Broken Skin

to ignore the irony in that thought as his toes slowly went numb.

No, you wanted a vehicle to sit in. Somewhere warm, out of the bloody snow. He should have stayed in the car with Jackie. At least he’d be warm now, even if she was giving him the cold shoulder.

Logan’s eyes followed the trail of frozen piss to where it disappeared under a foosty-looking Renault Clio. Not the sort of car you expected to see in a place like this. Well, unless it belonged to someone’s kid, but even then, he’d expect it to be newer. He stepped closer, peering in through the passenger window. Discarded chocolate wrappers, empty packets of crisps, a bag of sherbet lemons, two Marks amp; Spencer sandwiches, three tins of Red Bull, and a hot-water bottle with faint curls of steam rising from it. Logan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, using it as a makeshift glove as he tried the car door. It wasn’t locked.

So the Phantom Piddler had been watching Macintyre’s house. A quick call to Control got him a name and address for the Clio’s owner — a Mr Russell McGillivray, living in a flat on George Street. Logan stood, contemplating the car, the junk food and the hot-water bottle. OK, so it was possible this was just a coincidence, that Mr McGillivray was up to something else, but he doubted it.

Taking one last look up and down the street, Logan folded the passenger seat forward and hopped into the back. He grabbed the hot-water bottle and stuck it under his jacket, before pulling the door closed, enjoying the warmth as it slowly spread across his chest.

A quick rummage in the back turned up a couple of old copies of the Daily Mail, and for a moment Logan toyed with the idea that McGillivray might be a journalist, but then why would he run? Logan settled back in the seat, shoogling down, keeping himself as hidden as possible.

A car slid past outside — the engine noise dying, not fading, soon afterwards. That would be Jackie, returning to her surveillance parking spot. Logan pulled out his mobile and called her.

‘Jackie?’

‘Where the hell have you been? I-’

‘Listen, I found the guy’s car, it’s about twenty yards behind you. He’ll be back for it. I need you to keep out of sight, OK? If he sees you he’ll do another runner.’

‘I’m not going anywhere! Insch would kill me. And that wee fuck Macintyre might get out again!’

‘You don’t have to-’

‘You know what happened last time I wasn’t here, don’t you? Your bloody mother’s birthday party, and some poor cow-’

‘For God’s sake! I’m not asking you to abandon your bloody post, OK? Just keep your head down!’ Snapping at her. There was an ominous silence from the other end of the phone.

‘I know you don’t think this is important, but-’

‘When? When did I ever say it wasn’t important?’

‘You said-’

‘I didn’t say anything! How could I? You never bloody told me what you were up to. Instead of acting like a spoilt brat at the party you could have told me! I would have made an excuse for you. Hell, I’d’ve come round after with a doggy bag of cake and fucking ice cream! You-’

She hung up on him.

Swearing quietly to himself, Logan reached over into the front of the car and helped himself to one of the sandwiches and a tin of Red Bull. Then he settled back to eat and brood.

It was nearly forty-five minutes before a ceasefire was declared — Jackie phoning to tell him there was a ‘suspicious-looking wanker’ hanging about at the far end of the road. Logan shifted round till he was peering out the rear window, between the UP THE DONS!!! stickers. A short, stocky figure stood beneath a streetlight, watching the road, breathing plumes of pale fog into the cold morning air.

Logan reached under his jacket and pulled out the now cold-water bottle, letting it fall into the footwell.

Whoever it was surveyed the street one last time, then started towards the manky Clio. Logan scooted further down, keeping out of sight, listening to the crunch, crunch, crunch of footsteps on crisp snow. A shadow fell across the car’s interior, then a jingle of keys, a clunk, and the driver’s door was hauled open. The man shivered in behind the steering wheel, filling the car with stale BO, turned the engine over and cranked the heater up to full.

He rubbed his hands together, stared up at the Macintyre place for a moment, then put the car into gear. Logan waited until the man was going for the hand break, before leaning forward and saying, ‘Going somewhere?’

The whole car reverberated with a terrified scream. The car lurched, the engine stalled, the driver fumbled frantically for the door handle, but Logan reached out and pressed the central locking button, before clambering into the passenger seat.

The man stared at him, terrified, sweat pricking out on his sloping forehead. ‘I’ve no’ got any money!’ He was young — no more than mid-twenties, twitchy, surprisingly pale, even allowing for the jaundiced streetlighting.

Logan held out his warrant card. ‘Police. Are you Russell McGillivray?’

‘I … I’ve no’ done nothin’! You scared the crap out of me! I’m makin’ a complaint! I-’

‘Name. I’m not going to ask you again.’

The young man coughed. ‘Don. Don Macbeth … er … but people call me Hamish, you know, because of the telly, I-’

‘You do know it’s an offence to give a false name and address to the police, don’t you?’

‘I’m no’ lyin’!’

Logan stared at him, letting the silence grow.

‘Seriously! I’m no’ lyin’!’

‘This your car Mr Macbeth?’

‘No … Yes … I mean it belongs to a mate.’

‘I see …’ Logan nodded. ‘Well, Don “Hamish” Macbeth I’m detaining you on suspicion of trying to pervert the cause of justice by giving false details-’

‘Oh come on! I’m no’ lying! I’m no’!’ He made a bid for freedom, stabbing the central locking off with his thumb, then wrenching open the driver’sside door. He scrabbled out into the road, only to find himself face to face with PC Jackie ‘Ball Breaker’ Watson.

‘Don’t even think about it!’

He wasn’t bright enough to take a telling.

‘So then,’ said Logan, walking back into interview room one, carrying the results from the fingerprint department, ‘there seems to be some mistake, “Mr Macbeth”. We sent your prints off to the main database and they came back belonging to a Russell McGillivray. Isn’t that strange?

Don Macbeth, AKA Russell McGillivray, fidgeted in his seat, one hand going to the crotch of his trousers, making sure everything was still there after his abortive attempt to get past Jackie. ‘It’s … aye …’ His skin shone with sweat, his body twitching and twisting on its own, while he gnawed away on his fingers. Twitch, chew, twitch, fidget, twitch …’ Any chance of a fag? I’m gaspin’.’ Voice trembling, breath smelling stale and rancid, adding to the general stink of unwashed armpits.

‘So, Russell, you want to tell me why you were sat outside Rob Macintyre’s house at one in the morning?’

‘Aye … well … it’s …’ he coughed, bit the inside of his cheek for a bit, then said, ‘Go on, give us a fag … I’m fuckin’ dying here!’

‘Maybe. But only if you tell me everything. What were you doing there?’

More fidgeting. ‘I … I’m a big fan, like. Wanted tae get his autograph.’

Logan stared at him. ‘Yeah, and I’m Harry Potter.’ He pulled out McGillivray’s file, flicking through it until he got to, ‘Three counts for possession with intent, two for breaking and entering, one for possession of stolen property, one for driving under the influence …’ He looked up from the sheet and smiled. ‘Well, look at that, we’re going to have to do you for driving while disqualified as well. That’s on top of giving a false name and resisting arrest. And I see you’re on bail.’ Logan gave a low whistle. ‘Wow, sucks to be you.’

‘Aw fuck …’ McGillivray folded up, sweaty head on the tabletop, arms piled over the top.

‘So, come on then, Russell, before we cart you off to prison for violating your parole, what were you doing