Broken Skin

24

First thing Tuesday morning and Logan was in DI Insch’s office, listening to the big man grumble about not getting enough resources to make a murder case against Frank Garvie. They still hadn’t found anywhere he could have taken Jason Fettes to kill him: he didn’t own or rent any other property; wasn’t looking after anywhere for an ageing relative, or a work colleague; and the B amp;B idea was a complete dead end. So all they had was the large black dildo found in Garvie’s closet. Yes it was clarted with DNA, but none of it belonged to Jason Fettes.

The inspector scowled and tore open another family-value-sized bag of jelly babies. ‘The PF’s not happy,’ he said, ripping the head off a little pink infant, ‘says we’re not going to get a conviction without forensic evidence …’ A handful of tiny figures disappeared into Insch’s mouth, to be chewed unhappily. ‘And I’ve got this bloody stupid terrorism thing today. Like I don’t have enough to deal with!’ He dragged a copy of that morning’s ScottishSun from his in-tray and slapped it on the tabletop. MACINTYRE SAYS, ‘I’LL SUE!’, above a photo of the ugly footballer and his well-dressed lawyer, Sandy Moir-Farquharson. COPS CATCH KILLER KID was relegated to a tiny sidebar. ‘Bad enough we get slapped with an injunction for harassing him, but now the raping wee bastard thinks he’s got a case for libel and slander!’ Little flecks of spit sparked in the overhead lights. He ground his teeth, turning a delicate shade of angry scarlet, then stared over Logan’s shoulder at the big framed Mikado poster. Fuming. ‘What about his alibi for Friday night?’

‘I got Rickards to check it out: Macintyre and his fiancee left the pub at nine, went to the takeaway, picked up a chicken chow mein, beef in black bean sauce-’

‘I didn’t ask for the bloody menu!’

‘Sorry, sir. They left the carryout at half nine.’

Insch gave him a grim smile. ‘Nikki Bruce was attacked between midnight and quarter past — plenty of time for the wee shite to get down the road to Dundee and catch her coming out of the nightclub.’

‘Only his fiancee swears he was with her all night. And we’ve got nothing that proves otherwise, so-’

The inspector’s smile vanished. ‘Exactly whose side are you on, Sergeant?’

Logan didn’t answer that and Insch scowled at him, letting an uncomfortable silence grow, before grabbing the Fettes case file off his desk and tossing it across the Formica. ‘I want you to go through everything we seized from Garvie’s flat — find me a connection.’

Rickards was waiting for him in their tiny, makeshift incident room when Logan lurched in, carrying a huge box from the evidence locker. The constable helped him get it up on the desk, eyeing the contents suspiciously. Everything was covered in a patina of black and white fingerprint powder, sealed away in individual evidence bags. Logan pointed at the open box. ‘Need to go through this lot for DI Insch. And before you say anything: I know, OK?’

‘Oh God …’ Rickards pulled out a stack of DVDs with titles like Deutsche Mannliebe and Knechtschaftgummijungen with a lot of half-naked men on them. Some of whom were wearing lederhosen. ‘We’ve not got to watch this lot, have we?’

Logan patted him on the shoulder. ‘Not we, you. I’ve got to go chase up the IB about those servers.’

‘Give us a chance!’ said the middle-aged man in the SKATE OR DIE T-shirt, his desk littered with laptops, mice and scribbled-on Post-it notes. ‘We’re still going through that stuff from the brothel raid. No way we’ll get anywhere near your stuff for at least a week.’

Logan didn’t like the sound of that. ‘What about Dundee — thought they were supposed to be the computer experts.’

That got a shrug. ‘Big fraud case — ETSA four weeks minimum.’

‘ETSA?’

‘Estimated Time Sodding About.’ He picked up an old Biro from his pigsty desk and stuck it in his gob, sooking distractedly. A placebo cigarette.

‘Insch will throw a wobbler if we don’t get this done soon as.’

Skate Or Die swore. ‘Marvellous. Finnie in one ear, Insch in the other. What a bastarding week …’

‘Could you not just take a quick peek?’

‘No! Finnie’s on my neck as it is.’ He pulled the pen from his mouth, automatically flicking nonexistent ash on the floor. ‘Well, maybe … Look, I’ll see what I can do, OK? No promises.’

It was better than nothing.

Nine am and Logan decided it was about time Rickards had a break. He dragged the constable up to the canteen and bought him a cup of tea and a rowie with jam. Both disappeared in record time. ‘You got many more to go?’ asked Logan as Rickards wiped his greasy hands on a paper napkin.

‘Six.’ He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Highspeed, hardcore, German gay porn is even less fun than it sounds …’

‘Talking about your personal life again?’ It was DC Rennie, with a croissant and a cup of fancy coffee. He sat down with a grin. ‘Tell you, I was this close-’

‘I’m not gay!’ Rickards jumped to his feet. ‘Fucking hell, what’s wrong with you bastards? You know what? I have more sex in a month than you get all year!’ He leant over the table to poke Rennie in the shoulder, as the whole canteen went quiet. ‘With women! It’s BDSM, OK? Just because you don’t fucking understand it, doesn’t make it gay!’ And then he stormed off.

Rennie sat there with his mouth hanging open, and slowly conversations started back up again. ‘I was only kidding.’

‘Yeah, well … He’s a bit touchy.’

‘You think?’ Rennie ripped a bite out of his croissant and washed it down with a mouthful of coffee. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. Just taking the piss.’ He stared at the empty doorway. ‘Is he really into all that leather and spanking?’ Rennie grinned. ‘He’s probably on the phone right now to his mates in the bondage mafia. I’ll wake up tomorrow morning and there’ll be a horse’s head in a gimp mask lying on top of the duvet.’

‘Think you might have overreacted a bit there?’ asked Logan back in their grubby little incident room, sitting a fresh mug of tea down in front of Rickards and his protruding bottom lip.

The constable scowled up at him. ‘Did you tell them? I trusted you and-’

‘Of course I didn’t! Rennie was just pulling your leg. No one knew. Well, not till you shouted it all over the canteen …’

Rickards opened his mouth to say something and froze, realization dawning in his horrified eyes. ‘Oh fuck.’ He buried his head in his hands.

‘Congratulations.’ Logan patted him on the back. ‘You’ve just come out of the bondage closet.’

It was nearly lunchtime before they got to the bottom of Frank Garvie’s porn stash, and by then Rickards was beginning to come to terms with his outing. The DVDs were all what they claimed to be, the videos homemade — Garvie in his dark red rubber romper suit, sometimes with friends, but mostly alone. The only things Rickards hadn’t tried were the two canisters of old seventeen-millimetre film. Logan cracked open The Butler’s Revenge and examined the case. According to the Identification Bureau’s audiovisual team it was probably Victorian and there was nothing in the station that could handle film stock that old. Not that it mattered: anything illegal in there would be well past its sell-by-date. There was nothing here to tie Frank Garvie to the corpse of Jason Fettes.

Rickards picked up one of the ancient film canisters. ‘Er … sir,’ he said, turning it over and reading the title, Festive Frolics, ‘I think these are stolen …’ He dumped it on the desk, then went squirrelling in a stack of paperwork on the floor by the radiator, coming up with a handful of forms, mumbling to himself as he flicked through the pages. ‘Here: three canisters of vintage Victorian erotic films stolen from ClarkRig Training Systems. Knew I recognized them.’ He smiled, proud of himself. ‘Told you I’d been reading the reports.’

Logan checked the list of stolen property — Rickards was right. Zander Clark, Aberdeen’s premier pornographer, had reported the films missing in amongst a host of other antique sex toys and outfits, with a few computers, mobile phones and digital video cameras thrown in for good measure. A slow smile spread across Logan’s face.

He dialled DI Insch’s number, but it went straight through to voicemail, so he tried Steel instead. Voicemail again. One more go — the Control Room, where a woman with an almost impenetrable Banff accent told him that both inspectors were in the Terror Readiness Review and wouldn’t be gettin’ oot till aifter six. Logan hung up, tapping the phone against his chin. ‘I think,’ he said at last, ‘that you and I should go pay Mr Frank Garvie a visit. See if he can explain why he’s got stolen Victorian pornography hidden in his sock drawer.’

But first they were going to take a wee detour and test out a theory.

Zander with a Z was in the editing suite, a huge insulated mug of coffee sitting alongside a plate of stovies, dark disks of pickled beetroot leaching purple into the potato. People in hard hats lurched back and forwards on the screen in front of him as the director fiddled with the console. He didn’t even look up as Logan and Rickards entered. ‘With you in a minute … this is an important scene …’

‘When do the naked Viking women arrive?’

The large man punched a button and the people froze in place. ‘They don’t,’ he said, winding it back and pressing play, staring intently at the finished product. ‘Perfect!’ He rewarded himself with a massive forkful of stovies, chewing as he spoke. ‘This is Safety First! A guide to container management. Lot of people don’t bother with plot and narrative when they do this kind of stuff, it’s just one stupid scene after another. “Don’t do this, don’t do that” … My safety films have theme and subtext. That’s why they win awards.’

‘Yes …’ Logan pulled one of the ancient film canisters out of Rickards’ hands. ‘We were wondering if you recognized this.’

Zander’s eye went wide. ‘The Butler’s Revenge! You caught the bastard!’ He reached forward and grabbed the other one from the constable. ‘And Festive Frolics!’ he stopped, looking slightly puzzled. ‘What happened to Kitty-Cat Katy and all the other stuff?’

‘Kitty-Cat …?’

‘Katy. It’s a woman who comes on dressed as a cat and licks herself. One of those old Victorian circus acts. Contortionist pornography from eighteen ninety-eight. Very, very rare.’ He held the films against his chest, cuddling them. ‘You do have them, don’t you? The rest of the stuff that was stolen?’

‘We’re currently pursuing several lines of enquiry.’ Which usually meant, ‘we don’t have a sodding clue’ so it was nice to able to use it legitimately for a change. ‘We’ll need to hold on to them for a while as evidence,’ he said and Zander’s face fell. ‘But you’ll get them back.’

The director nodded. ‘At least you’ve found them … Tell you what,’ he bustled out into the reception, coming back with a couple of DVD cases, ‘I felt kinda guilty you didn’t get one last time. Here: best thing I ever did.’ He gave Rickards his own copy too: Crocodildo Dundee.

Logan turned the thing over in his hands, and there on the cover — hamming it up behind the heroine’s long, bronzed legs — was Jason Fettes, dressed like a gangster. Which was the real reason for their visit. ‘You never asked us what he’d done.’

‘Who?’ Zander’s smile slipped an inch.

‘Jason Fettes, AKA Dick Longlay, you never asked what he’d done.’

‘No?’

‘You knew, didn’t you?’ Logan stuck the DVD in the deep pocket of his overcoat and settled back against the mixing desk, arms crossed, giving him DI Insch’s patented silent technique.

‘I … well … it all depends what you mean by “knew” … I mean.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Look, I knew Jason was into other stuff. That’s all! I didn’t know he was dead or anything. I get a bit obsessive when I’m working on a film.’

‘Other stuff like BDSM?’

A blush rushed up Zander’s cheeks. ‘He was … renting himself. For sex.’

‘Was he now?’

Another jiggly nod. ‘He was so desperate to get out to Hollywood and try being a proper actor. Had this screenplay he was working on … You’d be surprised how many people want to sleep with a genuine porn star, even in Aberdeen.’ An uncomfortable pause. ‘We used to get emails through the Crocodildo website.’

Logan stayed silent, watching as Zander Clark, porn producer, started to sweat.

‘I … I wasn’t his pimp, if that’s what you’re thinking! I never had anything to do with that! We just treated everything as fan mail and forwarded it on. Really!’

‘And did you keep copies?’

‘No! Nothing. Deleted everything. It wasn’t anything to do with me, or the company. If Jason wanted to make a bit of money sleeping with deluded, middle-aged ladies that was his business …’ He started picking at the side of his thumb with the nail on his index finger. ‘Seriously, I don’t know anything else.’

‘I want the email address you forwarded them on to.’

‘Sure, sure, no problem, always happy to cooperate with the police.’ Going for jovial bonhomie and overshooting the mark by about a mile.

‘You see,’ said Logan as the fat man hurried off to get it for them, ‘sometimes even Miss Marple gets it right.’