Broken Skin. Stuart MacBride

peered in through the front window – a pristine living room with tasteful furnishings and paintings on the wall – then walked round the house. The back yard was a morass of mud flecked with grass seed, a solitary whirly standing in the middle like a marooned antenna, the yellow plastic cable sagging and empty. There was nothing in the garage either, just a dark black splot of leaked motor oil.

      Rickards walked back to the unfinished road, staring up at the house’s empty windows. ‘What do you think?’

      ‘Much the same as every other sighting we’ve had today – bloody useless.’ Logan climbed back into the car and checked the time. ‘Jesus, it’s twenty to twelve! Come on, we’d better get a shift on: Steel will kill us if we’re late.’

       6

      They made it back to the station by the skin of their teeth. The room was already filling up: television cameras, journalists, and photographers staking out their territory among the rows of folding chairs, all eyes focused on the raised stage and table at the front. ‘Thought you was never going to turn up!’

      Logan turned to find DI Steel standing directly behind him, fiddling with a packet of cigarettes, turning them round and round in her hands, like nicotine prayer beads. ‘You get anything from those addresses?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘Bugger.’ The cigarette packet got a few more twists.

      ‘Problem?’

      Steel shrugged, looked over her shoulder, then back at the gathering mass of reporters. ‘Just could do with a swift result on this one. We’re keeping a lid on the cause of death, but you know what this place is like: sooner or later, someone’s going to say something stupid.’ She paused and sneaked a glance at Logan. ‘Course, you know all about that.’

      ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

      ‘Nothing, nothing.’ She backed off, grinning. ‘Who cares what the Daily Mail says anyway? Shite, there’s the ACC …’ Logan watched her go, wondering what on earth she was talking about.

      The briefing started at twelve o’clock prompt, and as the ACC launched into his ‘thank you all for coming’ speech, Logan let his attention wander. He wouldn’t be needed until they threw the thing open to questions and probably not even then. So instead he scanned the assembled journalistic horde, looking to see if he recognized anyone. Colin Miller was sitting in the third row, face like a wet fart, mumbling into a small digital recorder. Probably getting ready to give Grampian Police another kicking in tomorrow’s P&J. There were a couple of others Logan knew from previous conferences, and some he recognized from the telly, but his eyes kept going back to Miller, his surly expression, and his black leather gloves. Not exactly playing the happy expectant father. The reporter looked up from his Dictaphone and saw Logan watching him. He scowled back, obviously still blaming Logan for the loss of his fingers, as if he’d been the one wielding the poultry shears …

      The ACC threw the conference open to questions and the moment was gone.

      As soon as they were finished, Logan hurried down to the incident room. Steel was the second person to make cryptic comments about the Daily Mail and Logan wanted to know why. The copy Eric had thrown at him was still sitting where he’d left it, so Logan skimmed quickly through the paper, looking for DS LOGAN McRAE SCREWS UP AGAIN! but not finding it. What he did find was a centre-page spread titled, POLICE HOUND ABERDEEN STRIKER! with a big photo of Rob Macintyre’s ugly face and an article charting his meteoric rise to fame; describing Grampian Police’s investigation as part of ‘an ongoing campaign to cripple Aberdeen Football Club’s only chance of winning the Scottish Premier League’.

      ‘Macintyre (21)’, the paper said, ‘was an obvious target for desperate women: young, successful, wealthy, and going all the way to the top!’ But that wasn’t the bit DI Steel and Sergeant Eric Mitchell had been dropping hints about.

      It was a pull-out quote, big white letters on a bright red background: OF COURSE HE’S B****Y GUILTY – THE LITTLE S*** ATTACKED ME! attributed to PC Jackie Watson (28) with a couple more choice sentences further on in the article about how ‘little b******s like him should be banged up for life’. Logan groaned. No wonder Eric said Jackie should call in sick – she was in for one hell of a bollocking when she reported for duty. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. Which would be in about fifteen minutes. ‘Crap!’

      He dialled the flat, hoping to God she hadn’t left for work yet. She hadn’t.

      Jackie picked up the phone with an angry, ‘What?’

      Too late. ‘You’ve seen the paper then?’

       ‘I’ve seen the lounge! We’re living in a bombsite!’

      ‘Oh God … Look, do you remember talking to a journalist?’

       ‘What? I’ve got to get ready for—’

      ‘It’s in the Daily Mail: “Of course he’s bloody guilty – the little shite attacked me”. Sound familiar?’

      There was a moment’s silence from the other end of the phone and then the swearing started. Lots and lots of swearing. ‘Bastard never said he was a journalist!’

      ‘Who?’

       ‘That greasy little fuck in the pub last night – remember? I told you he bought me a drink, was all “oh, I saw you on the telly”, and “what a great job you policewomen do” and “can I have your phone number?” Bastard!’

      ‘You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?’

       ‘Count Bloody Dracula.’

      ‘Eric thinks you should call in sick.’

      Jackie laughed. Short and hollow. ‘Fat lot of good putting it off will do …’

      ‘No, I suppose not.’

      ‘So what we got?’ DI Steel loomed over Logan’s shoulder, peering down at the report in his hands, her breath reeking of stale cigarettes and extra-strong mints.

      Logan sighed and started ticking things off on his fingers: ‘Sixty callers say they know who our victim is, but none of them agree. We’ve got seven teams of two going through them. As for the suspect, there’s five men on the sex offenders’ list who look like the e-fit: two rapists, one paedophile, a flasher, and guy who sexually assaulted a priest.’

      ‘Yeah?’ Steel smiled, ‘Makes a change from them molesting choirboys I suppose.’

      ‘Don’t think any of them are likely though: flashers are all mouth and no trousers; the victim was too old to be of interest to a paedophile; both rapists only attacked women; and the priest fiddler’s just come out of Peterhead, so he’s under a supervisory order. According to his handlers he was locked up in his hostel when our guy was dumping his victim outside A&E.’

      She stared off into the middle distance for a bit, then said, ‘Better interview them all anyway. Even the priestophile. If nothing else it’ll look like we’re doing something.’ Steel lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘You heard from Watson yet?’

      ‘No.’ As soon as Jackie signed in she’d been escorted straight up to Professional Standards.

      ‘Shame you can’t get that Weegie journo of yours to cover for her.’ But the days of Colin Miller doing favours for Logan were long gone.

      ‘So, you want me to get those guys picked up?’

      Another thoughtful pause, then, ‘No. Let’s go see them. If I’m no’ in the office this mornin’ I can’t have my medical for that stupid “Fit Like” programme.’ She twirled her cigarettes in her hand. ‘Put it off for long enough and they might forget all about me.’

      It