashed out, catching the pregnant woman on the side of the head, sending her crashing to the ground. She didn’t let go, so he put the boot in. And that was when Jerry Cochrane ran into shot. At the sides of the picture shoppers stopped to stare as the old man hauled Sean off the woman. Holding him by the scruff of the neck, shouting. Sean hit him. And the old man hit him back, smack: right across the nose. And that’s when it happened — the flash of a knife blade, and a startled expression on Jerry Cochrane’s face. He sat down hard, letting go of Sean. The eight-year-old started laying into the old man with fists and feet, while a gathering crowd of shoppers looked on in shock. And then all the kids were at it, punching and kicking. Steel hit pause, so they could all see Natalie Lenox kicking Jerry Cochrane in the head.

‘So,’ said Steel, ‘still think she had nothing to do with it?’

Mr Lenox, went very pale. ‘I …’

Steel switched the TV off. ‘I want to know where Sean Morrison is. And I want to know now.’

The little girl just scowled at them.

Her father swallowed hard. Then skelped her over the back of the head. ‘Tell them!’

Nothing.

‘Put it this way,’ said the inspector, ‘you’re probably looking at a spell in a young offenders’ institution. Locked up with all the other nasty little boys and girls. No mummy and daddy to look after you and buy you nice things.’

‘They… they can’t send her to prison! She’s only eight!’

Logan shrugged. ‘That’s the legal age of criminal responsibility in Scotland, Mr Lenox. Vicious attack like that, a man dead. She’s likely to get four, maybe five years. She’ll be a teenager by the time she gets out. You’d be surprised how much they can change.’

‘Oh God.’ Mr Lenox covered his mouth with a shaking hand. ‘It’ll kill her mother!’

‘Unless she helps us catch Sean Morrison. Then maybe we could have a word with the Procurator Fiscal, convince her that Natalie wants to make amends …?’

‘She does! You do, don’t you?’

But Natalie just glared at her father, hot, angry tears making her eyes shine. Like Sean Morrison’s knife.

14

‘Jesus,’ said Steel slouching back against the interview-room wall, clutching a half-empty cup of coffee to her chest. ‘I’ve interviewed mass murderers with more humanity in them.’ She shivered. ‘Thank God I never wanted kids … Creepy little fuckers.’

So far they’d had three of Sean Morrison’s gang in for interview and not one of them was prepared to spill the beans on his whereabouts. But they each came attached to a hysterical, panicking parent who had no idea what their darling child had been up to. Until they saw the CCTV footage.

The inspector swirled the filmy-brown liquid around in her mug. ‘You know, when I was a kid we respected our elders … Well, maybe no’ respected, but you knew if you gave some old fart lip they’d tan your arse for you. And then they’d tell your mum and dad, so they could do the same.’ She nodded sagely, and took another gulp. ‘Speaking of arses, have you seen Rennie?’

‘Why, what’s he done?’ And suddenly Logan thought of a container yard in Altens. He frowned, trying to figure out why.

‘Nothing, that’s the bloody problem, I…’ she trailed off, staring at Logan. ‘What: you daydreaming about my