Broken Skin

It didn’t take long before the Chief Constable brought the whole thing to an unceremonious halt.

Logan watched Moir-Farquharson limp from the room, handing out soundbites to anyone who’d listen, demanding an official enquiry.

‘Two-faced slimy bastard!’

‘Mmm?’ Miller had switched his mobile back on and was peering at it, holding the thing at various bizarre angles in his black-gloved hands. ‘Come on ya wee …’ A sudden smile, and Miller punched a button then held the phone to his ear, listening in silence for a moment, before hanging up. He gave Logan a nervous smile. ‘Izzy wiz gettin’ twinges this mornin’. Reception here’s shite byraway. What if the contractions start?’ He poked his phone again. ‘Think I’m runnin’ low on battery …’

‘How’d you like an exclusive?’

‘I mean it’s no’ an exact science is it? They say forty-two weeks, but it could be more or less. And how do they know it’s been forty-two weeks? It’s no’ like-’

‘An exclusive, Colin.’

‘What? Oh, right, aye, that’d be grand.’ He swung his phone about a bit more. ‘Can we do it somewhere I can get a signal, but?’

Steel was in her office, pacing back and forth in front of the window, looking down at the knot of journalists outside. ‘Bloody hell — it’s a disaster! Why could they no’ give this one to Insch? What did I do to deserve it?’

Logan let her moan as he pretended to read the interview notes. Since they’d found Rob Macintyre’s battered body all the women he was supposed to have raped had been questioned, along with their partners and families. Not surprisingly none of them expressed any sympathy for the footballer’s condition. And they all had alibis. Tayside police had been asked to do the same thing with their victims, but Logan knew it was pointless. How the hell was he supposed to investigate Macintyre’s getting beaten half to death, when he lived with the person who’d done it? And there was no way he was going to fit anyone else up.

He joined Steel at the window, watching as the television camera lights winked off one by one, and the crews dispersed, leaving three figures standing together in the car park: the familiar brassy blonde of Macintyre’s fiancee, his horrible, blue-rinsed mother, and his battered lawyer. ‘Doesn’t matter what we do,’ said Steel, as Sandy Moir- Farquharson shook the women’s hands and limped off towards his Jaguar, ‘we’re going to get screwed on this one.’

Logan watched the two women march across to a small red hatchback, climb in and reverse out of their parking space. Steel was right — this whole thing was a complete and utter disaster.

45

He was poring over the preliminary forensic report on Rob Macintyre’s clothes, praying they hadn’t found anything, when the PC collared him. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you!’ she said, pointing at the collection of seized DVDs in the corner of the CID office. ‘That bloody film — put it in expecting to see some Disney pish with my six- year-old niece and what do we get? Hardcore homemade bondage! What was I supposed to say when her mum got back?’

‘Not my fault, you knew Ma Stewart was peddling porn when you borrowed it.’

‘Shagging I could have coped with, but this was fucking foul!’ And just to prove it, she marched over to the box of pirated films, rummaged around, pulled out the offending DVD and handed it to him. ‘Go on, try it!’

Sighing, Logan dragged himself away from his desk and slipped the disk into the player set up by the fridge. It was hooked up to an old twelve-inch TV set and the picture fizzed and crackled into a low-definition image of a man strapped face-down on a table with his legs open wide as someone hammered the living hell out of his thighs, back and arse with what looked like a leather ping-pong paddle.

‘Look, you borrow stuff from the evidence box, you get what you …’ Logan trailed off into silence, standing with his head on one side, watching the people on the screen. There was a full-length, gilt-edged mirror on the wall at the end of the spanking table, showing the whole scene from the opposite angle. The figure strapped to the table was blond, wearing a gag. And he looked a hell of a lot like Jason Fettes.

‘See? You imagine trying to explain that to a six-year-old? I tell you, I was-’

‘Get Insch. Get him here now!’ Logan sank down into the seat, watching the last dirty movie Jason Fettes ever made. ‘Move it!’

The image stuttered then froze into place: Fettes lying flat on his face, the person in the black bondage suit and strap-on fully visible in the mirror. Logan tapped the screen. ‘You see? Garvie was a big man, overweight, large belly. Look at the shape of the thighs and upper torso — yes the chest’s squashed flat, but I’m pretty sure this is a woman.’

Insch harrumphed. ‘But these suits distort-’

‘And Garvie’s suit is dark red, this one’s black. He didn’t have a spare.’

The inspector stared at the screen. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

Logan nodded. ‘We pretty much hounded an innocent man till he killed himself.’

‘The Chief Constable’s going to have my balls.’

The street was dark and silent, just the sound of the windscreen wipers to keep them company as Logan pulled up outside Ma Stewart’s house. All the lights were out. ‘Bloody hell.’ DI Insch closed his mobile phone and stuffed it back in his pocket. ‘I miss one sodding rehearsal and it all goes to hell in a handbasket.’

Logan knew better than to ask. Instead he picked the case file off the back seat, and climbed out of the car. It was cold: that penetrating, drizzly kind of rain Aberdeen did so well melting away the last remnants of snow, leaving the city grey and bleak. Insch had been in a foul mood ever since Logan dragged him in to watch the video — he never liked being proved wrong.

The inspector gave the nod and Logan leaned on Ma’s bell: a metallic prringgg sounded from somewhere inside. They waited and waited, but nothing happened, so Logan tried again — prrrrrringgggggggggg — keeping his finger on the button until a light blossomed on in the hall. But still no one came to answer the door.

‘Mrs Stewart!’ Insch hammered on the door with the palm of his hand, making the whole thing boom and rattle. ‘We know you’re in there!’ BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

A light came on next door. The curtains twitched as Insch did it again. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! ‘Police! Open up!’

‘Hoy! Keep it down!’ An irate-looking man in his late sixties, complete with walking stick.

‘Police, Mrs Stewart: Open up!’ BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

‘You leave her alone!’

Logan tried for the nice-cop approach. ‘Please go back inside, sir.’

‘Don’t you bloody tell me what to do! I pay your wages!’

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! ‘Come on, Mrs Stewart!’

‘Bugger off out of it: she’s done nothing wrong!’

‘We know you’re in there!’ BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

Logan tapped the inspector on the shoulder. ‘That’s probably not helping, sir.’

‘Did I ask for your opinion?’ BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! ‘Open up!’

By the time a rumpled Ma Stewart appeared at the front door, half the street was up: auld mannies and wifies in their dressing gowns and corduroys telling Logan and Insch they should be ashamed of themselves for hounding an old lady! Ma stood on the top step, blinking as if she was having difficulty getting them into focus. She looked terrible: heavy bags under her eyes, the folds of fat pulling her face out of shape. She just wasn’t the same without all the make-up and permanent beatific smile. She was old.

‘Mmmmph …’ she said, rearranging her features with a podgy hand. ‘Tea. I’ll make tea …’ A stifled yawn, then, ‘And cake. Everyone likes cake …’

They convened in the kitchen.

‘Tea, tea, tea, tea …’ Ma bumbled around, opening cupboards and closing them again. Logan steered her into one of the kitchen chairs and told her not to worry about it: he’d do the honours.

‘Do you know why we’re here?’ said Insch, while Logan was playing hunt the teabag. ‘One of the DVDs we