Broken Skin. Stuart MacBride

from public-spirited idiots claiming to have seen a blue Volvo estate, others who said they knew who the man in the e-fit was, some with alternative IDs for Jason Fettes, and a couple who actually claimed to have seen him shopping in Boots that morning. Even though he was still lying in a refrigerated drawer down in the morgue.

      Logan sat with the admin officer, a skeletally thin woman in her mid-forties, going through the reams of actions churned out by the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, and assigning them to the available officers. After that he went through the progress reports. And then, with nothing else needing his attention, wandered off to the archives to see how Jackie was getting on. Only she wasn’t there.

      Up at the reception desk, Big Gary looked at him as if he’d been dropped on his head as a child. ‘She’s in court, you idiot – they’ve got that special hearing thing for Macintyre.’

      ‘Sodding hell.’ He’d forgotten all about it.

      ‘If you hurry, you can still go cheer on your beloved.’ Gary dunked a KitKat in his huge mug of tea, then sooked off the melted chocolate. ‘Eric says she’s next up.’

      Court One was a lot busier than normal – the public galleries crammed with people here to see Sandy Moir-Farquharson trying to get Rob Macintyre off with rape. The place always made Logan think of a converted cinema: magnolia walls, balcony and stalls, the screen replaced by a tall wooden platform topped with pillars and a portico, and above all that the royal coat of arms keeping watch over the proceedings. Even if it was covered with elastic bands, presumably pinged up from the floor below when the court was empty and no one was watching. An oval podium sat in front of the bench, the court clerk and his assistant on one side facing the unwashed masses, the prosecution and defence on the other – looking up at the Sheriff in his robes and silk drop.

      Normally all this would have been done in a little room round the back, behind closed doors, but the defence had requested a hearing in open court and to everyone’s surprise Sheriff McRitchie had agreed. According to station gossip it had something to do with his being a lifelong Dons fan in search of an extra season ticket.

      Hissing Sid was in full flow as Logan sneaked in the back doors and found a seat at the end of a row, right behind DC Rennie. The constable was wearing his ‘court appearance’ suit – the one that always made him look like the accused, rather than a police witness.

      Logan inched forward and whispered in Rennie’s ear: ‘How’s it going?’

      The constable turned and gave him a pained look. ‘Not good. I thought Insch was going to tear Hissing Sid a new one when he started banging on about police bias and harassment.’

      Logan pointed at the dock where Jackie glowered down at Sandy the Snake as he postured and played to the court. ‘How’s she doing?’

      ‘Well … she’s not hit anyone yet.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘So, you see, Milord,’ said the lawyer with a flourish, ‘every time Grampian Police have investigated my client they have been forced to drop the charges, because the malicious claims of these women have been proven groundless. My client is an irritation to Inspector Insch and his ilk: an innocent man they can’t “fit up” with—’

      The prosecution was on her feet like a shot. ‘Milord – I must object!’

      Sandy didn’t even wait for the Sheriff to rule on it, just smiled his oily smile and apologized. ‘I merely meant that while we all have our crosses to bear, Grampian Police seem to have their axe to grind …’

      Logan scanned the court. It didn’t take long to make out the huge, angry figure of DI Insch, looking as if his head was about to explode. He was going to be a nightmare to deal with after this. Rachael Tulloch – the deputy fiscal left in charge while the PF was off sunning herself on a beach in the Seychelles – wasn’t looking any happier, sitting at the central desk next to the prosecution scribbling furiously while Moir-Farquharson put on his one-man show.

      The lawyer held up a clear plastic evidence pouch so everyone could see the contents. ‘Can you identify this item, Constable Watson?’

      Jackie nodded. ‘It’s the knife Macintyre attacked me with.’

      The lawyer smiled. ‘That would be for a jury to decide, Constable. You say he attacked you with this knife, but your labs couldn’t find a single fingerprint from my client on it. Could they?’

      ‘He was wearing gloves.’

      ‘So you have no proof at all that this knife belongs to my client, or that he’d ever used it?’

      ‘He attacked—’

      ‘Please answer the question, Constable.”

      ‘We … we have no empiric evidence, but—’

      ‘You have no evidence.’ He turned and faced the Sheriff, smiling up at the man. ‘They have no evidence, Milord. My client was out jogging in preparation for tomorrow’s match against Falkirk and stopped this woman to ask for directions. She attacked him.’

      ‘That’s a load of—’

      ‘Constable!’ Sheriff McRitchie waggled his gavel at her. ‘I will not warn you again!’

      Jackie shut her mouth and seethed.

      ‘Thank you, Milord. You assaulted Mr Macintyre, didn’t you, Constable Watson? Even after you had nearly crippled him, cracked two of his teeth, and had him handcuffed on the ground – you assaulted him!’

      ‘Boll …’ she stopped herself. ‘I restrained him: that was all!’

      ‘You kicked him in the ribs, it’s in the photographs!’ Hissing Sid held the glossy eight-by-tens up as proof.

      ‘He fell. Ask DC Rennie.’

      ‘You’ve been warned for excessive force before, haven’t you, Constable?’ And that was how it went for the next five minutes: he attacked Jackie’s credibility as a witness, made her out to be little more than a thug with a warrant card. She looked ready to throttle him by the time he was finished.

      ‘Milord,’ he performed a slow pirouette, and pointed at the footballer, sitting all prim and proper like a good boy, holding his mum’s hand, ‘Robert Macintyre is an upstanding member of this community, a hero to many, an inspirational figure to children everywhere, a man who works tirelessly for local charities. We all heard Constable Watson admit that there is no evidence against my client. I’ve shown that the identifications obtained from these so-called “victims” are flawed to say the least. Let’s not forget that Grampian Police were adamant that Laura Shand was attacked by Robert Macintyre, yet now we find that someone else has confessed to that crime. And most important of all: my client has an alibi for each and every night these rapes are supposed to have taken place. Milord, given all these facts, I have to ask why this frivolous and malicious case is being pursued. Surely it behoves the Procurator Fiscal’s office to cease these proceedings before they waste even more of the taxpayers’ money.’

      The Sheriff pursed his lips, cogitated for a moment, then asked the Deputy PF if she had anything to add at this point. Rachael Tulloch didn’t look happy as she stood to say she’d have to consult with her superiors. She’d pulled her long, frizzy, not-quite-red hair back in a severe ponytail and it was beginning to unravel along with her case.

      There was an exasperated sigh, then the Sheriff called for a half-hour recess.

      Jackie marched down from the stand, glaring at Hissing Sid the whole time. The lawyer just turned his back on her and shook the hand of his smiling client. ‘Can you believe this shite?’ she demanded, back at the prosecution bench. ‘Where the hell did Macintyre get an alibi from?’

      ‘His bloody fiancée,’ said the Deputy PF, groaning. ‘She now swears blind he was with her every night. Why does stuff like this always have to happen when the PF’s away?’

      Jackie stared at the footballer