Broken Skin

There was a pause, then, ‘Of course I’ve got someone following him: I might be a Teuchter, but I’m not a bloody idiot!’

‘I didn’t mean-’

‘He’ll go back to where he had Fettes sooner or later. He knows we’re on to him: he’ll want to get rid of any evidence.’ He was starting to sound a bit calmer. ‘Tomorrow I want you in my office first thing, understand? You’re supposed to be working for me, not Steel.’

‘Yes, sir.’ As if he had any say in the matter.

‘And if you hear from Watson — I want to see her too. Soon as there’s any bloody work to be done round here, everyone disappears.’

And the line went dead.

Half-four and the light was beginning to go. The sky slid into sunset, grey clouds laced with violent pink, looking like hot coals against the glowing blue. Children meandered home from school, some in groups, some on their own, breath streaming out behind them in the cold evening air. None looked like Sean Morrison.

‘What d’you think?’ asked Steel, standing at the living room window, staring out at the street.

‘Soon.’ At least Logan hoped it would be soon. ‘If I was him I’d wait till everyone was settling down to dinner. They’re all distracted, not paying attention as he breaks into their neighbours’ house … Over there!’ A young boy, dragging his heels, meandered up the street, dressed in the familiar grey and dark blue school uniform.

Steel squinted, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening to heavy folds. ‘He’s no’ wearing jeans or an AFC hoodie.’

‘He changed — Sean knows we’re looking for him, we’ve got his description up all over the place. So he steals a school uniform from the Struther place. Just another kid on his way back from a hard day’s learning.’

‘I suppose so …’

They watched the little boy stop to tie his shoelace, then wander straight past the Burnett place and on up the road. ‘Maybe he’s casing the joint? Just-’

‘It’s no’ him.’

‘No, wait, he’ll be back in a minute …’ Logan drifted to a halt. The wee boy had stopped four houses up. The front door opened and a woman’s voice called out — something about fish fingers — the kid scuffed his way inside. Clunk, and he was gone. ‘Damn.’

Six o’clock and the sky was dark as a bruise. The occasional car drifted past the window where Logan and Steel waited, but other than that the street was quiet. ‘He’s got to show soon,’ said Logan, shifting from foot to foot, trying for optimistic.

‘I dunno …’ Steel sighed. ‘Knowing my luck he’s buggered off for good this time. I’m beginning to think I’m fucking jinxed-’ A light blossomed in the windows across the road and the inspector stood transfixed. Someone was in the Burnett house. ‘Got ya, you dirty wee bastard!’ She grabbed her phone and started calling round the teams. ‘Who saw him? How’d he get in? … What you do: fall asleep? … Yes … I know it’s cold … No … Look, it’s no’ exactly been a picnic for us either … No! Wait till I give the word.’ She closed her phone, cutting whoever it was off. ‘Moaning bastards.’

‘They didn’t see him then?’

‘Pah.’ She snorted and pulled her shoes back on. ‘How half of them pass basic training is beyond me.’ They thanked their hostess, then hurried across the road, making for the front door, DI Steel with her phone out, telling the teams to get into the Burnetts’ back garden.

‘What do you want to do about entry?’ asked Logan as they crept up to the front door — a pair of uniformed constables were already waiting for them, looking charged up, stab-proof vests on, extendible truncheons and pepper-spray at the ready.

The inspector shrugged. ‘We’ve got a warrant for Sean’s arrest … if anyone asks we’re in close pursuit, OK?’ She turned to the burliest constable — a woman with legs like tree trunks. ‘Kick it down.’

BOOOOOM! And the woodwork juddered. One more kick and the lock splintered out of the surround, sending shards of broken wood flying into the hallway as the front door slammed open and bounced off the wall. PC Burly shouted, ‘POLICE, NOBODY MOVE!’ and charged in, her partner hot on her heels.

A crash from the rear of the house, ‘POLICE!’, and the sound of heavy boots battering their way in through the back door.

Steel grinned. ‘Cracks me up every time they do that.’

23

They went through the place from top to bottom and back again: there was no sign of Sean Morrison.

The inspector stood in the immaculate lounge and swore a blue streak. ‘How the hell could we miss him? He’s a wee boy, no’ fucking Houdini!’ She spun round, glowering at the team who’d been watching the back garden. ‘You! You let him sneak past, didn’t you!’

They backed off in unison, mumbling about how they didn’t see anyone and it was cold and dark and they were sure Sean hadn’t got past them … That just made Steel rant louder.

Logan slouched through to the darkened dining room, looking to get away from the inspector’s tirade before any of it got turned in his direction. He pulled out his phone and slumped in one of the chairs, sitting in the dark, dialling Jackie’s number from memory. She’d be home by now, wondering where the hell he’d got to. Eight rings and it crackled onto the answer phone: Jackie’s voice telling him they were both out fighting crime or getting drunk, but he could leave a message after the beep. He hung up.

How on earth did Sean Morrison manage to sneak past half a dozen policemen? It just didn’t make any sense. It was almost as if- The standard lamp in the corner suddenly bloomed into light, making the polished silverware glint.

‘Oh sodding hell …’ The lamp was plugged into one of those timed switches — the Burnetts must have set it up to make the place look as if it was still being lived in. Deterring burglars and making an arse out of the police. Sean Morrison was never in the house at all.

Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet and switched the damn thing off, plunging the room into darkness again. Logan stood at the window, wondering how quickly he could slope off after the impending bollocking, drown his sorrows in a bottle of wine and a Chinese takeaway. Steel was going to blame him for this, he could feel it. He’d been so sure the eight-year-old would come here …

There was someone standing on the other side of the road, staring up at the house. A small boy wearing jeans and a heavy, padded jacket, a rucksack over his shoulder. Mouth hanging open. Sean Morrison.

Logan dashed into the hall, shouting, ‘He’s outside!’ exploding out of the front door and down the steps. Sean only hesitated for a second and then he was off. Logan tore after him, hearing muffled cries from inside as others joined the chase, feet pounding the pavement.

Sean screeched round the corner onto Westfield Terrace. The rucksack went flying, as the wee boy lightened the load. A flash of black at Logan’s shoulder — a PC catching up as they ran up the small street, closing the gap.

There was a car parked halfway on the pavement: Sean jumped onto the bonnet, to the roof, then made a huge leap for the six-foot-high stone wall behind, scrabbling into someone’s back garden. The PC was first to the wall, hauling himself over as a security light stabbed the darkness.

Breathing hard, Logan followed him, landing in a clump of conifers, staggering out just in time to see the constable make a grab for Sean’s trouser leg as the child disappeared over the next-door fence.

Sean screamed.

‘Come back here, you little bugger!’ The PC yanked Sean back into the garden. They went down in a tangle of limbs and swearing. Then a loud yelp, and the PC let go, holding his left wrist in his right hand, staring at the gash across his palm. Fresh blood glowed neon-red in the security spotlight. ‘Aaaaagh!’

Sean scrambled away, swearing, crying, holding a glittering kitchen knife. Staring at the PC, then up at Logan as a policewoman cleared the wall, crashed into a decorative border and went sprawling across the lawn. The eight-year-old murderer snarled, waved the knife and backed against the fence, eyes darting round the garden.