Broken Skin. Stuart MacBride

‘Well?’

      ‘Nothing.’ He wiped a hand over his face, trying to get rid of a cobweb.

      ‘Ah well, it was worth a go.’

      They marched out through the knot of journalists and back to the car, ignoring the shouted questions, keeping their heads down till they were safely ensconced in the scabby CID Vauxhall Logan had signed for. Steel squinted out through the windscreen at the Morrison house. ‘What do you think,’ she asked, ‘he going to come home?’

      Logan nodded and turned the engine over. ‘You should have seen his room; kid’s got more stuff than I do. Parents must spoil him rotten. One night out in the cold and he’ll be desperate to get home.’

      ‘Are you mental? He just knifed an old man and a policewoman. He’s no’ Christopher Bloody Robin. I think the vicious little bastard’s got somewhere to lie low …’

      ‘Well, he can’t stay hidden for ever,’ said Logan, pulling away from the kerb and pointing the car back towards FHQ, ‘he only got fifty quid from Cochrane’s wallet and it’s not like he can actually spend it – can’t be a single person in Aberdeen who doesn’t know what he looks like by now.’ They’d tried telling the media that Sean was just a missing child, released his picture and asked anyone who saw him to come forward, but one of the witnesses from the St Nicholas Centre spotted the photo on the news, rang up the Daily Record and ID’d Sean as the kid who’d knifed Jerry Cochrane. And the press had a field day – EIGHT-YEAR-OLD KILLER!, THE NEW FACE OF EVIL!, SCHOOLBOY KILLS OAP! – it had made every second-edition front page in Scotland and quite a few south of the border too. ‘We could try following his mates; someone’s got to be getting food to him?’

      She thought about it for a moment, head on one side, chewing on the inside of her cheek. ‘Nah, that’ll take for ever. If I was him I’d be on the first bus south to London, or Brighton, or some other godforsaken hole.’

      ‘He’s eight.’

      ‘Blah, blah, blah. When did you last have anything to do with kids, eh? Eight’s the new thirteen. Oh, they look like butter wouldn’t bloody melt, but they’re smacked out their tits half the time trying to get each other pregnant.’ She pulled out her cigarettes, shoogled the packet, then put it away again with a sigh. ‘Let’s get the little bastards picked up and dragged down to the station: give them the fright of their lives. See if one of them’ll shop him. And you’d better check the CCTV for the train and bus station too. And get some uniforms down there to speak to the drivers … Oh, and when you’ve got that lot organized, you might as well do that update report on Jason Fettes. No point sitting about twiddling your thumbs all day, is there?’

      By the time Logan had finished doing the inspector’s job for her, the first of Sean Morrison’s ‘little chums’ was sitting in interview room number two with her father. There was an unpleasant smell of stale socks and ancient coffee with an underlying whiff of sour garlic, slowly marinating everyone present. DI Steel sat back in her cheap, plastic chair and stared at the little girl sitting opposite. Natalie Lenox: eight years old; long, dark brown hair; pale face; all her fingernails bitten down to tiny nubs; a furious scowl pulling at her chubby features. Her father was a bigger version of the same thing, only without the hair. He glowered as Logan wheeled a trolley with a TV and video on it into the corner and plugged them in. ‘I want my lawyer present.’

      Steel sighed. ‘We’ve been through this. Twice. No lawyer.’

      ‘Then I’m not saying anything more.’

      ‘That’s fine with me, keep your trap shut and I’ll speak to Natalie instead.’

      ‘She’s not saying anything either.’

      The inspector put on her most charming smile, which wasn’t saying much. ‘If you continue to be obstructive Mr Lenox I’ll have you replaced by an appropriate adult, how about that?’

      ‘You can’t do that!’

      ‘Want a bet? Natalie here was involved in the murder of a seventy-two-year-old man, I think—’

      ‘She had nothing to do with it!’ He poked his child in the shoulder. ‘Tell them, tell them you had nothing to do with it.’

      ‘I hid nuthin’ to dae with it.’ The kid’s accent was broad Aberdonian, and as sullen as her mashed-potato face. ‘Nuthin’.’

      ‘Uh huh.’ Steel told Logan to start the tape. ‘Then how do you explain this?’ The screen flickered, a jagged line of static creeping upwards, revealing the inside of the Union Street end of the St Nicholas Centre. People wandered past, laden down with shopping bags and baby buggies, and then a pregnant woman lurched into view, carrying a huge handbag and a plastic carrier from The Body Shop. She’d just passed the lottery booth when half a dozen children arrived – most wearing hooded tops, keeping their faces shielded from the camera. The inspector hit pause. ‘Bottom left, the girl in the green top.’

      She hit play and the girl darted forward, banging into the pregnant woman hard enough to make her drop her handbag. The woman staggered, the girl helping her stay on her feet, grinning up at her, mouth going twenty to the dozen. It was Natalie Lenox – her fat little face and long hair clearly visible on the screen – probably apologizing for being so clumsy while two of her friends helped pick up the nice lady’s things. Helping themselves to her purse in the process. Sean Morrison handed the bag back with a modest tilt of the head, but the pregnant woman wasn’t buying it. She grabbed him by the sleeve and started shouting.

      ‘I …’ Natalie’s father licked his top lip and tried again. ‘So she bumped into someone. That’s not a crime.’

      ‘This isn’t the first time. We’ve had about a dozen other complaints of bags, wallets and purses being stolen. All the victims remember being banged into by a little girl and her friends. Want to bet they recognize Natalie when we show them her picture?’

      On the screen Sean lashed out, catching the pregnant woman on the side of the head, sending her crashing to the ground. She didn’t let go, so he put the boot in. And that was when Jerry Cochrane ran into shot. At the sides of the picture shoppers stopped to stare as the old man hauled Sean off the woman. Holding him by the scruff of the neck, shouting. Sean hit him. And the old man hit him back, smack: right across the nose. And that’s when it happened – the flash of a knife blade, and a startled expression on Jerry Cochrane’s face. He sat down hard, letting go of Sean. The eight-year-old started laying into the old man with fists and feet, while a gathering crowd of shoppers looked on in shock. And then all the kids were at it, punching and kicking. Steel hit pause, so they could all see Natalie Lenox kicking Jerry Cochrane in the head.

      ‘So,’ said Steel, ‘still think she had nothing to do with it?’

      Mr Lenox, went very pale. ‘I …’

      Steel switched the TV off. ‘I want to know where Sean Morrison is. And I want to know now.’

      The little girl just scowled at them.

      Her father swallowed hard. Then skelped her over the back of the head. ‘Tell them!’

      Nothing.

      ‘Put it this way,’ said the inspector, ‘you’re probably looking at a spell in a young offenders’ institution. Locked up with all the other nasty little boys and girls. No mummy and daddy to look after you and buy you nice things.’

      ‘They … they can’t send her to prison! She’s only eight!’

      Logan shrugged. ‘That’s the legal age of criminal responsibility in Scotland, Mr Lenox. Vicious attack like that, a man dead. She’s likely to get four, maybe five years. She’ll be a teenager by the time she gets out. You’d be surprised how much they can change.’