Broken Skin

fingers. ‘Tell me about the dead body.’

‘Which one: the tramp’s, the old man who got stabbed Thursday, or the porn star who got buggered to death?’

‘The last one. And try to bear in mind the victim was a human being, Sergeant.’

And suddenly Logan felt very ashamed of himself. ‘Sorry, sir.’ That was DI Steel’s influence — he’d definitely been working with her for too long. He told Insch everything they knew about Jason Fettes, from his parochial porn career to his rubber bondage suit. Keeping it professional and objective.

Insch listened in silence, stuffing fruit pastilles into his mouth and making the occasional note on small yellow Post-its. ‘What about this website: Bondageopolis?’ he asked when Logan had finished. ‘You get onto Fettes’s ISP?’

‘It’s a local company — they’ve turned over Fettes’s emails and there’s nothing in there that looks like it’s connected with his death. But from the list of favourites on his computer, we think he’s got at least one hotmail account and maybe a couple of yahoo ones as well.’

‘And?’

‘They’re all anonymous — you don’t have to give any real details. Could sign up as Osama Bin Laden and no one would bother to check. And Fettes was careful, seems to have cleared his cache pretty regularly and didn’t get the browser to remember usernames or passwords.’

‘So you can’t just log in as him.’

‘Nope. I got the IT department to go through his emails and see if he might have forwarded anything to himself from his anonymous accounts. They’ve got a couple of possibles, but it’s taking forever to get anything sorted out with the free email people. Not only do we have the data protection act to deal with, everything has to go through their head offices in the States. It’s a nightmare.’

Insch leaned forward, resting his huge elbows on the desktop, staring down at his collection of Post-its. ‘OK, bring me the files — updates, interviews, PM notes, everything. Even the HOLMES actions. We’ll go through them this afternoon.’

‘Yes, sir.’ So much for keeping the inspector at arm’s length.

By the end of the day they’d mapped out the whole investigation and DI Insch hadn’t snapped at Logan once. Which was something of a record these days. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ said Insch, frowning at his watch, ‘I want you to get the team together and we’ll do a re-start briefing. Where the hell is that idiot Rennie?’

‘No idea, sir.’

‘Well, if you see him, tell him I want him at the Arts Centre by half-six at the latest, or his bollocks are going to be hanging from my car keys!’ And with that he was gone.

Logan let out a sigh of relief. Insch was a lot more work than he used to be. Still, at least it was time to go home. He was in the middle of signing out when DI Steel found him. ‘Heading off early are we?’ she asked, treating him to an imperious sniff.

‘My shift finished twenty minutes ago, so no.’

‘Well, well: at home to Mr Grumpy are we? How was Fatty Insch, he snap your bra strap and chase you round the desk?’

‘He wants the Jason Fettes case.’

Steel looked surprised. ‘Bondage, sex shops, and seedy internet chat rooms? Doesn’t sound like him. Still, what the hell: he’s welcome to it, one less thing for me to worry about. You offer him them break-ins as well?’

‘Wasn’t interested.’

She sighed. ‘Me neither. You don’t want them, do you?’

‘No, not really, I-’

‘Actually, that’s no’ a bad idea, give you an excuse to get away from Inspector Fat Bastard now and then.’

‘But-’

‘Nope, my mind’s made up. You can have Rickards, dirty little squit that he is. Just drop me an update report every couple of weeks and we’ll be fine. Don’t worry, I’m no’ expecting you to actually solve them.’

Somehow that didn’t make Logan feel any better.

Drizzle drifted down from the sky in lazy waves, making the streetlights glow like fireflies the length of Union Street. Logan turned his collar up and hurried home, before it could seep all the way through to his skin. The flat was ominously silent when he got in. By quarter to seven there was still no sign of Jackie, which probably meant she’d gone straight to the pub after work. It was becoming something of a habit — ever since the Macintyre rape trial fell to pieces. Logan tried calling her, but her mobile went straight to voicemail. So that meant he’d have to fend for himself, or face another night in the pub. He checked the kitchen cupboards, then the fridge and decided on a trip to the nearest Chinese carryout.

He was locking the front door when the flat’s phone started to ring. Cursing, he let himself back in, just in time to cut the answering machine off mid-flow. ‘Hello?’

‘Who’s this?’ The familiar voice of Big Gary.

‘Who do you think it is? You phoned me, remember?’

‘Aye, but you could’ve been Watson’s fancy piece. He sounds affa like you.’

‘Very funny. What do you want Gary?’

‘DI Insch: can’t get hold of him, his mobile’s off, so you’re next in line.’

‘No I’m-’

‘Aye, you are. I asked Steel and she says you’re working for him now.’

Bloody DI Bloody Steel. Logan sighed. ‘What’s up?’

‘We just got a call in from Tayside Police — they’ve had a rape that’s a dead match for your Rob Macintyre case.’

17

The sound of a piano being tortured greeted Logan as he pushed through the Arts Centre’s main doors. According to the posters up outside in the huge, columned portico, there was supposed to be a series of Samuel Beckett plays on this week, but Waiting For Godot had a big CANCELLED sticker across it. Which explained how Insch had managed to get hold of the Arts Centre — calling everyone in for a special rehearsal, even though it was a Saturday night. Normally a production wouldn’t get to set foot on the stage until a day or two before the run. And from the sounds of things, Insch’s Mikado was nowhere near ready for that.

Logan sneaked in through the doors to the theatre — burgundy carpet, mahogany panelling, rows and rows of empty seats facing a stage that was bedecked with some of the lumpiest people Logan had ever seen, mostly wearing jeans and sweatshirts. And down in the front row of seats was DI Insch, addressing his cast: ‘Again, from “I’ll tear the mask from your disguising” and please, for the love of God, watch for the beat!’

Logan stood and watched them for a minute, trying not to laugh. DC Rennie was in the middle of the men, overacting and throwing his hands about like a demented windmill. This time the chorus were almost on time with their bellowing. Insch made them do it again. Logan really didn’t want to have to suffer it a third time through, so he marched up and tapped the inspector on the shoulder.

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Control called: Tayside Police have been on the phone…’ Insch listened to what little information Logan had, before turning and telling the people on stage that they were going to go over this bit until they got it right, or it killed them. He didn’t care which. Leaving them in the not-so-careful hands of the pianist he steered Logan out into the corridor.

‘Get back there and find out if they got any forensic evidence. We’ve not destroyed Macintyre’s DNA sample yet — if we can get a match he’s screwed. In fact, get Tayside to email up everything they’ve got. I’ll be finished here in …’ he checked his watch, then looked back at the double doors as a ragged cacophony marked another ill- fated adventure into the world of Gilbert and Sullivan. ‘We’ll still be here by the time you get back.’