Broken Skin. Stuart MacBride

      ‘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 fiancée 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