Broken Skin (20 page)

29

By the time he got back to the flat that evening - having spent most of the day sulking and brooding in his little room at FHQ - Jackie was just heading out, dressed up in her black cat-burglar outfit again. She paused at the front door. Scowled. 'You hear about the rape?'

'Dundee last night? Yeah.' The worst one yet: Wendy Nichol, twenty-six, computer programmer with a games company, bringing up her five-yearold daughter on her own. If a taxi driver hadn't seen her leg sticking out of a bush she'd have bled to death. Insch had gone through the roof when the call came from Tayside Police: DCI Cameron blaming the whole thing on the fat man's inability to put Rob Macintyre behind bars.

'Unbe-fucking-lievable, how the hell ...' Jackie stopped. 'I'm going to have to go out again tonight.'

'Really.' Not a question. Trying to keep the anger out of his voice.

'Aye. You know what it's like.'

Logan nodded. He did indeed. He knew exactly what it was like. 'I'm going out too. You going to see Cathy again?' Trying to catch her off guard by using a random name.

'No: Janette.' The same name she'd given him earlier. Clever.

'Right. Janette.'

Jackie looked as if she was about to say something, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek instead. 'Don't wait up.' She banged out through the main door and Logan stood where he was for a moment, before turning round and following her. Sneaking out onto Marischal Street in the rain, watching her march up the road with her mobile phone clamped to her ear. Jackie got to the top and made a right onto Union Street, coming to a halt in the bus shelter opposite the Tolbooth. She stuffed the phone back into her pocket and stood there, breath streaming in the cold night air.

He hung back, loitering at the door to The Tilted Wig - where she couldn't see him, but he could see her - cold rain plastering his hair to his head, seeping through his jacket. Three bendy buses had come and gone by the time an anonymous Citroen pulled into the stop, windscreen wipers going full tilt. Jackie threw her hands in the air, shouting, 'About bloody time!' then opened the passenger door. The interior light flickered on and Logan got a good look at the driver before Jackie climbed in and the door slammed shut. The Bastard Simon Rennie.

The car indicated, then drew out into the steady stream of traffic. Joining the rush hour. Soaking wet, Logan stood and watched until the car disappeared.

The Ferryhill House Hotel was one of the few places in Aberdeen optimistic enough to boast a beer garden - a collection of picnic benches sulking, unused, in the steady downpour. Logan marched through into the bar, looking like a drowned rat. Shivering, he peeled off his jacket and scanned the crowd. Not quite seven o'clock yet. No sign of Rachael.

All the tables around the open fire were taken, so he made do with the next best thing, hanging his dripping jacket over the back of a chair. Then went up for a pint of Stella, taking it back to the table and staring at it; wondering if it wasn't too late to chicken out. Maybe he should just go home? This was--

'You came!' He looked up to see Rachael Tulloch taking off a bright orange waterproof. Too late to back out now. She pulled out the seat opposite and sank into it, little droplets of water falling from her hair to sparkle on the tabletop. 'Oh, you've got a drink, I'll ...' she went to stand, but Logan shooed her back into her chair.

'It's OK, I'll get it. Gin and tonic?'

She blushed. 'Please.'

By the time Logan got back to the table Rachael was putting a lipstick back in her bag. 'Thanks,' she said, accepting the drink, 'you wouldn't
believe
the day I've had. Cheers,' Holding up her glass for Logan to clink his off.

They drank in silence. 'Er ...' she said, coughed, and tried again. 'We got someone in court today for those unlawful removals. In Tillydrone?'

'Yeah? That's great.'

'Yeah ...' More silence. 'I didn't think you'd come.' She played with the glass in her hands, not looking at him. 'Thought you'd make some excuse, or say no, or something ...'

Logan tried for a laugh, but it came out sounding slightly strangled. 'Sorry.' He took a gulp of lager. 'I'm glad you asked.' Not sure if he was lying or not.

She smiled. It made her eyes shine.

The Indian restaurant on Crown Street was only a five-minute walk away, but they were both soaked to the skin by the time they hurried in through the door. At least eating would give them something to do in the awkward silences. Which were getting fewer. Mostly they talked about work: Logan told her about Zander Clark's stash of Victorian porn, then launched into an anecdote about DI Steel chasing a prostitute who'd been shoplifting from Ann Summers, leaving a trail of vibrators, crotchless knickers and lubricant as she tried to get away. So Rachael told him about a man she'd prosecuted for trying to abort his girlfriend's pregnancy with a bottle of bleach.

As the night wore on, Logan tried hard not to think about what Jackie was up to. It didn't matter anyway, she was sleeping with Rennie: it was over. First thing tomorrow morning he'd ask her to move out. And that would be that. So he told jokes and stories, and tried to convince himself he didn't care.

Outside afterwards, standing on the restaurant steps, waiting for the taxi. 'You know,' said Rachael, her voice coming out in a plume of steam, lightly scented with cardamom, cumin and garlic, 'I'm really glad you came.' She stared down at her woolly gloves, cheeks flushed and shiny pink.

'So am I.' And this time he meant it.

'Would you ...' Deep breath. 'Ah sod it.' She grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him, her lips soft and warm and slightly spicy ... And that's when Logan's phone rang.

'Bloody hell,' he mumbled, and she backed off laughing as he checked the number. It was FHQ. 'Sorry.' He hit the call button and Sergeant Mitchell's voice burst into his ear, '...
No I do not,
now get your backside in gear ...
'

'What can I do for you, Eric?'

'
What? Oh halleluiah, it's got its phone switched on
for once! You sober?
'

'Yes.' He'd been on pints of water since they arrived at the restaurant, not wanting to make a complete tit of himself. 'Why?'

'
DI Insch isn't. You've had Alpha Thirteen wasting
time all day checking on an address in Danestone - a
Frank Garvie - ring any bells?
' Logan admitted that it did.
'Right
,' said Mitchell,
'we've got reports of a
disturbance at that address
.'

Logan didn't see what that had to do with him. 'And?'

'
And Insch says you've got to go--
'

'But--' Rachael was making 'cup of coffee' motions at him.

'
Hey, if you want to tell Insch to sod off, you're on
your own. I'm staying well out of it
.'

Logan screwed up his eyes and wished a painful and embarrassing death on Detective Inspector Bloody Insch. 'OK, OK, I'll need a car.'

'
Fine, Oscar Foxtrot Two's going that way. You can
cadge a lift
.'

He hung up. 'Sorry--'

'You've got to go, haven't you?' she said, as the taxi pulled up behind her.

'Yes. You know what DI Insch's like these days.'

'I've heard.' She opened the taxi door. 'Come on, I'll give you a lift to the station.'

Logan lurched out onto the rain-swept forecourt of FHQ, hoping he didn't look like a drag queen, clarted in lipstick. He hurried through into the reception area as the taxi drove off into the night. Oscar Foxtrot Two - a small, grubby van with wire mesh over the rear windows - was sitting out back, waiting for him with the engine running, the sound of opera seeping out into the downpour. Logan jumped into the passenger seat, and immediately started coughing and spluttering. The whole thing
stank
of wet dog.

'You'll get used tae it in a bit,' said the woman sitting behind the steering wheel. 'Gonnae give them a bath when we get hame, aren't we, babies?' Logan turned to see a pair of enormous Alsatians with their damp liquorice noses pressed up against the grille separating the back of the tiny van from the driver and passenger seats. The bigger of the two began to snarl and the dog handler laughed, telling the dog, 'It's OK, baby he'll no' hurt you.' Then patted Logan on the knee. 'Dinna make eye-contact, for God's sake.'

Logan faced the front. Quickly.

She drove him out to Garvie's flat in Danestone, keeping up a three-way conversation with Logan and her dogs about the documentary she'd seen last night on BBC2 about Bonny Prince Charlie sharing his bed with two Italian courtesans and a bloke from Ireland when he was over for the Jacobite rebellion. 'Of course,' she said, as she turned into Garvie's cul-de-sac, 'I've got a cousin who's gay and he
loves
Drambuie. But he's from Elgin.'

The lights of Alpha Thirteen swept bars of blue through the rain, making it sparkle, as if it'd been electrified. Logan thanked the dog handler and scrambled out of the van and over to the patrol car. 'What's the story?'

The PC pointed up at Garvie's building. 'Neighbour called in about half an hour ago complaining about the noise. They've been on the bloody phone every five minutes since, wanting to know why we've not done anything about it.'

'When did Garvie get home?'

The constable shrugged and Logan cursed. 'You were supposed to be keeping an eye on the place!'

'Don't look at me - I only came on at ten.'

'Oh for God's sake ...' Logan turned his collar up and dashed through the rain, up the short path, and in through the building's front door. Angry voices echoed down from the floors above, shouting over a continuous loop of blaring music. He climbed the stairs, the noise getting louder with every step.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! 'TURN THAT FUCKING THING DOWN!' A man's voice.

'SIR, I'M NOT GOING TO ASK YOU AGAIN--'

'YOU SEE WHAT WE HAVE TO LIVE WITH?' A high-pitched woman.

'OPEN UP, YOU PERVERT BASTARD!' The man again.

They were on the second floor: five angry residents and an annoyed-looking policewoman. The noise from Garvie's flat was deafening, whooshing and booming and roaring, violins and keyboards building to a teeth-rattling crescendo. Then silence. Then round it went once more, in an infinite loop. No wonder the neighbours were spitting nails; an hour of this and the Pope would have been rampaging down Union Street with a baseball bat.

Garvie's front door had been given another paint-job, obscenities covering the woodwork, spreading out over the walls like an angry infection. Logan tapped the constable on the shoulder. 'Anything?'

'WHAT?'

'I SAID: HAVE YOU GOT ANYTHING?'

She looked confused for a moment, then shouted back, 'NO. IT'S BEEN LIKE THIS SINCE WE GOT HERE. HOUSEHOLDER'S NOT ANSWERING--'

'OK.' Logan stepped up to the front door and squatted down, nose wrinkling at the smell of human urine. He pulled on a single latex glove and prised open the letterbox. The hallway lay in darkness, just a ripple of light seeping through from the lounge where that God-awful, repetitive racket was coming from.

'I'VE TRIED THAT!' the constable shouted. 'NO SIGN OF HIM.'

Logan motioned for her to join him downstairs. As soon as they were out of sight the neighbours started hammering on the door again. 'It's their own fault,' said Logan. 'They've been terrorizing the poor sod: graffiti, piss through the letterbox, dog shit in a burning paper bag. He's probably got the most annoying bit of music he has, put it on a short loop, cranked up the volume and sodded off to a hotel for the night. Getting his own back.'

The constable nodded. 'So what we going to do?'

Logan stared back up the stairs as another cycle began. 'We're going to have to break in. If we don't they'll lynch him when he gets back. You--'

'WHY THE HELL AREN'T YOU DOING ANYTHING?' A balding, middle-aged man stormed down from the floor above, bright scarlet with apoplectic rage.

'Do you know anything about the vandalism to Mr Garvie's flat, sir?'

The man stopped. Going pale, then bright red again. 'Are you accusing me of something?'

'Thought so.' Logan turned to the policewoman. 'Did you get this gentleman's name and address, Constable?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good.' They stood and stared at the man as he backed away up the stairs. He disappeared from sight as the loop started again. 'Come on then,' said Logan, 'if I listen to that any longer, I'm going to end up thumping someone.'

The constable asked to be excused for a minute, hurrying out into the rainy night and the lazy blue sweep of the patrol car's lights. She came back, shaking the water off her police waterproofs, grinning, holding up what looked like a little gun. 'Got it off the internet,' she explained as they climbed the stairs into the deafening noise. 'Been dying for a chance to try it out.'

'Hold on,' said Logan as they got to the first-floor landing, digging out his mobile phone and calling Control, telling them he was concerned for the safety of the householder and that they were going to force entry. There was no sign of the angry mob on the second-floor landing - Mr Middle-Aged had probably warned them the police were more interested in persecuting
them
for vandalism than doing something about Frank Garvie's serenade of eternal damnation. 'KICK IT IN.'

'NO NEED.' The PC swaggered up to the door and slid the pointy end of her 'gun' into the keyhole, twisting it slightly and pulling the trigger. If anything happened it was inaudible beneath the racket. 'HA-HA! LOOK AT THAT!'

The door swung open and the noise got even worse. Logan slapped his hands over his ears and picked his way into the flat. The welcome mat stank of piss so he stuck to the wall, not wanting to tread in anything as he picked his way down to the end of the short hallway. The home cinema system in the lounge was pumping out an incredible amount of sound, making the floorboards thrum beneath his feet as the loop built to yet another crescendo. Logan stepped into the living room just as everything went quiet.