Broken Skin

53

Logan sat in the inspector’s spare chair fidgeting, distracted, wondering what the hell he’d just agreed to do at seven tonight with the Deputy Procurator Fiscal. Steel’s news was … mixed. DI Insch might be a huge pain in the neck right now, but you couldn’t deny that he put a lot of people behind bars.

‘Two weeks?’ asked Logan as Steel wiped a blob of tomato sauce from her chin.

‘Yup. CC didn’t think a slap on the wrist covered it this time. Who knows: maybe he’ll come back a better person? But my money’s on an even grumpier fuck than usual. And in the meantime, guess who has to carry his bloody caseload?’ She stuck a hand up, just in case Logan had lost all grasp of irony. ‘And guess who gets to help me?’

Logan groaned and Steel snorted, cramming the last chunk of buttie into her mouth and chewing round the words, ‘Don’t know what you’re whinging about: I’ve got all Jinx McPherson’s cases too.’ She dug about in her in-tray, retrieving a manila folder and throwing it across the desk to Logan, then went hunting through her drawers. ‘You read. I want to know what I’ve been stuck with.’

So Logan opened the folder and read through a summary of Insch’s caseload, with Steel stopping him every now and then to ask questions. But most of the time she just said, ‘Nope, you can have that one too,’ while she fought her way into a new packet of nicotine patches. The only investigations she seemed even remotely interested in were Jason Fettes and Rob Macintyre.

‘If we can get Macintyre on the rapes,’ she said, rolling up her sleeve, exposing a length of pasty-white skin, ‘maybe the press’ll forget all about him being in a coma and the CC will get off my back for not catching whatever public-spirited citizen kicked the crap out the wee shite.’ She slapped another patch in place, then peered at the packet. ‘Meantime you better go poke the IB — got to be something we can use from those bushes we found him in: fibre, fingerprints, DNA, ouija boards, I’m no’ fussy… Fuck, can you believe I’ve got to wait another four hours before the next one?’

‘Jason Fettes.’ Logan held up the report. ‘Duff’s still out of his face, but I-’

‘Still?’ Steel checked her watch. ‘Jesus, that’s no’ bad goin’. Better get on to the court: slide him back to last call tomorrow, or he’ll be out before he’s straight enough to interview.’

‘I’ve also got a lead on Frank Garvie, he was the one who-’

‘Ex-porn star, dodgy secret computer stuff, hung himself. Believe it or not I was actually paying attention. You deal with it, I’m up to my ears as it is and I’m no’ needing any more shite shovelled on the top.’ She waved a hand at the pile of case notes. ‘Palm as much off as you can: got a whole CID department to choose from, but Rennie’ll do in a pinch. Do him good to get the hell away from me before I kill him.’

Logan gathered up DI Insch’s cases and slid them back in the folder, trying not to sigh. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And don’t sulk. We’re two DIs down: this could be your chance to shine, sparkle, stand out from the crowd. Long as you don’t fuck things up …’

His fellow CID officers whinged and complained but eventually Logan managed to palm off all the cases Steel didn’t want, then printed off the email from Rachael, hoping there would be some clue about seven o’clock tonight. There wasn’t. Instead he had a list of names of people who’d paid money into Frank Garvie’s bank account on a regular basis. He was willing to bet this was only the tip of the iceberg — anyone with an ounce of sense would have paid Garvie in cash, making sure there was nothing leading back to them if anything went wrong.

But some people just weren’t that bright. Like Kevin Massie: forty-five, tall, hair like a loo brush and hands like a child molester. Which was why he was on Grampian Police’s register of Sex Offenders.

The house was immaculate, not a speck of dust to be seen in the two-bedroom semi-detached in Northfield. According to his social workers Kevin Massie had been a good boy ever since he’d been let out of Peterhead Prison three and a half years ago. He’d done all the S.T.O.P. courses, was in therapy, didn’t associate with anyone dodgy, and followed his supervisory order to the letter. He was about as cured as anyone convicted for molesting their seven-year-old nephew could be.

Logan sent Rickards off to make the tea while he, Kevin Massie and his social worker sat in the lounge, listening to the pop-click of the gas fire. Kevin sat on the couch, knees clamped firmly together, wringing those small, sweaty hands of his, smiling. ‘So,’ he said, filling the silence, pointing at the grey-haired woman sitting opposite. ‘Laura said you wanted to speak to me?’ Logan didn’t even nod. Kevin cleared his throat, looked up at the framed print above his fireplace, then down at his hands. Coughed. ‘I … yes, well, I’ve been doing good. I got a job with a little accountancy firm in Dyce, it’s nice …’ More silence. ‘Er … do you fancy our chances this weekend? It’s only Dundee, but with Rob Macintyre gone we-’

‘Frank Garvie.’

Kevin licked his lips, and the hand-rubbing intensified, squeezing all colour from the pink knuckles. ‘I was saying to Laura that the Dons really have to pull their socks up if we’re going to get to the finals-’

‘You rented encrypted server space from him.’

‘I … we …’ He looked at his social worker, pulling on a sickly smile. ‘We like the football, don’t we?’

Her face didn’t move. ‘You need to tell Sergeant McRae what happened, Kevin.’

‘Ah, well … it was …’

Logan leant forward. ‘Garvie was in receipt of stolen goods: that makes him a criminal and you’ve been associating with him. That’s against your supervision order.’

‘I …’ Kevin jumped to his feet as Rickards came in, carrying four mugs of tea. ‘I … biscuits! I’m sure I’ve got biscuits somewhere.’

His social worker sighed, and covered her face with her hands. ‘God, Kevin, we talked about this! You can’t hang out with people who break the law, or you’ll end up back inside. Do you want to go back to Peterhead?’

The little hands fluttered. ‘I’m sorry.’ He stared at the carpet. ‘I didn’t mean … it wasn’t … I didn’t want to do anything, I didn’t! I wanted to …’ he trailed off and wiped at his face. ‘It’s hot in here, isn’t it? I’ll turn down the fire.’

‘Kevin!’

He flinched, wrapped his pink, shiny fingers into a knot and led them through into the spare bedroom. It had been turned into a small study: a cheap-looking flat-pack computer desk against the wall beneath the window, the walls covered in pink wallpaper with a silver stripe and little red roses. A laptop sat in the middle of the desk, perfectly aligned with the edges. ‘I … I didn’t want to touch anyone.’ He shuddered. ‘I want to be better. I don’t want …’

The social worker pulled on a professional smile: understanding, sympathetic and brittle. ‘It’s OK, Kevin. You can just show us if you don’t want to talk about it.’

And so Kevin did, booting up his laptop and navigating to a folder on his desktop. Clicking on a file and getting a screed of gibberish. He pulled a memory stick from the desk — a shiny red USB thing no bigger than Logan’s little finger — and plugged it into the side, before calling up the decryption programme.

It was a movie file. A little blond boy, no more than eight years old, standing with his back to the camera, stripped down to his underwear. The social worker sighed again. ‘Kevin …’

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t touch anyone! I didn’t … but I need …’

A hand fell on the boy’s shoulder, he turned to look back at the camera, eyes full of tears. And Logan said, ‘Oh fuck.’ It was Sean Morrison. The hand turned the boy round till he was facing sideways, then the man stepped forwards, visible and naked from the waist down, a puckered line of scar tissue running from his thigh to his knee, between the grey hairs. Murmured, soothing noises echoed out from the laptop’s tinny speakers. ‘Shhh, shhh, there’s a good boy …’ Sean stared at the camera, terrified, and then … Logan turned away. He’d seen enough.

It took a lot of effort not to smash his fist into Kevin Massie’s throat as he burbled on about how he’d never touched anyone, he only watched the video, and it was all his uncle’s fault he’d turned out this way, and he didn’t want to go back to prison.

‘Good boy, such a good boy … Oh what a good boy …’

Logan told Rickards to turn it off.

‘My good boy … Oh Craig …’ Click. Silence.

Mid-afternoon and the rain was drumming down from a lead-grey sky. The road glistened, reflecting back the rotating blue and white lights from Alpha Two Seven as Logan climbed out of his pool car and into the downpour. Hamilton Place was quiet — there was no sign of the Whytes’ people carrier.

‘You bring the warrant?’ he asked and Rennie nodded, digging it out of his jacket pocket and handing it over. Logan checked to make sure it was all signed in the right places before marching up to the front door and pounding on it like DI Insch. No response.

‘Maybe they’re not in?’

Logan tried again, waited, then marched round to the back of the house, Rennie and Rickards trotting along behind him. A small radio was playing in the shed at the bottom of the garden, the Rolling Stones’ (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction mingling with the rain. Someone sang along, slightly off key. Mr Whyte Senior had a hand-rolled cigarette sticking out of the side of his mouth as he worked a chisel back and forth on an oil stone, pausing every now and then to check for sharpness. He looked up and smiled as Logan stopped just outside the shed. ‘Sergeant McRae, how are you? Anything I can do to help?’

‘I want to see your leg.’

The old man raised an eyebrow and ground his cigarette out on a china saucer. ‘On a first date? What kind of-’

‘This isn’t a joke.’ Logan held up the warrant. ‘I’m detaining you on suspicion of child abuse.’

‘Surely there’s been some mistake. I would never touch a child. It’s repulsive-’

‘You remember Sean Morrison, Mr Whyte? Remember how much he looks like Craig? Your wee boy? The one who ended up killing himself? Because of what you did?’

Whyte looked down at the chisel in his hand, then back up at Logan. ‘I’m not listening to this any longer.’ He tightened his grip on the handle. ‘I want you off our property.’

‘What did you do, play the surrogate granddad? You’re about the same age. He’s worried about his grandfather and you took advantage-’

‘If you don’t leave, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.’ He stepped forwards, the chisel weaving back and forth like the head of a snake. ‘Get out of my garden. Now.’

‘And you were stupid enough to video it!’

‘Lies!’ Whyte’s face darkened. ‘You’ve no business being here!’

‘We found it this morning. You abused an eight-year-old boy and you videotaped yourself doing it, you moron. The old sporting injury.’ Logan pointed at the man’s leg. ‘We’re going to match your scar to the one in the film and then I’m going to lock you up where you can’t-’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong!’ The words came out in a small shower of brown spittle. ‘You get out of here, NOW!’ Another step forward, weak sunlight glinting on the chisel’s freshly sharpened edge.

Logan pulled out a canister of pepper spray and levelled it at Whyte’s face. ‘Put the weapon down and step out of the shed.’

Whyte’s eyes darted over Logan’s shoulder, to where Rennie and Rickards stood. No way out. He looked at the canister in Logan’s hand, then dropped the chisel. It fell end over end, landing point down and burying itself in the sodden grass. ‘I want a lawyer, I-’

Logan sprayed the old man in the eyes. He screamed even louder than Sean Morrison had.