Broken Skin (2 page)

3

Rob Macintyre's arrest had come too late to make the first edition of the
Press and Journal
- Aberdeen's local paper - but it was on the Scottish bit of the early-morning TV news. A dour-faced newswoman stood outside Pittodrie football stadium in the dark, talking to a small knot of shivering fans. Asking their opinion on the whole superstar-striker-as-marauding-rapist thing. God knew how the BBC had got onto the story so quick.

The supporters, all dressed in bright-red, replica AFC football tops, backed their hero all the way: Macintyre was a good lad; wouldn't do anything like that; it was a fit-up, the club needed him ... And then it was on to a house fire in Dundee. Logan sat in the lounge, yawning, drinking tea and listening to some lopsided freak from Tayside Police telling the public how important it was to check the batteries in their smoke alarms. And then the travel, weather, and back to the London studio. An entire country's news squeezed into eight minutes.

Logan's unidentified male wasn't due to be post mortemed till ten am - nearly three hours away - but there was a shedload of paperwork to be filled in first.

He finished his tea and went to get dressed.

The morgue at FHQ shone with an antiseptic fervour. Sparkling white tiles covered the walls and floor, glinting cutting tables sat beneath polished extractor fans, the room lined with pristine work surfaces. Logan changed into the compulsory white over suit with hood and blue plastic booties before pushing into the sterile area. The guest of honour was already laid out, flat on his back in all his pasty, bloodstained glory while an IB photographer clicked and flashed his way around the body, documenting everything as another technician used sticky tape to remove any trace evidence he could find. A slow-motion dance complete with disco strobe.

Doc Fraser was slumped over one of the other cutting tables, a copy of the P&J spread out on the stainless-steel surface in front of him. He looked up, saw Logan walking in and asked him for an eight letter word beginning with B.

'No idea. Who's SIO?'

The pathologist sighed and started chewing on the end of his pen, 'God knows; I'm just corroborating today. The Fiscal's about somewhere, you can ask her if you like. No one tells me anything.'

Logan knew the feeling.

He found the Procurator Fiscal out in the viewing room, pacing back and forth, looking as if she was talking to herself until he saw the little Bluetooth headset attached to her ear. 'No,' she said, fiddling with a palmtop computer, 'we need to make sure the case is airtight. I don't want to be fielding questions when I'm working on my tan. Now what about those Bridge of Don burglaries? ...' He left her to it.

It wasn't long before the answer lurched through the morgue doors, hauling at the crotch of her SOC coveralls and coughing as if she was about to bring up a lung. DI Steel, their senior investigating officer. A five-foot-nine, wrinkly, middle-aged disaster area, smelling of stale cigarette smoke and Chanel Number Five. 'Laz!' she said, grinning as soon as she clapped eyes on Logan, 'This no' a bit fresh for one of your corpses? Thought you liked them a bit more ripe?'

Logan didn't rise to it. 'He was found outside A&E last night, bleeding to death. No witnesses. Something horrible's happened to his backside.'

'Oh aye?' The inspector raised an eyebrow. 'Medical horrible, or "I was hoovering naked and fell on a statue of Queen Victoria" horrible?'

'Queen Victoria.'

Steel nodded sagely. 'Yeah - I wondered why they gave me this one. We about ready to get started? I'm bursting for a fag.'

Doc Fraser looked up from his crossword, pulled the pen out of his gob and asked Steel the same question he'd asked Logan. The inspector cocked her head on one side, thought about it, frowned, then said, 'Buggered?'

'No, it's got an S in it. We're waiting for Dr MacAlister.'

DI Steel nodded again. 'Ah, it's going to be one of
those
post mortems.' She sighed. 'Come on then, Laz: let's hear it.' So Logan talked her through the statements he'd taken last night while the victim was in surgery, then the paperwork that had come down from the hospital with the body. 'What about the CCTV?' she asked when he'd finished.

'Nothing we can use. The car's number plates are unreadable - probably covered with something - driver wore a hooded top and baseball cap.'

'Ah, thug chic. Got a make on the car?'

'Fusty-looking Volvo estate.'

Steel blew a long, wet raspberry. 'So much for an easy case. Well, maybe Madame Death can tell us something, presuming she ever bloody gets here!' Ten minutes later and the inspector was threatening to start singing
Why Are We Waiting
?

Dr Isobel MacAlister finally lumbered into the morgue at twenty past ten, looking flushed. She ignored DI Steel's derogatory round of applause and cry of 'Thar she blows!' and scrubbed up, needing help to get into her cutting gear, the green plastic apron stretched tight over her enormous stomach.

'Right,' she said, clicking on the Dictaphone, 'we have an unidentified male - mid to late twenties ...'

It was weird watching a heavily pregnant pathologist at work. Even weirder: the thing growing in her womb could have been Logan's, if things had turned out differently. But they hadn't. So instead of being filled with paternal pride, he was standing here watching Isobel slice up yet another dead body, feeling a strange mix of regret, and relief. And then nausea as she got her assistant to heft out the corpse's urogenital block for her.

They finished with tea and biscuits in the pathologists' office, with Isobel sitting behind the desk and complaining about the heat, even though February was putting on its usual performance outside the window, hurling icy rain against the glass.

'Looks like something pretty big's been repeatedly forced inside him,' she said, checking her notes, 'between four and five inches in diameter, and at least fourteen inches long. The sphincter's extensively damaged and the lower intestine was torn in four places. He lost too much blood, pressure dropped, heart stopped. Death was due to severe shock. There was nothing the hospital could have done.' She shifted in her seat, trying to get closer to the desk, but her pregnant bulge got in the way. 'Some of the burn marks on the torso have a crust of wax, but there's half a dozen cigarette burns too. Most of the contusions are superficial.'

DI Steel helped herself to a Jaffa Cake, mumbling, 'What about the ligature marks?' with her mouth full.

'Looks like thick leather straps with metal buckles. There's quite a bit of chafing about the edges, so I'd say he struggled a fair bit.'

Steel snorted, sending crumbs flying. 'Well, you would, wouldn't you? Someone turns your arse inside out.'

That got her a scowl and a chilly silence. 'I'll need to wait for the blood toxicology to come back,' Isobel said at last, 'but I found a significant quantity of alcohol in the stomach and partially digested pills as well.'

'So, whoever it was got him pissed and doped-up first, then strapped him down and buggered him to death with a Wellington boot. And they say romance is dead.'

Isobel's scowl got twenty degrees colder. 'Any other
startling
insights you'd like to share with us, Inspector?' Steel just grinned back at her and polished off another biscuit. Then the Procurator Fiscal confirmed that they'd be treating this case as murder, before telling them all about her upcoming holiday to the Seychelles. A substantive depute would be in charge while she was away soaking up the sun and cocktails, but they were to try not to break the girl, or there'd be trouble when she got back - looking pointedly at DI Steel. The inspector pretended not to know what she was talking about.

'Bloody hell!' Steel said as they ran up the stairs from the morgue to the rear podium car park, sploshing through ankle-deep puddles, making for the back door to FHQ. 'Why can't they open the internal door when it's pishing with rain?' There was only one indoor route through from the main building to the morgue, but it was reserved for victims' relatives and the Chief Constable. The rank and file had to brave the weather.

She shook herself like a terrier, then ran a hand through her unruly hair, spraying water onto the linoleum. At forty-three she looked sixty-five - wrinkled, pointy face, saggy neck like a turkey, hair designed to startle old ladies, fingers stained a fetching shade of nicotine yellow. 'Come on,' she said, leading the way towards the lifts, 'you can get the teas in while I have a fag. And get some bacon butties too - I'm starving. Bastard post mortem went on for
ages
.'

Logan backed into DI Steel's office, balancing two mugs of tea and a couple of tinfoil parcels on a manila folder. The inspector was standing with her back to the door, staring out of the open window, a cigarette smouldering away between her fingers - completely ignoring the ban on smoking in the workplace - the bitter tang of Benson & Hedges curling out into the rain. 'You know,' she said, as Logan eased the door closed and dished out the refreshments, 'oh, ta ... sometimes it pisses me off that Fatty Insch gets all the big cases: all the high-profile stuff, like this serial rape thing.' She peeled open her tinfoil-wrapped buttie, eating and smoking and talking all at the same time. 'And then I see that shite and think, thank Christ.'

Logan joined her at the window. Down in the front car park there was a clump of outside-broadcast vans. A little knot of cameras and journalists were sheltering under umbrellas in the steady downpour, the occasional flash illuminating the concrete and granite like lightning. 'Rob Macintyre.'

'Aye: Robby Bobby "Goalden Boy" Macintyre. Could Insch no' find someone else to be his bloody rapist? Macintyre's a local sodding hero.' She took a huge bite, sending a cascade of white flour spilling down the front of her charcoal-grey suit. 'Tell you, it's a PR disaster waiting to happen. Little bugger's got his publicist working overtime making sure everyone stands up and tells the world what a great guy he is and how he'd never do anything naughty like rape seven women at knifepoint ...' She sucked the last gasp from her cigarette and flicked it out into the downpour. Logan couldn't tell for sure, but it looked as if she was aiming for the man from Sky News. It was too far down to tell if she got him or not.

She took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. 'We get a nice, juicy murder and Insch gets a world of shite.' She shrugged. 'Still, rather him than us, eh?'

'I'm getting the media department to run off some "Do you know this man" posters for our body,' Logan said, 'and I got the report on his clothes back from Forensics.'

A long, silent pause. Then, 'Well, tell me what they said for God's sake, can you no' see I'm busy?' She settled back behind her cluttered desk, put her feet up, and lit another cigarette, blowing a long stream of smoke at the ceiling.

'Right.' Logan opened the manila folder and skimmed through it, making for the conclusions at the end. 'Blah, blah, blah, here we go: they think the blood in the clothes and blanket are all from the same person - blood type matches, but the mobile DNA thing's on the blink, so we've had to send samples off to Dundee to be sure. They're pretty certain it's all his though.'

'Genius.' She rolled her eyes. 'They tell us anything we
don't
already know?'

'They got fibres from the blanket he was wrapped in, so if we get a suspect they can run a match, but--'

'But bugger all that'll help us actually find out who he is.'

'Interesting thing is the list of clothing.' Logan handed over the report and the inspector pursed her lips, reading, then rereading it.

'Come on then, Miss Marple,' she said after the third time through, 'dazzle me with your brilliance.'

'Trousers, sweatshirt and blanket. No socks, no underwear, no jacket. No personal effects - no keys, no coins, not even an old hanky. He's been naked and someone's dressed him as quickly as possible, emptied his pockets, bundled him into the car and--'

'Oh for God's sake.' Steel threw the report back across the table at him. 'Of course he was bloody naked, you don't bondage someone up and bugger them to death fully dressed, do you?'

'Oh. Well, no, I suppose ...'

She watched him squirm for a moment, then grinned. 'See, this is why they pay me the big bucks.'

'Anyway,' he could feel a blush creeping up his cheeks, 'the killer probably wrapped him in the blanket to keep blood off the car seats, but the thing was soaked through. The back seat will be saturated.'

'Which is no sodding good to us unless we find the car. Get the labs to see if they can do something with the number plate on that surveillance tape. And set up a briefing: couple of dozen uniform, some CID, you know the drill. And we'll need a HOLMES suite, and an incident room, and ...' She frowned. 'Anything I've forgotten?'

Logan sighed - as usual he was going to be left doing all the work. 'Press release.'

'Bingo!' She beamed. 'Press release. And while you're at it, see if they can get us a slot on the news as well - we'll stick up the victim's face, you ask people to phone in, and I'll chat up that girl does the weather ...' The inspector stared off into the distance for a happy moment, then snapped back into the here and now. 'I've got some calls to make.' She made wafting gestures, 'Go on, shoo, out, run along, go. Bugger off.'

Logan picked up his half-drunk cup of tea and left her to it.

4

Three twenty-nine pm - the car park round the back of Brimmond Hill. Alpha Nine Six scrunched to a halt between two huge waterlogged potholes, windscreen wipers going full-tilt in the rain. The top of the hill was lost in the low cloud, the gorse, heather and bracken battered and dripping. The driver pulled on the handbrake. 'What do you think?'

'Rock, paper, scissors?'

'OK ... one, two three ... shit.' Scowling out of the windscreen at the downpour. 'Best of three?'

'No.'

'OK, OK ... bloody hell ...' The driver cracked the door open, letting in the roar of the rain, drowning out the constant background chatter of the radio. He pulled on his waterproof jacket, turned the collar up, pulled his hat down low over his ears, and jumped out of the car, swearing as he ran across to the burnt-out wreck opposite, trying to avoid the puddles.

The patrol car window wound halfway down, and the PC in the passenger seat shouted, 'Well?'

Grumbling, the driver clicked his torch on and peered into the blackened shell. There wasn't much left: the skeletal remains of seats, their wire frames caked with lumps of grey and black ash; dashboard reduced to a buckled sheet of sagging metal; the tyres a slough of vitrified rubber. All the glass was gone. He ran the torch's beam round the inside, just in case. Anything in there was long gone. 'Nothing. Just a crappy old Volvo no one loves any more.'

Steel was back at her office window, peering out at the cluster of journalists and TV cameras far below when Logan returned from getting everything organized. 'Briefing's at four,' he said, slumping into the threadbare visitors' chair. 'You've got sixteen uniform, five CID and about eight admin. And I got the IB to take a good head-and-shoulders shot of the body with his eyes open, they're going to touch it up on the computer so he doesn't look so dead.' Logan yawned, but Steel didn't seem to notice, just sparked up another cigarette and went back to blowing smoke out into the rain. 'Press release will be ready about ...' he checked his notes, 'five, but they don't think they can get you on the news tonight. Not with this Rob Macintyre thing going on.'

She nodded. 'No room on the box for two Aberdeen stories eh? Shame ...' She sighed. 'I'd have loved to show that blonde weathergirl what a real wet front looks like ... Still, the circus down there's getting geared up for something. Want to go watch? If we're lucky that grumpy, fat bastard Insch will punch someone.'

It was too damp for a real media frenzy, instead they all huddled under their umbrellas, pointing cameras, microphones and digital recorders at the FHQ car park as a black BMW pulled up and a smug-looking bastard climbed out into the rain and a barrage of questions. Sandy Moir-Farquharson, defence lawyer extraordinaire: tall, well-dressed, with greying hair, a slightly squint nose, and a junior to hold his brolly for him. Rob Macintyre got out of the back seat and bounced along beside him, grinning from ear to ear - despite the swollen lip Jackie had given him - in a very expensive-looking charcoal-grey suit, his trademark ruby earstud twinkling in the camera lights. It was a blatant rip-off of other, much more famous footballers from the English leagues, only Macintyre's was red, Aberdeen Football Club's team colour. Finally a large, grey-haired woman emerged from the car wearing a triumphant, satisfied smile - the one who'd been shouting at Big Gary last night.

Standing beneath an umbrella purloined from the lost and found, Logan grimaced. 'This doesn't look good.'

DI Steel snorted, arms crossed, face screwed up tight. 'Never does when Hissing Bloody Sid's involved.'

The lawyer raised his arms and the crowd of journalists fell quiet. 'I am delighted to say that the court has agreed to give my client Mr Macintyre the opportunity to challenge these ridiculous charges in a court of law.'

'Wonderful,' Steel dug in her pockets and came out with a packet of cigarettes, 'we're prosecuting the little sod, and he's making out it's all
their
idea!'

'Mr Macintyre's innocence,' said the lawyer, 'will be proved beyond a shadow of a doubt, and Grampian Police will be forced to put an end to their hateful campaign to ruin his reputation once and for all. We can only assume that someone up there,' he pointed at the looming black-and-white hulk of FHQ, '
really
doesn't want Aberdeen to win the Scottish Premier League!' That actually got a laugh. And then the questions started, all of them fielded by Sandy Moir-Farquharson before his client could open his mouth: 'Will you be playing this Saturday against Falkirk?' 'What does your fiancee say about all this?' 'Is it true you've been offered a place with Manchester United?' Only one journalist asked about this not being the first time Macintyre had been accused of rape, but Sandy ignored her, answering a much more cuddly question about Macintyre's upcoming marriage instead. The only person who seemed to have noticed was Macintyre's mum, who spent the rest of the conference scowling furiously at the woman who'd dared to bring up her son's past.

The lawyer took a couple more questions, then led a smiling Macintyre - and his mum - back to the waiting BMW. They disappeared in a flurry of flash photography. DI Steel took a long sniff, then spat out into the rain. 'Slimy wee shite. And we thought Insch was in a bad mood before. He'll be fucking apoplectic now.' She set a lighter to her cigarette, the smoke getting trapped inside the brolly. 'Speak of the devil ...'

Insch strode down Queen Street, coming back from the Sheriff Court, face set in an ugly line, his huge, fat body barely shielded from the rain by a massive golf umbrella. Someone stepped out in front of him - thin, bearded, glasses, looking furious - and the inspector paused, then grabbed the man by the arm and steered him in through the main doors to FHQ. Logan caught, 'It's him isn't it? Why the hell are you letting him go? What's wrong with you people--' before the doors shut.

Steel stayed outside to finish her fag while Logan hurried in out of the rain to make sure everything was ready for the briefing, keeping his head down as he passed Insch and the angry man, not wanting to get involved. Ignoring the inspector as he promised to put Macintyre away for a long, long time.

Four o'clock and the briefing room was full of men and women in uniform, a handful of detective constables in suits, and an overweight detective sergeant eating cheese and onion crisps. There was still no sign of DI Steel so Logan did the roll call. Then the introduction. Then the background. He was just launching into the CCTV footage when she turned up with the Assistant Chief Constable in tow. Trying not to look as pissed off as he felt, Logan got one of the CID blokes to turn off the lights. 'Right,' he said, pressing play as Steel and the ACC found seats, 'this was taken at twelve minutes past ten last night.'

The large screen behind his head flickered and the entrance to Accident and Emergency appeared. An ambulance sat in front of the doors, lights off and nobody home. Then a ratty old Volvo estate shuddered to a halt, half mounting the kerb, the driver an indistinct blob behind the steering wheel. The blob unclipped its seatbelt, wrenched the door open and leapt out of the car. Logan hit pause and everything stopped. 'Blue jeans, black trainers, grey hooded top, dark green baseball cap.' The face was invisible, hidden in the cap's shadow.

'The car's number plate's been purposely obscured - probably with electrical tape - so all we have is make and model. I've put out a lookout request for a blue or green Volvo estate: the details are in your briefing packs.' He paused and looked around the room, trying to make eye-contact with as many people as possible. 'The backseat's soaked in blood, so the killer will either try to hide the vehicle, or get rid of it. We need to find it first!'

He pressed play again and the hooded figure sprinted round the front of the Volvo, opened the rear passenger door, and dragged the dying man from the back seat. Then jumped back into the car and got the hell out of there.

'This,' said Logan as the picture became a fuzz of static and white lines, 'is the camera at the security barriers ...' The screen settled into a shot of a bright orange booth with a uniformed old man in it, reading a newspaper. He looked up, smiled and waved as the Volvo slowed down. The driver wound down his or her window and slipped the ticket into the machine. A brief pause, the barrier slid up, the Volvo drove off, and the guard went back to his paper.

'So we have a witness. If you turn to the back of your pack, you'll find an e-fit.' Logan switched off the video and clicked on the projector. Behind him a computer-generated identikit picture sprang onto the screen: round face, big moustache, glasses and a neatly trimmed goatee. 'According to our security guard the suspect has an Irish accent--' A uniformed constable stuck up her hand. 'Yes?'

'Northern or southern Irish?'

'He says it was like that thick priest on
Father
Ted
, so southern. Our suspect was calm enough to exchange a few words about the weather, even though he's just dumped someone who's bleeding to death outside A&E.'

Logan hit the button and the e-fit disappeared, replaced with a post mortem photo of the dead man's face. 'This is our victim. And this is what the killer did to him ...' Click - and everyone in the room squirmed.

Logan worked his way to the end of the briefing, finishing up with everyone's teams and assignments, then DI Steel creaked to her feet and told them all the Assistant Chief Constable wanted a word. 'Now then,' said the ACC, going for a friendly smile, 'as you know, the health of our officers is of primary importance to us all ...'

When at long last everyone was gone, Steel slumped into a chair at the front of the room, head back, groaning at the flickering fluorescent lights. 'God, that man's hard work.'

'I had to start without you.'

Steel nodded. 'I saw. Well done you. Top of the class. I would've been on time, but the rotten sod was hanging about outside the women's toilets. Pervert. Had to tell him what we were up to.' She worked a hand under her jacket and fiddled about in her armpit. 'Concerned about the health of their officers ... If they think I'm going to take part in their stupid "Fit Like" programme they can kiss my sharny arse!'

Logan finished tidying up. 'Where do you want to start?'

Steel checked her watch, thought about it, then said, 'A large white wine. And some chips. And some fags. Nearly knocking off time.'

'But--'

'Look, the papers will run the victim's photo and the killer's e-fit tomorrow. All the dentists' surgeries will be closed by now so we can't start searching dental records. We're
no
' going to get an ID tonight. The only thing left to do is get the incident room set up, and the admin officer can do that. You and me are going for a pint.'

'But--'

'That's an order, Sergeant.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

Archibald Simpson's used to be a bank before it became a pub. A huge granite edifice on the east end of Union Street, complete with Corinthian pillars, portico, ornate ceiling, shiny brass fittings, chandeliers, and cheap beer. Being just round the corner from FHQ it was the standard police drinking hole after a hard day's sodding about in the rain.

Steel made Logan get the first round in, taking her usual seat in the aisle just off the main banking floor, in the corner, under the television. One large white wine, two portions of chips, and a pint of Stella. What he really wanted was to go home and get some sleep, but if he did that the inspector would sulk and he'd end up lumbered with all the crappy jobs on the investigation. So he stayed and talked shop, listening to her moan on about her other cases, like the dead tramp they'd found in Duthie Park - natural causes, but no one knew who the hell he was - and the series of housebreakings in Tillydrone, Bridge of Don, and Rosemount. And the man flashing his undercarriage on Guild Street. By the time the chips arrived she was moaning about her girlfriend Susan and how she was always on at her to get a cat, but Steel knew it was just the warm-up act for a baby and she wasn't ready for that kind of commitment.

They got more drinks and the day-shift started squelching in, the pub slowly filling up with off-duty police men and women. Logan knew most of them by name - well, except for some of the younger ones - but he'd only ever seen one of them naked: PC Jackie Watson, marching towards them, bearing beer, a scowl, and tomato sauce flavour crisps.

She plonked herself down next to Logan and offered the crisps round. 'Jesus, what a shitty day.'

'And hello to you too.' Logan grinned at her: the effects of two pints on a nearly empty stomach. 'We saw Hissing Sid outside the courthouse.'

Jackie scowled. 'Little bastard. How come every bloody case he's involved in has to have a press conference on the steps outside FHQ? You know
anyone
else who does that?'

Logan shrugged. 'He's a media whore.'

'Aye,' said Steel, polishing off her drink, 'he's a whore, but we're the ones getting screwed the whole time. Anyone for another?' She took their orders and stomped off to the bar, leaving Logan and Jackie alone.

'Can you believe he had the cheek to say I assaulted his rapist bastard client while he was cuffed and on the ground?' Jackie scowled. 'And get this - they're saying he was only out jogging. He approached me to "ask directions".' She even made little sarcastic quote-bunnies with her fingers. 'With a knife. Can you believe that?'

Logan knew better than to say anything, just sat there and nodded. Letting her rant. 'And the bloody media! According to them he's already been found innocent! Bastards. And the bloody search team couldn't find their arses with both hands and a map. All through Macintyre's house and not one bloody trophy. No knickers, no jewellery, nothing. Not a bloody thing!' There was more, but Logan gradually tuned it out. Jackie just needed to let off a bit of steam: get it out of her system.

Jackie was still going strong when DI Steel wobbled back to the table with a handful of glasses. The inspector clinked them down on the tabletop, with an apologetic, 'I forgot what everyone wanted, so I got whiskies.'