Broken Skin

20

The Chief Constable’s office was full of unhappy faces — DI Insch and DI Steel sitting opposite one another in the visitors’ chairs while ‘God’ himself sat behind the desk, drumming his fingers lightly on the formal complaint lodged by the wee boy’s family. Count Nosferatu — AKA Inspector Napier, the ginger-haired, parrot-faced, miserable-bastard head of Professional Standards — lurked by the window, scowling at Logan as he went through the events leading up to the current fiasco. They’d kept him waiting outside for nearly an hour while they decided what they were going to do about him. Big Gary was here too, in his official capacity as Federation rep, which meant it was serious. They were probably going to fire him.

Logan could feel Napier’s hooded eyes boring into his back like a set of steak knives. The inspector had gone out of his way to make life difficult ever since the ‘Mastrick Monster’ case; screwing Logan over had become something of a pet project for him. He’d be loving this. Logan got to the part where the family started threatening lawsuits then finished. Now the only sound in the room was the radiator, pinging away to itself beneath the window, and then the CC said, ‘You really, genuinely believed he was Sean Morrison?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Maybe he’d be lucky and get off with a suspension?

‘And you used force because you thought the child was violent?’ The CC steepled his fingers. ‘An eight-year-old boy?’

‘Sir, last time we ran into him he stabbed a policewoman in the throat. And he’d just killed-’

‘And you let him get away.’ Napier — his voice like a sliver of ice. ‘If it weren’t for your … “condition” Constable Nairn wouldn’t have had to rescue you, would she, Sergeant?’ Logan didn’t answer that. The inspector sneered. ‘Surely even you should have been able to subdue an eight-year-old child!’

The CC held up a hand and Napier went quiet again. ‘You understand that we’re going to get hauled over the coals on this one, don’t you, Sergeant? Not only have Grampian Police failed to catch an eight-year-old murderer, we’re also going round assaulting children and their families at random.’

‘They attacked me! I was just-’

The Chief Constable kept on talking. ‘Do you have any idea how incompetent that makes us look, Sergeant?’

Logan had thought it was a rhetorical question, but the CC stared at him until he answered. ‘I thought it was Sean Morrison.’

A sigh. ‘And that’s the only reason we’re not suspending you. But for God’s sake — next time you get the notion to arrest a small child, try and pick the right one!’

If anyone asked, he’d say he was concentrating on the three million break-ins DI Steel had lumbered him with, but if he was being honest, Logan was hiding in the cramped little room he’d commandeered to watch Jason Fettes’ porn collection, having a bit of a sulk. The Force Medical Officer had given him a couple of cold packs for his bashed head, but they didn’t seem to be doing much good. He still ached.

Bloody parents: what the hell did they think they were doing, dressing their bloody kid up like Sean Morrison? It wasn’t as if the kid’s description wasn’t plastered all over the papers and television news…

He sat and stared at the laptops Rickards had purloined from the evidence store. Then started swearing. If anyone found out they’d been using the damn things to watch dirty DVDs he’d be right back up in front of Napier again and the pointy-faced bastard would get another shot at making life difficult. Logan was rummaging about under the desk, trying to untangle the wires and plugs, when the door battered open and a huge shadow loomed into the room. Insch.

‘What the hell are you doing down … never mind. Get your coat — the PF likes Garvie as a suspect. He and the victim knew each other, they’re both into bondage, they’ve had sex together — or whatever it is these freaks do — and Garvie’s impotent.’ Logan stuck his head out from beneath the desk, just in time to see a cola cube disappear into the inspector’s mouth. The huge man sooked thoughtfully. ‘That says sexually frustrated to me. Garvie gets himself one of those jumbo-sized strap-on things, ties Fettes up, and gets carried away. Suddenly there’s blood everywhere and a last-minute rush to the hospital.’

‘So we need to get a search warrant and-’

Insch held up two sheets of paper. ‘Signed and sealed. We’re just waiting for the IB to get their backsides in gear.’ He smiled, the buzzing strip-light flickering off his bald head. ‘What did I tell you: Steel couldn’t crack it in four weeks and I’ve done it in less than a day.’

Garvie’s flat was nothing special from the outside — two bedrooms on the second floor of a four-storey building in Danestone, a sprawl of boxy homes on the north bank of the River Don. Winding cul-de-sacs, yellow brick, and pantiles. Huge metal pylons marched through the middle of the place, like Martian tripods frozen on their way to war. Garvie’s building sat in the shadow of one, a faint electrical buzzing just audible through the open kitchen window. The flat was done up in classic geek chic: the lounge housed a complete collection of Star Trek, DS9, Voyager, Next Generation, Enterprise, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Stargate, Farscape, The Simpsons and a stack of Japanese Anime; PlayStation, Xbox and TiVo hooked into each other and a collection of fancy speakers; one wall dominated by a huge screen, the projector bolted to the roof above the door; and a single black leather couch. The spare bedroom was done out as a study with a collection of computers and stacks of books and comics. The latter all sealed away in individual plastic sheaths, as if Garvie was afraid they’d catch something.

The bondage gear was in the master bedroom, taking up one side of the built-in wardrobe, the custom-made dark red rubber suit hanging next to a variety of leather harnesses, straps, paddles and flogging whips. ‘Houston, we have lift off …’ said one of the IB technicians, emerging from the bottom of the wardrobe with a large black phallus. It was at least a foot and a half long, standing out in sharp contrast to its finder’s white paper over suit. It went in a large evidence bag. Next out was a familiar pink mushroom shape.

Insch got as far as, ‘What the-’ before Logan jumped in with ‘Butt plug.’ The inspector stared at him.

‘I … er … DI Steel told me about them when we found one in Fettes’s bedroom.’ Feeling a blush rising up his cheeks, suddenly uncomfortably hot in his SOC outfit.

Garvie’s porn collection was alphabetically ordered in a small bookcase next to the bed — a handful of his own films, and a collection of American and Dutch hardcore gay porn. Hidden away at the back of the sock drawer was a collection of unlabelled video tapes and two ancient seventeen-millimetre film canisters. One marked THE BUTLER’S REVENGE, the other FESTIVE FROLICS in faded brown script.

‘You know,’ said Logan as they were bagged up, ‘somehow I don’t see Garvie being the old-fashioned projector type …’ And he was right — they searched the whole place from top to bottom but there was no sign of any device that would play anything that old. ‘He’s got something dodgy in there.’ Logan asked the IB guys to take the canisters out and open them, expecting a nice juicy haul of drugs. Disappointed when they turned out to contain exactly what it said on the tin — old rolls of brittle, black and white film.

‘Never mind,’ said Insch, as they were sealed back up again and returned to their bags, ‘I’m sure you’ll get something right soon. Law of averages.’ Then he clomped off to stand on the doorstep and eat Chewits, leaving Logan to keep an eye on the IB team as they started sampling the bedclothes and carpet for blood and semen stains.

An hour later and they were back in the car, watching the last of the evidence bags being loaded into the back of the IB’s filthy-white Transit van. ‘This makes no sense,’ said Insch, as Logan started the car, ‘there should be blood everywhere. Even if Garvie’s got kinky rubber sheets, there’d be a trail between the bedroom and the front door …’ He stared off into the middle distance for a bit. ‘Check all the hotels and B amp;Bs — see if anywhere rents rooms by the hour to the bondage crowd. Flash Fettes and Garvie’s photos about: I want to know if anyone put them up that night. And get a door-to-door done here too. Was Fettes a regular visitor?’ The inspector went rummaging in the glove compartment again, coming up empty. ‘Sod it. Well, come on, Sergeant, back to HQ, we haven’t got all bloody day.’