Broken Skin

‘Oh.’

‘But you led us to believe that he’d never been in trouble before.’

‘Ah, yes …’ Mr Morrison stared down at his hands. ‘You see, his mother … well, she worships the ground Sean walks on. She … well, we’ve probably spoiled him a little, but …’ he shrugged.

‘Six months ago. What happened?’

‘September? He stole another boy’s bag.’ Morrison stared at the drawn curtains, shutting out the thin daylight and photographer’s lenses. ‘He’d never done anything like that before…’ A sigh. ‘Then he punched someone. Stole some dinner money. Started playing truant. We nearly ended up in court. Lucky he didn’t get expelled.’

Logan settled onto the couch. ‘He ever tell you why?’

The man laughed, short and bitter. ‘No. Well they don’t, do they? Parents are always the last to know. One minute they’re fine and the next you’re having to apologize to some distraught mother because your kid’s just bitten theirs. Came back from Guildford and he was like a different wee boy …’

‘Guildford?’

‘Well, we — I mean Gwen and I — went to Guildford. Gwen’s dad was going in for a double bypass. Her mum was a mess. We didn’t want Sean to come in case, you know … in case the surgery went wrong.’

Rickards came through with the tea, plonking three mugs down on the coffee table. He hadn’t managed to rustle up any biscuits. ‘So,’ Logan helped himself to a mug, ‘who did Sean stay with when you were away?’

Mr Morrison opened and closed his mouth a few times, then said he didn’t really know. It’d been one of Sean’s classmates. ‘Gwen will know, but she’s asleep … the doctor gave her something to help-’

‘It’s important, sir.’

‘Yes,’ he pulled himself out of his chair, and went back to wringing his hands again, ‘yes, of course. I’ll go … ask.’

The name didn’t match any of those on Sean’s list of ‘friends’ — according to Mrs Morrison, Sean hadn’t spoken to the boy for months; he used to visit all the time, but they’d not seen him since they got back from visiting her mother and father. ‘But you know what boys are like,’ she’d said, sounding groggy, full of sedatives, ‘one minute they’re the best of friends, the next they’ve forgotten each other exists.’ She still had the address, though, which was how Logan and Rickards ended up outside a large granite box of a house on Hamilton Place. A wee boy could have run down here in seven or eight minutes.

‘Uh huh,’ said Logan, staring up at the place, his mobile phone clamped to his ear, ‘how many?’

‘Mother, father and three children: boy and two girls.’

‘Anyone got any priors?’

There was a pause as the voice from Control checked with the PNC. ‘Nope …Well, the father was done for drink driving seven years ago, but nothing since.’

‘OK, thanks for-’

‘They did report a series of break-ins starting five months ago… Oh, and some vandalism in September, October … right the way through till Christmas. Broken windows, paint on the doors, that kind of thing. Hangon and I’ll cross-reference it…’ A longer pause, and this time Logan could swear he heard crisps being surreptitiously crunched. ‘Unlucky: looks like it was just them. No other reported incidents of vandalism in Hamilton Place. Couple of stolen bikes down the other end and-’

‘That’s fine. Thanks,’ said Logan before he was given the complete criminal history of the street. He stuck the phone back in his pocket. Just after ten on a Saturday morning — if they were lucky, the whole family would still be at home.

The front door was opened by a balding man in his mid-thirties. A little older than Sean Morrison’s dad and a lot heavier round the middle. He took one look at Rickards standing there on his doorstep, and said, ‘About bloody time you showed up: we called Thursday!’

Logan couldn’t help himself. ‘Thursday?’

‘Thursday! The window! Don’t you lot even speak to each other? Or did they just send you out to arse about and waste our time like the last ones? Well?’

Typical: Control was getting ready to list every crime and misdemeanour in the area going back to 1906, but they couldn’t tell him there was an open call at the address he was asking about in the first place. ‘We’re not here about the window, Mr Whyte; we’re here about Sean Morrison.’

And at that the bald man’s face clouded over. ‘We have nothing to say about that little b … about him.’

‘He was your son…’ Logan checked his notes, ‘Ewan’s friend, wasn’t he?’

‘That was a long time ago.’ Mr Whyte stepped back as the first specks of rain began to fall, making tiny water blisters on the bright-blue door.

‘Right up till six months ago.’

‘About that.’

‘Same time you started reporting acts of vandalism?’

He started easing the door closed. ‘Look, I’ve told you we don’t want to talk about that Morrison child. Ewan hasn’t had anything to do with him for months. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go-’

‘This will only take a moment, sir.’ Logan stuck his foot in the crack, keeping the door from shutting. ‘And you wouldn’t want people to think you refused to help us catch Sean Morrison, would you? It might look like you were protecting him.’

Whyte scowled and swore, but he let them in.

15

Mr Whyte scuttled about the living room, picking up toys and colouring books and piling them on the coffee table, obviously flustered at being outmanoeuvred. Logan let his gaze wander around the room: eclectic ornaments; an upright piano; photos of various sea-and-sand holidays. A large dining room lay through an open archway with a conservatory tacked onto the back, littered with stuffed animals and bits of brightly coloured plastic. Through the glass he could see a remarkably well-tended garden complete with koi pond and waterfall. Very flash. An old man was out in the drizzle, taking a pair of pruning shears to a massive clump of honeysuckle, cutting it back to the bone. Which was not an image Logan wanted to dwell on.

Whyte ran out of things to stack on top of one another, and said, ‘I suppose you expect a cup of tea,’ with enough distaste for Logan to suspect that it would arrive with spit in it. A Jackie Watson special.

‘Actually, sir, I think we’re fine. Why don’t you and I talk about Sean Morrison?’

The man sank into a floral-patterned armchair. ‘He’s been nothing but trouble. I knew he’d end up hurting someone! That poor old man … you should bring back flogging.’

Logan nodded. ‘Next time the Crown Office asks, I’ll be sure to let them know. He wasn’t trouble to start with though, was he?’

Whyte shifted in his seat. ‘I always knew-’

‘Then why did you let him stay here when his parents went down to Guildford last September?’

‘Yes … well … he was a lot better behaved then.’

‘But not after.’

‘Look, I’ve no idea, OK? He was fine one day and the next he was all sullen and wouldn’t do anything. We tried taking him bowling, carting, the pictures, even bloody LaserQuest. And all he’d do was mope about and sulk.’

‘While he was staying here?’

‘Of course while he was staying here. He just kept getting worse; three weeks we had him and it was a nightmare.’ He checked his watch. ‘Look, is this going to take long? I’ve got to get the girls ready for ballet.’

‘Why did he change?’

‘How should I know?’ sounding a bit defensive. ‘Like I say, he was fine one minute, and the next: boom. Something must have happened at school — a bully, or a teacher, or maybe he did really badly in a test.’ He stood, running his hands through what was left of his hair. ‘Look, I’m really going to have to go. If the girls aren’t there for the start of the lesson they send them home. You don’t even get a refund.’

‘OK, I’d like to speak to your wife, if she’s about.’