Broken Skin. Stuart MacBride

looked up to see a thin man in a sergeant’s uniform and huge Wyatt Earp moustache. Sergeant Eric Mitchell, peering over the top of his glasses and grinning like an idiot. ‘Your “lady friend” about?’

      Logan frowned, suspicious. ‘Which one?’

      ‘Watson, you daft sod. Is she about?’

      ‘Back shift, won’t be in till two.’

      ‘Aye, well you might want to tell her to call in sick …’ he tossed a rolled-up copy of the Daily Mail onto Logan’s lap, winked, then sauntered off. Whistling happily to himself.

      But before Logan could ask what was going on, DI Steel plonked a pile of files on the table in front of him. ‘This bloody thing’s killing me,’ she said, fiddling with her bra strap. ‘Get a couple of uniforms to go through these, OK? See if we can’t find someone on the dodgy bastards list who matches that e-fit. Then you can go chase up that dental records lot.’ She gave up on the strap and started hauling at the underwire. ‘And while you’re at it—’

      ‘Actually,’ said Logan, cutting her off, ‘I thought I might go out and follow up a couple of those possible IDs for our victim. You know: show willing for the troops.’ Which had the added advantage of getting him away from the inspector before she could think up any more crappy jobs for him to do.

      Steel thought about it, head on one side, focusing on a spot between Logan’s ears, as if she was trying to read his brain. ‘OK,’ she said at last, ‘but you can take …’ she did a slow turn, pointing at a constable in the corner, scribbling something up on the incident board, ‘yeah, take Rickards with you. Do the poor wee sod good to see the outside world. Might stop the short-arsed bastard whining for a change. He’s—’

      ‘Inspector?’ It was the admin officer, waving some more paperwork at them.

      ‘Oh God,’ Steel groaned and then whispered to Logan, ‘cover for me, will you? I’m dying for a fag.’ She turned and told the admin officer she had an urgent meeting with the ACC to get to, but DS McRae would deal with whatever it was. Then made herself scarce.

      With a sigh, Logan accepted the sheets of paper.

      He signed for a CID pool car – one of the many scabrous Vauxhalls in the FHQ fleet – and made Constable Rickards drive, so he could slump in the passenger seat and doze. At least he was starting to feel a little better now. After the whisky they’d gone onto vodka, then some weird little bloke had tried to chat Jackie up, and they’d all had a good laugh at him, and then it was more beer, tequila, and then … it was kind of blurry until they were standing outside the kebab shop on Belmont Street. And when they finally got home, Jackie had fallen asleep in the toilet.

      Logan ran a hand over his face, stifling a yawn – he was getting too old for this …

      Yesterday’s rain had gone, leaving the city sparkling clean. Everything glowed in the light of an unseasonably warm February sun, glinting back from chips of mica trapped in the pale grey granite. Rickards drove them down Union Street, heading for a small semi-detached in Kincorth – a blob of houses on the south-side of the city – and an old woman who claimed to know the dead man from the papers.

      ‘So,’ said Logan, as the PC swung the car across the King George IV bridge, the water sparkling like sharpened diamonds on either side, ‘you were in on that big brothel raid in Kingswells last week?’

      Rickards mumbled something about a team effort.

      ‘Kinky dungeon, wasn’t it?’ said Logan, watching a pair of seagulls fighting over an abandoned crisp packet. ‘Whips and chains and nipple-clamps and all that?’

      ‘Ah … er … yes … it … erm …’ Rickards blushed, the twisted line of scar tissue that snaked up the middle of his top lip standing out white against red, as if someone had tried to give him a hair lip with a broken bottle. Logan smiled – it looked as if the constable wasn’t exactly a man of the world. He resisted the urge to take the piss, and went back to watching the world go by.

      The old lady’s house was three-quarters of the way down Abbotswell Crescent, with a view out across the dual carriageway, over the Craigshaw and Tullos industrial estates. Lovely. Especially with Torry in the background, the sunshine and blue skies fighting a losing battle to make it look attractive.

      Fifteen minutes, two cups of tea and some Penguin biscuits later, they were back in the car.

      ‘So much for that.’ Logan called DI Steel with the bad news, only to be given another two addresses: one in Mannofield, the other in Mastrick. Both of which were equally useless.

      Rickards squirmed in his seat, as if his underwear was trying to eat him. ‘So what now?’

      Logan checked his watch: coming up for eleven. ‘Back to the station. We can—’ His mobile phone went into its usual apoplexy of bleeps and whistles. ‘Hold on.’ He dragged it out. ‘Hello?’

      ‘Where the hell are you?’ DI Steel, sounding annoyed.

      ‘Mastrick. You sent us here, remember?’

       ‘Did I? Oh … Well … in that case, why haven’t you finished yet?’

      ‘We have. We’re just heading back now.’

       ‘Good – press conference is at twelve. We’re going to be on the lunchtime news. And when I say “we” I mean you too. Don’t be late. And you can check out another address on your way in – woman phoned to say the dead guy lives next door with his parents. And remember: if you’re no’ back here by twelve, I’ll kill you.’

      Logan took down the address and hung up with a groan. ‘Change of plan – we’ve got one more stop to make.’

      Blackburn was more like a building site than a dormitory town: sprawling developments of tiny detached houses crammed into minuscule plots of land, spilling away to the north and west, costing an arm and a leg, even though it meant living like a battery chicken. The address Steel had given them was for the second-last house in a half-completed cul-de-sac that didn’t even have a proper road yet, just a thin layer of rutted tarmac covered in drying mud and potholes, the rumble of earthmovers battling for supremacy against the screech of circular saws and the bang of nailguns. Everything was slowly disappearing beneath a pale cloud of cream-coloured dust.

      Number seven was a four-bedroom ‘executive villa’ built on a postage stamp. Logan got Rickards to ring the doorbell while he stared out over the rolling hills to the north. Wondering how long it would take the developers to carpet them in more houses.

      The door was answered by a flushed-looking woman in baggy T-shirt and jogging bottoms, balancing a small child on one hip. ‘Hello?’ Sounding slightly nervous.

      Logan went for a reassuring smile as the woman’s kid stared at him with open mouth and wide blue eyes. ‘Mrs …’ he checked his notes, ‘Brown? Hi. You phoned us this morning about this man?’ Logan held up the photo.

      She nodded. ‘I think so. He sort of looks like the guy next door’s son. Jason I think it is.’ The toddler wriggled and she shifted him, bringing him round till he was sitting in the crook of her arm, clutching her hair and peering out at the policemen on the doorstep. ‘He’s looking after the house while they’re on holiday.’

      ‘You’re sure it’s him?’ Logan handed her the picture and she bit her bottom lip.

      ‘I … It looks a lot like him …’ Nervous giggle. ‘I asked Paul and he said it might be …’

      ‘When did you last see Jason?’

      She shrugged. ‘It’s been kind of hectic. Couple of days?’

      ‘OK.’ Logan took the photo back and the child began to squeal. ‘What’s Jason’s last name?’ Having to speak up over the noise.

      ‘Sorry: we only moved in three weeks ago, everything’s still in boxes.’ She bounced