Broken Skin

‘She takes Ewan to five-a-side football on Saturdays.’ He turned and shouted up the stairs, telling his ‘little princesses’ to get their tutus down here or they were going to be late. A stampede of tiny elephant feet rumbled down from the first floor, bringing two little girls in pink ballet costumes and duffel coats with it. They were only five, jumping up and down while their dad tried to coax them into their Wellington boots.

The girls took one look at Rickards, squealed, and hid behind their father’s legs, peering out at the strange policeman in their house. ‘Don’t take it personally,’ said Whyte, shooing his ballerinas towards the front door, ‘they don’t like men in uniform — you should see what they’re like with the postman. Come on girls, last one in the car’s a stinky!’

‘Well,’ said Logan, handing Mr Whyte a Grampian Police business card, ‘if you can think of anything else, let me know. And I’ll need to speak to your wife and son too.’

‘Yes, yes, OK fine.’ He stuffed the card in his pocket without looking at it, then hurried them out into the rain. ‘Molly, darling, put your seatbelt on properly, or the nasty policeman will arrest you!’

‘It’s the kid, isn’t it?’ said Rickards as the Whytes’ car reversed out of the drive, both little girls staring at him as if he’d grown horns. ‘Doing all the vandalism.’

Logan nodded. ‘Bit of a sodding coincidence if it isn’t … and I’ll bet Whyte knows it too. Which makes you wonder why Sean Morrison’s dad played dumb: Whyte would have been round there like a shot, shouting the odds. Only natural.’

‘Doesn’t want to admit his kid’s a horrible wee bastard?’

‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’ They climbed back into the CID pool car, Logan watching the rain make ripples on the wet windscreen, until they were suddenly wheeched away as Rickards started the engine and turned the wipers on.

‘Where now?’

‘Hold on a minute.’ Logan dug his phone out and called Control again. ‘Those vandalism reports from Whyte: Hamilton Place, did he say he suspected anyone?’

There was a pause on the other end of the line, the plastic clatter of computer keys, then, ‘No names … fingerprints didn’t turn up anything either — always wore gloves … window … car … fish … window again … No match on anything. Investigating officer thinks it’s got to be someone with a grudge.’

‘There’s a surprise. And the last report was on Thursday night?’

‘Nine pm.’ The same day Sean Morrison stabbed two people. Logan thanked her and hung up, then sat drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

‘Sir?’

‘Back in a sec.’ He climbed back out into the rain, leaving Rickards in the car as he made his way down a little path at the side of the Whytes’ house, through a tall gate and into the back garden.

The koi pond was like pewter, droplets of water making it shimmer. The gardener had finished the pruning; now he was on his knees, digging away at a flowerbed with a small trowel, ignoring the thin rain. ‘Bit early for that, isn’t it?’ asked Logan, walking up and putting on his best friendly smile.

‘Never too early to get the garden in order.’ Traces of an Aberdonian accent, but not much.

Logan pointed up at the house. ‘You work for the Whytes for long?’

The old man settled back on his haunches, grimaced, and stuck the trowel in the flowerbed, peeling off a pair of mud-crusted gardening gloves. ‘I don’t work for them. I’m Daniel’s father.’ Mr Whyte senior levered himself up to his feet with a grunt.

‘You lived here long?’

‘Eight months. Ever since my Mary died. The house was too empty without her.’

Eight months — that explained why he wasn’t on the database as living at the address. ‘So you were here when Sean Morrison stayed?’

‘Terrible, isn’t it? He was such a lovely wee boy, I can’t believe he’d hurt anyone.’

‘Your son thinks he’s a vicious little monster.’

The old man gave a sad smile. ‘Yes … well … Sean Morrison is the spitting image of Daniel’s little brother. Daniel was always jealous.’ He sniffed and stared at the pond where a golden shape swam beneath the surface. ‘It was our own fault: Mary and I spoiled Craig. We shouldn’t have, but he was such a beautiful child.’ There was silence in the garden. ‘Mary was never the same after …’ Mr Whyte senior gave an embarrassed cough. ‘Yes, well, no point in dwelling on it now.’

It might have been the rain misting his eyes, or it might have been a tear. Either way Logan left him to his memories.

DI Steel was sitting behind her desk when Logan backed into her office carrying two mugs of tea. She had a big wet stain over her left boob and a scowl on her face. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘You wanted to see me?’ Trying not to stare at the inspector’s damp patch.

‘Aye, fifteen minutes ago …’ She threw a sheet of A4 at him: a memo from the Chief Constable himself. Logan read it, muttering along under his breath until he got to the bombshell.

‘Oh … Well, it could be worse.’

‘How?’ Steel pulled the office window open, then went rummaging for her cigarettes. ‘How could it be worse?’

‘Look, I’m sure he’s going to-’

‘Why the hell did they have to lump him on my team?’ Cigarettes found, the hunt for a working lighter began. ‘He’s going to be a bloody nightmare!’

So that was why she’d wanted him to drop everything and rush up to her office: so she could whinge about DI Insch being assigned to ‘facilitate her caseload’. Logan sighed. ‘Well, you could give him those house break-ins to look after, or the Fettes investigation?’

‘Are you kidding? You know what he’s like — he’ll try and take over the whole lot. I’ll end up working for him!’ The lighter went, scrrrrrit, scrit, scrit, then she hurled it at the bin in the corner. ‘Fucking thing … If I wanted “help” I’d have asked for it.’ Which was the starting point for a fifteen-minute-long rant ending with, ‘You’ll have to look after him.’

‘Me?’ Logan sat bolt upright. ‘Why me? Give him Rennie, or Rickards!’

But DI Steel just shook her head. ‘Sorry Laz: can’t do that. Rennie’d be like kicking a kitten, and Bondage Boy would enjoy it too much. All that abuse, he’d never get any work done.’ She took a slurp from her mug. ‘So you see: it has to be you. You’re young, you’ll get over it.’

16

Detective Inspector Insch wasn’t the sort of person you wanted to get on the wrong side of. Which was unfortunate, because he didn’t seem to have a right side any more. Logan took a deep breath, then knocked on the inspector’s door, having spent an unhappy twenty minutes in the canteen trying to figure out how to keep him busy without actually having to work with him.

A deep, rumbling voice sounded on the other side of the door. ‘Enter.’ All the warmth of a butcher’s bandsaw. Insch’s office was larger than Steel’s and a lot tidier, with framed theatre posters on the walls: local musical productions of Kiss me Kate, Chicago and a handful of pantomimes. Some of which featured the inspector in various ridiculous costumes. Pride of place had been given to The Mikado in a big mahogany frame on the wall facing Insch’s desk.

The huge man looked up at Logan, said, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ then went back to hammering away at his keyboard with fat, angry fingers.

‘DI Steel thought I should come up and-’

‘Where the hell do they get off telling me to work for her?’

Logan slumped into one of the inspector’s visitors’ chairs and prepared himself to be whinged to, but Insch just ground his teeth for a minute, then went back to punishing his keyboard.

When there was nothing else forthcoming, Logan held up a couple of manila folders. ‘I brought you the case files for those housebreakings. There’s-’

‘I don’t care.’ The inspector stabbed the return key then pushed his chair back, staring at Logan over steepled