Broken Skin. Stuart MacBride

the front door. Iain Watt was probably taller than he looked, standing hunched into himself, thinning brown hair, cardigan, overweight, mid thirties. The archetypal Mr Nobody, living in a big empty house on Don Street that overlooked the main route students took between the halls of residence and Aberdeen University. As Steel stood at the lounge window, a handful of young women sashayed past, laughing and joking, all long hair and unexplored curves. Logan could have sworn he heard her groan.

      ‘So, how’s it work?’ she asked, when the students finally disappeared round the corner, ‘you see them coming, nip out and flash them a glimpse of your “turgid member”? That it?’

      ‘I …’ Watt wouldn’t meet her eyes, just kept staring at the spotless sheepskin rug in the middle of the room, ‘I’ve had counselling … I’m on pills.’

      ‘Yeah? Can’t get it up any more, eh?’ She drew the curtains, plunging the room into darkness, leaving just a sliver of light that fell across Watt’s bald spot. ‘If I hear so much as a rumour about someone showing their willy off down here, you’re not going to need pills. I’m going to permanently fix you with the toe of my boot. Understand?’

      He blushed, head still down. ‘I haven’t … I haven’t felt the need. I had counselling.’

      ‘Yeah, you said.’ She stood in silence for a moment. ‘So why did you do it then?’

      Logan could see the beads of sweat starting to form on the man’s forehead. The silence drew out and the beads joined up, trickling down the side of Watt’s face. ‘I …’ He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

      ‘We know.’ The inspector’s voice was soft, almost sorrowful.

      ‘I …’ His eyes darted towards the door, then back to the sheepskin. ‘But, I …’

      ‘Come on, don’t make me do this the hard way.’

      He buried his head in his hands and started to cry. ‘I didn’t mean to!’

      Logan threw Steel a questioning look, but she just shrugged. Whatever the guy was confessing to was news to her. ‘Why don’t you tell us all about it, Iain?’ asked Logan, ‘You’ll feel better if you can tell someone.’

      Slowly, Watt stood, biting his bottom lip, tears and snot dribbling down his face, mixing with the sweat. His round shoulders shivered as he led them through into the kitchen, snivelling, ‘I didn’t mean to, I didn’t …’ over and over again. And Logan began to seriously worry about whatever it was Watt had done.

      The hunched man reached for a kitchen drawer, but Logan got there first, clamping his hand down over Watt’s. Just in case it was full of knives. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, keeping his voice low and calm, ‘why don’t you let me get that for you? You just stand back … Good.’ Logan pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and snapped them on, before easing the drawer open. Inside was a flash-light, a packet of AAA batteries and a pair of blood-soaked women’s underwear. The kind Laura Shand was supposed to have been wearing when Rob Macintyre raped her. The kind Macintyre was supposed to have taken as a trophy.

      DI Steel said what they both were thinking: ‘Oh fuck.’

       7

      The car park was in shadow, the February sun hidden behind the grey and black bulk of FHQ. Dark and cold. ‘This is going to be a nightmare,’ said Steel, when Logan came out to tell her Watt was processed and ready for interview. She sighed, letting loose a pall of cigarette smoke. ‘Tell you, Insch is going to blow a fucking gasket … Still,’ she straightened up and flicked the last inch of her fag under the Chief Constable’s BMW, ‘no’ really our problem right now.’ She sniffed thoughtfully, then told Logan to go dig up everything they had on Laura Shand: interview transcripts, medical reports, the lot. She wanted to read up on Watt’s victim before they interviewed him.

      Which was why Logan ended up outside DI Insch’s incident room. According to the records department, the inspector had the files signed out – working on the prosecution case and trying to pin everything on Rob Macintyre. Taking a deep breath, Logan marched in.

      It was one of the biggest incident rooms in the place, but it was virtually empty, just a couple of admin officers packing the remnants of Operation Sweetmeat away into brown cardboard filing boxes, clearing the place out for the next major enquiry. And there, perched on the edge of a groaning desk, was DI Insch. He was massive: a big fat man with a shiny bald head and hands the size of shovels, his suit stretched to bursting point. He looked like an angry pink caterpillar about to outgrow its skin, as he shovelled chocolate-covered raisins into his mouth.

      Logan cleared his throat and said, ‘Excuse me, sir, I need to borrow the Laura Shand file.’

      Insch stopped chewing and swung a baleful eye in Logan’s direction. ‘Oh aye?’ his voice a deep, bass growl, ‘Why?’

      Oh God, here we go …’ Er, we’ve arrested someone who claims to have attacked her.’ Logan added a ‘sir,’ for good measure.

      The inspector levered himself off the desk and scowled. ‘Don’t be stupid, Macintyre attacked her.’

      ‘Yes, well …’ Think fast! ‘This guy’s probably lying; we just need to make sure. You know, to prove he had nothing to do with it … which he can’t have if it was Macintyre …’ Starting to ramble. ‘So, if I could just have the file, sir, I’ll get out of your …’ DON’T SAY HAIR! ‘Way.’

      ‘Who is it?’

      Logan could feel his fixed grin starting to slip. ‘Iain Watt, he’s just a flasher. It’s probably nothing …’ He watched as DI Insch’s eyes contracted to little black coals in his angry, piggy face.

      ‘It better be.’ But he handed the file over anyway.

      Somehow Logan got the feeling it would be pushing his luck to ask if the inspector knew what Professional Standards had done to Jackie.

      Six thirty-eight and interview room number five smelt of fear and stale sweat. Iain Watt sat on the other side of the scarred table, his white SOC suit making scrunching noises every time he moved. He fidgeted and fiddled while he told Logan and DI Steel about his time in therapy and how Dr Goulding thought he’d been making excellent progress … Not looking at the clear plastic evidence pouch sitting on the table in front of him. The one with Laura Shand’s knickers in it: pink with grey pigs, stained with dark brown dried blood.

      ‘If you’re making such bloody good progress, how come you had these in your kitchen drawer?’ asked Steel, poking the evidence bag.

      ‘I …’ Watt hung his head. ‘I used to see her walking sometimes. In Seaton Park … I …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Can I have a glass of water?’

      ‘No. Now tell us about her.’

      Silence.

      Then, ‘I thought about it for ages …’

      More silence.

      ‘I’ll bet you bloody did.’

      ‘No! Dr Goulding’s been telling me how I have to make contact with women, try to forge a meaningful relationship. Change the way I think about them. Not just … you know …’ He took a deep shuddering breath. ‘I just wanted to say hello to her. That’s all. Just “hello”, maybe, “nice day, isn’t it?” and maybe she’d say hello back and it would be nice and we’d be having a conversation and it would be all right and …’ Watt’s eyes slid across the blood-spattered material. He licked his lips. ‘And I thought about it for weeks. How Dr Goulding said I had to make the first move. And I practised in front of the mirror and it was all perfect …’

      Another pause, broken only by the metallic whirr of the tapes going round in the recording unit – audio and video, immortalizing the moment for posterity. Logan leaned forward in his