Broken Skin

The old man smiled sadly. ‘Oh, he wanted to, but there was never any proof, and I thought Sean had enough to deal with without all that. What with his granddad being at death’s door and problems at school. It wouldn’t have been right.’ He levered the mower down from the worktop with a grunt. ‘Old sporting injury. Always gives me gyp when it’s wet out. Now, would you like a cup of tea? It’s no bother.’

They were walking back across the lawn when Mr Whyte stopped at the koi pond. A large orange and white fish broached the rippled surface, then disappeared back into the shadowy depths. ‘My son’s a good man, Sergeant. A better father than I was in many ways. He just gets a bit stressed from time to time. I’m sure he’ll forgive Sean eventually. His brother’s death hit him hard, and Sean looks so much like Craig.’ He shivered. ‘Anyway, what about that tea?’

In the rain FHQ looked even more miserable than normal, the lobby slick with dirty grey water walked in off the streets. Sergeant Mitchell collared Logan as soon as he was back in the building. ‘Hoy, what the hell is it with you and mobile bloody phones? Do I look like your secretary?’ Moustache bristling.

Logan pulled out his phone and peered at it. The battery was dead, but he wasn’t about to admit it. ‘You sure you’re calling the right number? I-’

‘We give everyone a sodding Airwave handset for a reason!’

‘What’s the message?’

‘That Weegie reporter of yours has been on half a dozen times — call him back for God’s sake. I have to listen to his soap-dodging nonsense once more I’m going to kill someone. The rest are in your bloody email.’ He wagged his finger under Logan’s nose like an irate schoolteacher. ‘And switch your bloody phone on, or I’m going to report you. Got better things to do than sod about after you all day!’

There was always a big mess of phone chargers in the CID office, so Logan helped himself to one that fit and plugged his mobile in, then rummaged through his desk until he found his Airwave handset. It was about four times the size of his normal phone, but it would have to do. The battery was nearly fully charged, which wasn’t surprising: he’d barely used the thing; it had spent most of its life switched off in a drawer. He tried calling Miller, but it went straight through to voicemail so he left a message and contact number. If it was anything important the reporter would call him back soon enough. Until then Logan had some digging to do.

Over an hour later he was no further forward. As far as the various police databases were concerned, Sean’s ex-best-friend’s family were clean. Not so much as a parking ticket. In fact, the only blemish on the Whytes’ family tree was Craig, the dead brother. He’d got into a fight when he was sixteen and ended up crippling a lorry driver with a snooker cue. The man had accused him of being gay. There was a spell at Her Majesty’s pleasure, followed by a battered girlfriend, therapy, then an overdose of sleeping pills. Daniel had no reason to be jealous of his younger brother — he’d not even made it to twenty-four.

When the Airwave handset started ringing it was such an unfamiliar noise that Logan nearly didn’t answer it. ‘Hello?’

‘Where the hell you been, man? I been callin’ you for ages!’ Colin Miller sounding agitated, which was pretty much par for the course these days.

‘Afternoon.’ Logan tried for one last mouthful of coffee, only to find it stone cold. He spat it back out into the mug. ‘Urgh, Jesus …’

‘She’s done it!’

He peered at the marbled liquid then tipped it into the nearest pot plant. ‘Done what? Who’s done it?’

‘It’s a wee boy! Seven pounds! He’s fuckin’ brilliant! Wee fingers an’ toes an’ everythin’! ’

‘Oh …’ There were things you were supposed to say to new fathers: ‘Congratulations. How’s Isobel?’

‘Knackered. Says if I come near her again she’s going to chop ma dick off!’ He laughed. ‘Can you believe it: six days early?’

‘Well, I suppose it’s-’

‘You gotta come see him!’

‘Thing is, Colin …’ Logan looked at his desk. It wasn’t exactly overflowing with urgent actions, just DI Steel’s paperwork — all the things she was supposed to do, but never did. And the sooner he reported back to Insch, the sooner the grumpy sod would shout at him for being dragged away in the first place. As if Logan had any say in the matter. ‘No, sounds good. See you soon.’

He abandoned his CID pool car as close to the maternity ward as he could and hurried in out of the rain. A nurse gave him directions and after a brief shopping spree in the Women’s Royal Voluntary Service shop, he was marching down the corridor, clutching a cat-shaped helium balloon, a box of chocolates and a Hallmark card with IT’S A BOY! on it. As if the parents didn’t already know.

The reporter was waiting for him at the maternity ward door. ‘Laz, my man! Come see the bairn!’

The next twenty minutes passed in something of a blur. The baby, no matter what his proud father said, looked like a shaved monkey, but Logan kept quiet about it and pretended not to notice. Isobel looked dreadful: pale, tired and sweaty, with dark purple bags under her eyes. She clearly wasn’t up to a prolonged visit, so Logan made his excuses, promising to meet up with Colin when the fathers were kicked out at nine, to wet the baby’s head with some thirty-five-year-old single malt whisky the reporter had bought specially.

Outside, the rain had stopped, late-afternoon sunlight cutting through the low clouds, painting everything gold and ochre, casting long blue shadows as it sank towards the horizon. Logan climbed into the pool car and switched his handset back on, trying to remember how to check for any messages and failing abysmally. So he called Control and asked Sergeant Mitchell.

‘For God’s sake! I’m not your-’

‘Bloody secretary, yeah, I know. Look, I’m using the damn thing, what more do you want?’

‘Will wonders never cease? Insch is looking for you.’

‘Any idea what-’

‘No. So don’t ask.’

Logan hung up. It was just on the cusp of five: if he could stay out of the inspector’s clutches for another ten minutes he could sign out and slope off home, putting off the inevitable shouting at till tomorrow. But that would mean going back to the flat and dealing with Jackie … He dialled Insch’s mobile.

‘Where are you?’

Logan thought about lying, but it probably wasn’t worth the aggravation. ‘Up at the hospital.’

‘What?’ There was a moment’s pause, then the inspector said, ‘How did you get …? No, never mind. Is that slimy bastard there yet?’

‘Er …’ He looked up and down the car park, trying to figure out what Insch meant. ‘Which one?’

‘Hissing Bloody Sid — who do you think? Soon as the TV cameras turn up he’s all over the place like a foul smell.’

‘Ah, right, not seen him yet.’ Which was true.

‘I’ve got a rehearsal at half-six, so I’m relying on you: don’t let the wee shite say anything stupid, OK? Last thing we need is more grief.’

Logan didn’t have a clue what the inspector was on about, but it would probably be bad. It usually was.

48

They were gathered outside the main entrance, holding up placards with things like WE LOVE YOU ROB! GET WELL SOON! and AFC CHAMPIONS! scrawled on them. Floral tributes were piled up to either side of the hospital doors, with the occasional teddy bear dressed up in Aberdeen Football Club colours thrown in for good measure. Half the crowd had their replica shirts on under their thick jackets, and all of them were tearfully singing football songs.

‘Oh for God’s sake …’ Logan stood next to one of the uniformed constables stationed at the hospital, staring out at this public display of grief. ‘They been at this long?’

The constable nodded, her face puckered up like a chicken’s bum. ‘Aye, ever since it was in the papers this morning. One bugger drops off a bunch of manky carnations from a petrol station, and suddenly everyone’s at it.