Broken Skin. Stuart MacBride

      ‘Tomorrow.’ Jackie slammed another box down on the concrete floor. ‘Unbe-fucking-lievable isn’t it? Things you can get away with if you’re famous.’ She yanked the lid off and dropped it at her feet. ‘I tell you, if that slimy lawyer bastard gets Macintyre off I’m going to make his life a living hell. Him and Macintyre both.’

      Logan believed her. ‘You want to go get something to eat tonight? We could try that tapas bar on Union Street? Get a bit squiffy? Go home and fool around?’

      ‘“Squiffy”? What the hell is this, Five Go Mad in Mastrick? I don’t get “squiffy”; I get paralytic, shit-faced, drunk. Maybe tipsy at a push.’ She grinned at him. ‘But the rest of it sounds fine.’

      Only Logan never got that far.

      Half past seven and the rain was coming down like icy nails, bouncing off the rutted car park floor, misting in the headlights as Logan pulled up and killed the engine. The sun had set long ago, leaving behind a cold, bleak night; Brimmond Hill was a dark mass looming above them, only the winking red lights on the transmitter at the summit giving any indication of where the top was. And even then it was lost in the downpour most of the time. Alpha Two Zero was parked at the far end, blue and white lights rotating lazily, made fuzzy by the rain.

      DI Steel sat in the passenger seat, listening to it drumming on the car roof. ‘Buggering arse-monkeys. We’re going to get soaked …’ She pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes, automatically offering one to Logan, before remembering he didn’t any more and lighting one up herself. She pointed her lighter at the burnt-out hulk sitting between the two cars. ‘They sure it’s his?’

      Logan nodded, coughed, then rolled down his window, letting the smoke out. The steady hiss and clacker of rain hitting the gorse bushes, heather and potholes oozed in. ‘The silly sods found the thing on Tuesday, didn’t put two and two together because it wasn’t blue.’ Which was fair enough, the burnt-out hulk was an off-grey-brown colour, mottled with black. ‘They only ran the chassis number this afternoon so they could issue a fixed-penalty notice to the owner for dumping it here. Someone recognized Fettes’s name.’

      Steel swore. ‘We could have had an ID two bloody days ago!’

      Logan just shrugged.

      Someone clambered out of the patrol car opposite, turning up his collar and hurrying towards them, the rain drumming on his peaked cap as a dirty, battered-looking white Transit van bumped its way into the car park. The constable bent down and stuck his head through Logan’s open window. ‘You want us to cordon off the scene before the IB get started?’ he asked, dripping.

      Steel squinted at him through the smoke. ‘No bloody point now, is there? Everything’ll be washed away! Why the hell didn’t you call it in when you found the sodding thing?’

      The constable shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me: I was off sick!’

      ‘Fine, yes, go. Cordon to your heart’s content.’ She scowled as he scurried off. ‘Fat lot of bloody good this’ll do us: damn thing looks like a charcoal briquette. You imagine any forensic evidence lasting through that, and all this?’ indicating the torrential rain.

      ‘Not really, no. But at least now we know that whoever did it is local.’

      Steel nearly choked on her fag. ‘Come on then, Miss Marple, astound me.’

      ‘They spotted the Volvo on Tuesday night, yes? That means it was dumped and burned on Monday night/early Tuesday morning. Whoever did it was able to get home from here without a car.’

      Grudgingly, Steel admitted he had a point – Brimmond Hill wasn’t exactly the middle of nowhere, but it was close – anyone setting fire to the car they drove up here would be facing a long, slow trek into town. ‘Kingswells?’ It was on the other side of the hill.

      ‘Maybe, but you’d break your neck in the dark if you didn’t know where you were going.’

      ‘Aye, well,’ she said, as three IB technicians swore their way out of the dirty white van and started fighting with the blue plastic scene-of-crime tent, trying to get it up over the scorched wreck, ‘there’s no need to look so damn pleased with yourself – it doesn’t get us any closer to catching him, does it?’ She rolled down her window and pinged the last tiny nub of her cigarette out into the rain. ‘Beginning to wonder if this whole case isn’t a waste of time. Isn’t like Fettes was battered to death, is it? He was into kinky sex. It went wrong. He died.’ She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose, and sighed. ‘The poor sod on the other end didn’t do it on purpose, did they? Can you imagine having to live with that on your conscience?’

      There was silence as they watched the IB getting drenched trying to protect trace evidence that probably wasn’t there any more.

      ‘This is such a bloody waste of time,’ said Steel at last. ‘Come on, let’s get the hell out of here. If they find anything they’ll call us.’

      They didn’t.

       11

      Quarter to nine in the morning was far too early to be hanging about outside a licensed sex shop on Crown Street, waiting for it to open. But Logan didn’t have any choice – this was where DI Steel wanted to be. She was sitting in the passenger seat, munching her way through a packet of Bacon Frazzles, a tin of Irn-Bru sitting on the dashboard in front of her. A thin drizzle misted the windscreen, slowly turning the granite tenements a darker grey to match the sky. Logan yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, then settled down into his seat, wondering if it’d be OK to have a quick nap. Steel poked him in the shoulder. ‘Heads up,’ she said, pointing through the windscreen at a small bald man with glasses, all bundled up against the cold, carrying a big bunch of keys.

      The shop was discreet, just a frosted window with the words SECRET TIMES etched on it in powder pink. The little bald bloke hunted through his keys, then squatted down and took the padlock off the roller grille covering the entrance. They waited until he’d unlocked the front door before climbing out of the car and into the cold drizzle.

      Inside, Secret Times was lined with videos, DVDs and moulded latex. Mr Bald was in the process of peeling off his coat. ‘We’re no’ open till ten,’ he said, without a smile.

      ‘Now is that any way to greet a valued customer, Frank?’

      ‘Eh?’ The man took off his rain-misted glasses, polishing them on the corner of his cardigan, before putting them back on again. ‘Inspector Steel! How nice t’see you again.’ This time he did smile, showing off a huge number of perfect white teeth, as if they’d come out of a packet. He cast a quick look at Logan, then back to Steel, lowering his voice to a stage whisper: ‘I’ve no’ got that thing in for you yet. They say it’s still out of stock.’

      Steel shook her head. ‘I’m no’ here about that, Frank. I need to know if you’ve seen this bloke.’ She waited for Logan to pull out a copy of the e-fit picture – baseball cap, round face, glasses, huge moustache, goatee beard.

      The bald man took the picture and frowned at it. ‘Fit’s he done?’

      ‘None of your business. Recognize him? He’ll be one of the BDSM crowd.’

      Frank peered some more then handed it back. ‘Nope. But we get a few of them in here; you want I should ask around?’

      ‘Couldn’t hurt.’ She turned to leave then froze on the doorstep, turning back. ‘And try lighting a fire under your supplier, eh? I’m in my sexual prime here, no point wasting it, is there?’

      They tried the other licensed sex shops in Aberdeen, then had to make a last-minute dash back to FHQ for a meeting Steel had forgotten about with the Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of CID. ‘If anyone asks,’ she said, jumping out of the car, ‘we were detained questioning a suspect, OK?’ And then she was gone, scurrying into the building,