Broken Skin Part 24

'Gonnae no dae that?'

'Why?'

'Just gonnae no! Bad enough as it is without you stirring.'

The door jingled open and a red-nosed couple stomped in from the wintry outdoors, bringing a blast of cold air with them. Miller s.h.i.+vered, even though they were practically sitting on top of the heater. 'And get this,' he said, pulling a disgusted face, 'They want me to do a "Baby Diary". f.u.c.kin' investigative journalist and they want me to do puff pieces on changing s.h.i.+tey nappies...' He went off on a whinge, complaining about how he wasn't appreciated, and how The Scotsman had offered him a huge chunk of money to move down to Edinburgh and work for them. And how he was seriously considering it, even though Logan knew there was no way in h.e.l.l Miller would ever return to the central belt. Not if he wanted to keep the fingers he had left. He finally stopped whinging when their breakfasts arrived.

Logan grabbed the tomato sauce. 'You know I asked you to dig up some dirt on-'

'DC Simon Allan Rennie, twenty-five, five foot eleven, went to Powis Academy suspended six days for getting into a fight with his maths teacher. Lives in a flat on Dee Street...'

Logan listened to Miller detailing the minutiae of Rennie's life between bites of sausage, bacon, mushroom and egg. The reporter knew everything: from who the DC's first girlfriend was, to the number of complaints made against him by members of the public in the last three years. But the upshot was that the b.a.s.t.a.r.d Simon Rennie was clean. 'How the h.e.l.l do you know all this?'

Miller smiled, piling beans up on a corner of toast. 'Findin' stuff out is what I do.' Not like him to be so modest. He stuck the forkful in his mouth and chewed smugly. 'Now, you goin' tae ask me about your boy Garvie?'

'What about him?' Logan put down his cutlery.

'Up to his ears in debt. See all that s.h.i.+te he had in his house computers and home cinema and gadgets and that owed a fortune. So he rents some stuff out on the side.'

Logan scooted forward in his seat, lowering his voice to a whisper. 'Let me guess: hardcore bondage p.o.r.nography?'

'f.u.c.k's sake, man, it's no' the b.l.o.o.d.y Dark Ages!' A sudden silence hit the dining room and all eyes turned to the reporter as he laughed. 'You can get as much of that c.r.a.p you want off the internet for free no, he was rentin' out server s.p.a.ce. Encrypted server s.p.a.ce. The kind you use for data you really don't want people findin' out about.'

And Logan thought about the memory stick they'd found smashed to smithereens in Garvie's flat. 'What was it?'

That was where Colin Miller's encyclopaedic knowledge ground to a halt. 'No idea. Yet. But you can bet it's gonna be splashed all over the front page soon as I find out.'

37.

It took nearly an hour to round up all the dirty was.h.i.+ng and stuff it in the machine. The flat was a pigsty it always was whenever they were both up to their ears, working too much overtime so Logan spent most of the afternoon grumbling around the place, trying to make it habitable again. He was in the middle of hoovering the lounge when the doorbell went: a long, insistent buzzing that finally managed to filter through the vacuum cleaner's drone. It was PC Rickards, standing outside the main door, hands rammed deep into his pockets, s.h.i.+vering. Logan let him in. 'Let me guess, DI Steel's suddenly remembered-'

'Sorry, sir. It's the DCS he wants you up at the station, now.'

'What? I haven't had a whole day off for weeks! Can't it-'

'He was really, really insistent.'

Logan didn't like the sound of that.

The Chief Constable's office looked like something out of a horror movie DI Insch, the DCS in charge of CID, Big Gary, and that ginger-haired b.a.s.t.a.r.d Inspector Napier, all looking very unhappy. The CC sat behind his desk wearing a face like thunder, staring at Jackie as she stood to attention in the middle of the room.

'... think so, don't you?' Sandy Moir-Farquharson stopped talking as Logan walked in, then pulled his bruised and battered features into a smug smile. 'Well, well, well, if it isn't the great PC Watson's partner in crime.'

Logan ignored him, staring at Insch instead. 'Sir?'

But it was the Chief Constable who answered: 'What the h.e.l.l were you thinking? Didn't you stop to consider the repercussions? Grampian Police does not need maverick officers bringing the force into disrepute!'

Nope, going to need more of a clue than that. 'Sorry, sir?'

Hissing Sid leant forward in his visitors' chair, cradling his broken arm. 'You and Watson have been carrying out an illegal, unauthorized surveillance on Rob Macintyre's property, even though I have a court order requiring you to stay away from my client.' He smiled like a shark the missing teeth filled with bright white, temporary dentures. 'This is blatant hara.s.sment and we will not stand for it.'

So Logan had been right: the little footballing b.a.s.t.a.r.d had winked at them. Maybe it wasn't too late to bluff his way out? After all it'd just be Macintyre's word against theirs. 'I don't-'

'And don't even bother trying to deny it.' The lawyer held up a hand-held camcorder and pressed a b.u.t.ton on the s.h.i.+ny silver plastic. Tinny sound bristled in the crowded room, a man with a p.r.o.nounced Aberdonian accent talking to himself while the picture on the little built-in screen jostled from a close-up of an expensive watch three fifteen in the morning round until it was pointing straight back at the person holding the camera. Rob Macintyre grinned and waved, then swung the thing back again, pointing it at a darkened window. It took a moment for the autofocus and light balance to catch up, but eventually the picture showed a dark street, lines of parked cars beneath drifting flakes of snow. A wobble, then the camera zoomed in on a depressingly familiar Vauxhall and its occupants: Logan and Jackie, watching the footballer's house.

Hissing Sid was right, there was no point denying it, so Logan didn't.

The CC slammed a palm down on his desk, making everything shudder. 'How could you be so stupid? You knew we'd been ordered to stay away from Macintyre!'

Logan sneaked a quick glance at Jackie, standing boot-faced beside him. She'd obviously not told anyone it'd all been Insch's idea in the first place, or the fat man would be up here getting his a.r.s.e chewed off with them. And given the satisfied look of righteous indignation on Inspector Napier's face, Logan had a shrewd idea what was coming next: gross misconduct, suspension and demotion. If they were lucky. And all because that fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d Insch was obsessed with pinning everything on Rob b.l.o.o.d.y Macintyre.

Logan took a deep breath and asked what day the tape had been recorded.

'What?' The CC looked shocked, 'You were there more than once?'

'You see!' Hissing Sid snapped the camcorder screen shut. 'I told you they've been running an illegal surveillance operation. We-'

'Was this last night, or the night before?' Logan asked again.

'Last night.'

Logan nodded. 'Yes, we were watching Rob Macintyre's house.'

Inspector Napier levered himself to his feet, like a praying mantis in a black uniform. 'Detective Sergeant McRae, I'm suspending you immediately pending a formal review by Professional Standards. You've shown a remarkable lapse in judgment and-'

'We were protecting him: Macintyre.'

Napier was about to say something, but the Chief Constable cut him off. 'You what?'

'After the attack on Mr Moir-Farquharson I made a list of possible enemies.' Which was true: it was everything else that was a barefaced lie. 'Top of the list were those allegedly raped by Mr Macintyre, who might be looking for revenge on one or both men. Knowing that Grampian Police had been formally warned not to approach Mr Macintyre directly, I persuaded Constable Watson to accompany me on an un-authorized surveillance operation of his property, in case he was targeted for attack.' It sounded like a prepared statement for court. Logan was rather pleased with himself.

There was a moment's silence, then Moir-Farquharson said, 'You don't seriously expect us to believe-'

'It's how we caught Russell McGillivray. If we hadn't been there watching the house, he'd have attacked Macintyre. And maybe this time he'd have gone all the way. We'd have been looking at a murder.'

The angry red was slowly draining from the Chief Constable's face, to be replaced by a cheery pink glow and a big smile. 'And you went back last night... ?'

'Because we couldn't be sure McGillivray was working alone.'

The CC looked from Logan, to Jackie, to the lawyer, then back again. 'I see. So you were only watching Mr Macintyre's house-'

'For his safety. Yes, sir.'

'On your own time.' He nodded, smiled, then said, 'In which case I apologize, Sergeant. Good work.'

Moir-Farquharson lurched to his feet, wincing all the way. 'But-'

'There's going to be a letter of commendation for you and Constable Watson.'

'But-'

'Well then, now that's all settled we can get back to work. If you'll all excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.' He picked up his phone and started dialling. The interview was over.

Out in the corridor the lawyer stared at Logan as the CC's door swung shut behind them. 'But...' He cleared his throat and tried again. 'Given the circ.u.mstances, I think it's no longer appropriate for you to watch my client's house.'

'You remember what you said to me when I showed you Russell McGillivray's photo?'

The lawyer frowned, 'I... I called him an ungrateful b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

'You can see yourself out.'

38.

Sitting with Jackie in DI Insch's office afterwards, watching the inspector swearing his way into a jumbo bag of fizzy dinosaurs, Logan had to admit that he'd been expecting more of a celebration. Instead Insch picked up a manila folder from his in-tray and tossed it across the desk.

The contents had been emailed up by Tayside Police: another rape. 'b.a.s.t.a.r.d...' Jessica Stirling, attacked just off the Kingsway a huge dual carriageway that stretched across Dundee. She was only nineteen. Logan couldn't even look at the victim photographs.

'She was in town for a friend's birthday last night.' Insch picked up a purple brachiosaur and stared at it. 'Studying musical theatre at RADA. Going to be a star...' He stuffed the dinosaur back in the bag, uneaten. 'Check the time.'

Logan skimmed through the report the attack took place between twenty to and twenty past three. The exact same time they were being videoed watching Macintyre's house.

Insch turned his back on the room, gazing out into the wintry afternoon. 'It wasn't him. All this time I've been d.i.c.king about chasing the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d and it wasn't even him.' There was a short humourless laugh. 'If I hadn't been so b.l.o.o.d.y convinced, we might have actually looked for someone else. And those girls wouldn't...' He stopped and ran a hand over his fat features, shoulders slumped. It was as if he'd aged a decade in as many seconds, his voice flat and listless. 'Why don't you two go home? Forget about this evening. It's not him.'

'But, sir-' Jackie, not looking happy, '-the wee f.u.c.k attacked me! He has to be-'

'IT'S NOT HIM!' Insch spun round, face bright purple. 'Understand? It was all c.r.a.p! All of it!' He s.n.a.t.c.hed a pile of files from his desk and hurled them at the far wall. 'It was never him!'

'But-'

'It's over, Constable. Finished.' Turning back to the window. 'I screwed up. Go home.'

Thankfully Jackie didn't say anything else, just grabbed her coat and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Logan caught up with her on the stairs as she stomped down towards the bas.e.m.e.nt locker rooms. 'Look,' Logan made a grab for her arm, 'I know it looks bad but-'

'Don't you dare patronize me!'

'What am I supposed to say? He can't have done the Dundee rape! We were watching him, you were there! He didn't go anywhere, he-'

'b.l.o.o.d.y Russell McGillivray had the right idea.' She shoved through into the female changing room, closing the door in Logan's face.

'You OK?'

'What? Logan looked up from his cup of tea to find Rickards and Rennie settling down on the other side of the canteen table. The bruise on Rennie's face had taken on a bluish five-o'clock-shadow tinge. 'Oh, yes. Great. Never better.'

'Tell you what,' Rennie threw an arm round his companion's shoulders, 'why don't we have a lads' night out tonight, after rehearsals? Beer, balti, and talking b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.'

'I can't.' Rickards blushed then mumbled about a prior engagement he couldn't get out of.

'Ah,' Rennie leered at him, 'going to see your bondage buddies, eh? On a promise are we? Oh, spank me Mr Mainwaring!'

'You can f-'

'What are they like?' Logan asked. 'People in the scene?' Thinking about Frank Garvie and his encrypted data.

'Well ... they're all ... different.'

Rennie laughed. 'I should b.l.o.o.d.y think so!'

'No I mean there's no real "type"! Everyone's different.'

'Oh.' That's what Logan had been afraid of.

'You know what,' said Rennie, unwrapping a Tunnocks teacake, 'you should totally go with him!'

Rickards scowled. 'They're people, OK? Not a freak show. You can't just go play "laugh at the perverts"!'

'Hey,' Rennie held up his hands, 'I was only saying.'

'Well don't! It's-'

'Actually,' said Logan, finis.h.i.+ng his tea, 'that's not a bad idea.' It would give him a chance to ask around, see if anyone knew what Garvie had been up to with his dodgy rented servers. And it wouldn't hurt to have an excuse to avoid the flat for a while: let Jackie and her foul temper calm down a bit. 'I'd like to go.'

Rickards blanched. 'But ... but...'

'It's all right, Constable, I promise not to embarra.s.s you.'

'But...'

'Then it's settled!' Rennie slapped him on the back. 'Play your cards right and I'll come next time. As the actress said to the bishop.'

The upstairs balcony bar in Cafe Ici had changed since Logan was in there last. In the old days it'd been covered in black and white tiles like a Victorian urinal; now it was all magnolia walls and projected lighting effects. The downstairs bar was virtually empty not too surprising for six forty-five on a Sunday night, but upstairs seemed to be hosting some sort of reading group. As Logan cleared the top of the stairs he could see about a dozen people at various tables with well-thumbed paperbacks of Ian Rankin's Black and Blue. The talk was low and animated.