Broken Skin Part 14

They backed off in unison, mumbling about how they didn't see anyone and it was cold and dark and they were sure Sean hadn't got past them... That just made Steel rant louder.

Logan slouched through to the darkened dining room, looking to get away from the inspector's tirade before any of it got turned in his direction. He pulled out his phone and slumped in one of the chairs, sitting in the dark, dialling Jackie's number from memory. She'd be home by now, wondering where the h.e.l.l he'd got to. Eight rings and it crackled onto the answer phone: Jackie's voice telling him they were both out fighting crime or getting drunk, but he could leave a message after the beep. He hung up.

How on earth did Sean Morrison manage to sneak past half a dozen policemen? It just didn't make any sense. It was almost as if- The standard lamp in the corner suddenly bloomed into light, making the polished silverware glint.

'Oh sodding h.e.l.l...' The lamp was plugged into one of those timed switches the Burnetts must have set it up to make the place look as if it was still being lived in. Deterring burglars and making an a.r.s.e out of the police. Sean Morrison was never in the house at all.

Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet and switched the d.a.m.n thing off, plunging the room into darkness again. Logan stood at the window, wondering how quickly he could slope off after the impending b.o.l.l.o.c.king, drown his sorrows in a bottle of wine and a Chinese takeaway. Steel was going to blame him for this, he could feel it. He'd been so sure the eight-year-old would come here...

There was someone standing on the other side of the road, staring up at the house. A small boy wearing jeans and a heavy, padded jacket, a rucksack over his shoulder. Mouth hanging open. Sean Morrison.

Logan dashed into the hall, shouting, 'He's outside!' exploding out of the front door and down the steps. Sean only hesitated for a second and then he was off. Logan tore after him, hearing m.u.f.fled cries from inside as others joined the chase, feet pounding the pavement.

Sean screeched round the corner onto Westfield Terrace. The rucksack went flying, as the wee boy lightened the load. A flash of black at Logan's shoulder a PC catching up as they ran up the small street, closing the gap.

There was a car parked halfway on the pavement: Sean jumped onto the bonnet, to the roof, then made a huge leap for the six-foot-high stone wall behind, scrabbling into someone's back garden. The PC was first to the wall, hauling himself over as a security light stabbed the darkness.

Breathing hard, Logan followed him, landing in a clump of conifers, staggering out just in time to see the constable make a grab for Sean's trouser leg as the child disappeared over the next-door fence.

Sean screamed.

'Come back here, you little b.u.g.g.e.r!' The PC yanked Sean back into the garden. They went down in a tangle of limbs and swearing. Then a loud yelp, and the PC let go, holding his left wrist in his right hand, staring at the gash across his palm. Fresh blood glowed neon-red in the security spotlight. 'Aaaaagh!'

Sean scrambled away, swearing, crying, holding a glittering kitchen knife. Staring at the PC, then up at Logan as a policewoman cleared the wall, crashed into a decorative border and went sprawling across the lawn. The eight-year-old murderer snarled, waved the knife and backed against the fence, eyes darting round the garden. 'f.u.c.kers! f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d f.u.c.kers!'

A window opened at the back of the house and an old man stuck his head out, yelling that he was calling the police.

'It's over, Sean.' Logan put on his understanding, approachable voice. 'Come on, put the knife down. I know you don't want to hurt anyone else.'

'f.u.c.king KILL YOU!' Tears ran down his cheeks, a silvery trail heading south from both nostrils. Bottom lip trembling. 'Kill you...'

Behind him, Logan could hear the policewoman groaning to her feet as another uniformed officer crashed into the garden. 'You don't have to run any more.'

'f.u.c.kers...' The knife's point wavered, dipping towards the churned-up gra.s.s.

'Shhhh, it's OK, Sean, it's OK.'

The policewoman marched straight up and sprayed Sean Morrison in the face with pepper spray. 'That's for Jess Nairn, ya wee s.h.i.+te.'

They could have heard the boy's screams in Peterhead.

'They'll sting for a while, but the swelling'll go down soon enough. No' that it'll make much odds where he's goin'.' Doc Wilson, slouched against the corridor wall, hands in his pockets, face like a bank holiday weekend long and dreich. He gave a dramatic sigh. 'I'm seein' one of them oncologists tomorrow morning...'

Logan nodded, not really wanting to get drawn into Doc Wilson's world of misery again. 'Is he well enough for questioning?'

The doctor thought about it then shrugged. 'Doesn't really matter, does it?' He pulled himself off the wall, picked up his medical bag and slumped off, mumbling to himself all the way.

'Well,' said Steel when Logan got back up to her office, 'what did Doctor Doom and Gloom say? He show you his tumour?'

'No permanent damage. You can interview Sean if you want. And Big Gary says the kid's dad's downstairs shouting the odds: police brutality, human rights, legal action. The usual.'

She checked her watch. 'Twenty-seven minutes till show time ... what do you think, worth a punt?'

'Up to you.'

She rubbed a nicotine-stained finger along the bridge of her nose. 'What the h.e.l.l: get them into an interview room. If nothing else we'll put the fear of G.o.d into the wee b.u.g.g.e.r.'

Interviewing Sean Morrison was like interviewing a breeze-block. He just sat on the other side of the table, sullen and silent, scowling at the camera. His face was swollen and red, like a bad case of sunburn, eyes the colour of beetroot. Still tearing up from the pepper spray. He wouldn't even confirm his name.

Mr Morrison sat next to his son, one arm wrapped around the little thug's shoulders, trembling with anger. 'I demand you take my son to the hospital!'

'No and I'm no' telling you again,' said Steel. 'He's been checked over by the duty doctor, he'll be fine.'

'He's in pain! Look what your storm troopers have done to him! LOOK!' Clutching Sean's red chin, leaving white fingerprints behind when the child shook him off. 'He's only eight!'

Steel slammed her hand down on the table, making the plastic cups of tea and coffee tremble. 'Listen up: your innocent little darling tried to stab two police officers tonight. One's up in A&E getting his hand st.i.tched back together. Then there's the policewoman he stabbed in the throat and THE OLD MAN HE KILLED!'

'We demand to see a lawyer.'

Logan tapped the inspector on the shoulder and whispered in her ear, 'Seven fifteen press conference in five minutes.'

She stood, sc.r.a.ping her chair back from the table, staring at the father. 'You're here at my discretion Morrison. I can have you replaced by a social worker, like that.' Snapping her fingers under his nose. 'I've got him on CCTV killing the old man. I've got a police witness to him stabbing Constable Jess Nairn. I've got even more witnesses to him trying the same thing on tonight. I've got the knives; I've got his fingerprints. I don't need a confession.'

She gave Logan the nod and he said, 'Interview suspended at seven sixteen.'

Steel leant on the table, engulfing Sean Morrison's father in a wave of stale cigarette breath. 'He's going to "secure accommodation" till he's sixteen it's like a children's home, but they lock the little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds up then he'll go to a young offender's inst.i.tution till he's twenty-one. Then he'll go to prison. If he's lucky he'll be out in time for his thirtieth birthday. You want to make it easier for him? Maybe cut his sentence? You get him to talk.'

Everyone was waiting for them, the Chief Constable sticking his hand over the microphone and whispering something to the inspector as she settled into her seat probably something about what a great job she'd done, because she smiled happily and then they got the press conference underway. Logan sat back in his chair and listened as the CC announced Sean Morrison's capture, then opened the floor for questions. First up: 'Why did it take Grampian Police four days to catch an eight-year-old boy?' Then, 'Will there be a public enquiry into the handling of the investigation?'

It was Colin Miller who asked the question Logan had been dreading: 'Is it true Sean Morrison was a.s.saulted durin' his arrest?'

Steel gritted her teeth. 'No it isn't.'

'Then why did neighbours report a child "screaming in pain" when it took place?'

The inspector launched into an explanation, but the press had tasted blood. Wasn't it true that DS McRae had a.s.saulted a young boy at the beach yesterday? Were officers looking for revenge after PC Nairn was stabbed by Morrison on Thursday? Was there an inst.i.tutionalized vigilante culture in Grampian Police?

The Chief Constable didn't let it go on for too long. The press conference was brought to a close and everyone 'invited' to leave.

'Bunch of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!' said Steel, in the corridor afterwards. 'What the h.e.l.l happened to "well done" and "for she's a jolly good fellow"?'

Logan stepped out of the way as the CC stormed past, closely followed by the Press Liaison Officer. 'Don't think G.o.d's very happy about it either.'

Steel watched the man disappear through the double doors. 'b.u.g.g.e.r the lot of them. Come on: we're going to the pub. I think we deserve a pat on the back, even if no other b.a.s.t.a.r.d does.'

Logan clunked the drinks down on the sticky, beer-spilled table and dumped half a dozen packets of crisps in the middle. There was a feeding frenzy as Steel and two uniforms from the team that had grabbed Sean Morrison fought over the tomato sauce flavour. Three rounds into the evening and the conversation had drifted from work to football and Rob Macintyre's hat trick against St Mirren at the weekend. Everyone tactfully ignoring the rape allegations in favour of the four-one final score. DI Steel threw her hands in the air, staring over Logan's shoulder, back towards the bar, shouting, 'Just in time!' at the constable who'd tackled Sean in the garden. He had one hand swathed in white bandages. 'Laz!' the inspector bellowed, 'Laz, go get that man a drink! On me! Double whisky!'

Logan was still waiting to get served when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, expecting to see Steel, or Jackie, but it was PC Rickards, dressed in tatty jeans, a p.o.r.nographic T-s.h.i.+rt, and a scruffy jacket. 'Er ... sorry to bother you, sir, but Sergeant Mitch.e.l.l said I'd probably find you here.'

'You want a drink? Steel's buying we caught Sean Morrison.' Logan knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn't help it.

Rickards looked uncomfortable. 'I just wanted to tell you I'd gone through all those carpet places no one's sold anything to a B&B for months. Sorry.'

'Not your fault, it was always a long shot...' Logan frowned. 'Wait a minute, didn't your s.h.i.+ft finish about three hours ago? Have you been hanging around the station waiting for me all this time?'

'What? No, no. G.o.d.' He pulled a face. 'I mean, how sad would that be? Urgh...' Going slightly red. 'I had a couple of hours to kill, so I've been reading through some of those break-in reports. You know, see if I can spot a pattern.'

'In that case you definitely deserve a drink.' Logan caught the barman's eye and ordered Steel's double whisky then turned to ask Rickards what he wanted.

'No, really, sir, I can't-'

'Yes you can. Pint?'

'I...' Rickards was going red again. 'Everyone keeps taking the p.i.s.s. Ever since that b.l.o.o.d.y briefing it's all innuendo and double entendre and b.l.o.o.d.y "suits you, sir!" Some b.a.s.t.a.r.d's even been posting condoms through the grille in my locker. I'm b.l.o.o.d.y sick of it.'

Logan ordered him a pint of lager. 'Look, if you let them get to you they'll keep on doing it. They like to get a reaction, that's all. Come on one pint's not going to kill you, is it?' He took the drinks from the bar and handed Rickards his pint. 'That's an order, Constable.'

Rickards cracked a twisted smile. 'Yes, sir.'

It was quieter outside, standing under the columned portico at the front of the pub, staying out of the wind, waiting for Jackie to pick up the flat's phone. It rang through to the answering machine, so Logan tried her on her mobile. Ringing and ringing and ringing and... 'h.e.l.lo?'

'Hey, we caught him!'

'What?' sounding distracted.

'Sean Morrison, we caught him.'

'Oh, yeah, I heard on the news. Cool...'

'We're in the pub, want to come?'

A pause, then, 'Oh, no, I can't you remember my friend Janette? Her fiance's just dumped her, she's in a right state, so I'm kinda stuck.'

'Oh,' trying not to sound disappointed, 'well, that's OK. Don't worry about it.'

'Sorry... Look, don't wait up for me, I've no idea when I'm going to escape. Probably not till late. She's a nightmare when she gets started.'

A bendy bus thundered past, narrowly missing a barely dressed young woman and her Neanderthal boyfriend. Logan watched them hurling abuse at the driver.

'Look, she's coming back from the toilet, gotta go.'

'OK, I...' But she'd already hung up.

Logan stood on the top step, looking down at the phone in his hands. Then closed it up and went back inside.

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&B idea was a complete dead end. So all they had was the large black d.i.l.d.o 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 b.l.o.o.d.y stupid terrorism thing today. Like I don't have enough to deal with!' He dragged a copy of that morning's Scottish Sun 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 hara.s.sing him, but now the raping wee b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.h.i.+te 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, makes.h.i.+ft 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 G.o.d...' Rickards pulled out a stack of DVDs with t.i.tles 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-s.h.i.+rt, 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ding 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.