Broken Skin Part 25

Logan was about to ask Rickards if they'd come to the right place when the constable marched up to the nearest table and asked a heavily built woman in a suit if she wanted the same as usual. A number of the others turned and waved h.e.l.lo, then stopped to stare at Logan, before losing interest and going back to their conversations. He joined Rickards at the bar. 'I thought you said this was-'

'You want a pint, or a pint and a nip?'

'Please.' Logan turned and scanned the a.s.sembled book-lovers. They looked like lawyers, bankers, insurance brokers, accountants, middle managers ... they looked ... they looked normal. A couple could have been described as 'a bit bohemian', but he'd been expecting outrageous piercings, shaved heads and tattoos. It was all a bit disappointing.

'Here you go.' A pint of Stella and a tiny gla.s.s full to the brim with something very cold and clear. Rickards had the same.

'You know,' said Logan, taking an experimental sniff, trying to figure out what it was he'd just been given a shot of: vodka? 'I have to admit, I wasn't expecting this.' He pointed at the people Rickards had come here to meet.

'Told you it wasn't a freak show.'

That was true. 'What's with the books?'

'It's how you tell someone's in the Aberdeen scene. You all meet up in a certain place, and if they've got a copy of Black and Blue, you go say h.e.l.lo.'

'I didn't know Ian Rankin was-'

'No: bits of the book are set up here and it's called Black and Blue. Eh? Black and Blue!' Really labouring the point. 'Thought it was pretty obvious actually...'

Logan looked at him.

'Sorry, sir.'

'"Sir", eh?' A shortish, chunky woman with green eyes and a hazel ponytail, expensive-looking casual clothes and an empty gla.s.s. 'You got yourself a new top, John?'

Rickards went the same colour as a baboon's a.r.s.e. 'We're not ... he's not ... we...'

Logan stepped in and helped out. 'I'm his boss. We work together. I'm not "in the scene".'

'Yeah?' She rested her weight on one leg, the other stuck out at a jaunty angle, hands on hips like the princ.i.p.al boy in a pantomime and looked him up and down. 'Well, it takes all sorts I suppose.' She poked Rickards in the chest. 'Buy a girl a drink, Sailor?'

The constable did the honours.

Less than an hour later and Logan had discovered there was very little difference between Rickards' bondage buddies and Insch's theatre troupe. Both sets spoke their own language of acronyms and euphemisms, both told anecdotes about people Logan didn't know, and both if he was being one hundred per cent honest got a bit boring after the first thirty minutes. And no one seemed to know anything about Frank Garvie. Apparently the north-east hosted about a half dozen different munches, where the various bondage communities got together to socialize, and not everyone mingled. If Garvie was active in the Ellon scene he wouldn't necessarily be meeting with the Aberdeen crowd. And some people didn't like to be known in their local communities which explained why most of those he spoke to had names like 'Mistress Maureen' and 'Kinky Dave'. G.o.d knew what Garvie called himself.

The similarities between the constable's friends and Insch's became even more obvious when the woman who'd thought Logan was Rickards' new top cornered him at the bar and told him all about the time she'd played the lead in Jack and the Beanstalk. Going on about the feeling of freedom that comes with becoming someone you're not, someone with no limits, willing to open themselves up to new experiences. If you only ever eat vanilla, how will you ever discover double chocolate caramel fudge?

Logan smiled and nodded and wondered what the h.e.l.l he'd been thinking coming here in the first place. She gave him another look up and down, as if she was measuring him up for a leather harness. 'You've never tried it, have you?'

'No.'

'What do you think I am: top, bottom, dom, or sub?'

'Er...' he didn't have a clue what the difference was between a bottom and a sub; weren't they the same thing? But whatever this woman was, it wasn't submissive. 'Top?'

She beamed at him. 'Wrong! Because that's not where the power is.'

'Right, right...' downing the last of his pint with a gulp, eyeing the exit.

'Think about it: who wields the power, the person whipping, or the person being whipped?'

'Well, I-'

'If I'm being whipped it's for my pleasure. It's being done to arouse me, the guy on the end of the whip is just a prop it isn't about him, it just looks like it. You see-'

'Ahh.' Logan leapt upright, then fumbled in his pocket. 'Sorry, got the phone on vibrate; scares the h.e.l.l out of me when it goes off.' He pushed a b.u.t.ton and the screen lit up. 'd.a.m.n, excuse me: I've got to take this... h.e.l.lo?... Yes... OK, hold on...' Mobile clamped to his ear, Logan grabbed his jacket, hurried down the staircase and out into the cold night air.

Union Street glowed like a Christmas tree with the constant swoosh of yellow headlights and scarlet brakes beneath a plum-coloured sky. Sunday night in early March and about fifty per cent of the people wandering about didn't even have a jacket on, not caring that it was below freezing. Half-naked teenagers rubbed shoulders with people old enough to know better, all out to get absolutely rat-a.r.s.ed and cop a feel in some darkened corner of a pub or club.

Logan stopped pretending there was someone on the other end of the phone and checked his messages instead. Still nothing from Jackie. He called the flat again. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring: answer phone. He hung up and tried her mobile instead. 'Jackie? You want to go grab a bite, or a pint or something?'

The reception wasn't wonderful, but it was good enough to hear her turning him down. She wasn't in the mood still furious about the whole Macintyre thing. Knowing her, she'd come lurching back to the flat at three in the morning, smelling of booze and kebab. Well fine, she could sulk if she wanted, he was going to go home, order a pizza, find a decent movie on Sky, and spend the rest of the evening on the sofa. Not exactly a mad, whirlwind existence, but it was better than moping about like a spoilt brat. Sooner or later she'd just have to come to terms with the fact that Rob Macintyre wasn't guilty.

The gate creaks beneath his hands as he vaults over it in the dark, sending a small flurry of icy water droplets sparkling in the gloom. Everything is shrouded in night, shapes and features indistinct, even to his eyes and he has excellent night vision but he's not worried. He knows there's no one there to see him. There never is. The police are so f.u.c.king stupid it's unbelievable! He grins, jogging lightly along the small lane hidden between the back gardens, making for the cl.u.s.ter of garages and parking s.p.a.ces at the end. Did they really think he didn't know they were there? That he needed that slimy lawyer b.a.s.t.a.r.d to tell him he was being watched?

But it'd been the lawyer's idea to get it all on video. He'd have loved to have seen their faces when they watched that.

Grinning, he unlocks the door of the anonymous small red hatchback, throws his kit bag in the back and climbs in behind the wheel. Number Nine is in for a treat tonight. He's celebrating. No more police. No more accusations. Just him and a long line of tasty b.i.t.c.hes, all dying for him to show them what happens when you play with fire. Lucky Number Nine.

He wonders what she'll look like.

39.

Aberdeen had done its usual bipolar trick after the weekend's freezing temperatures, snow, sleet and wind, Monday morning was surprisingly warm. Lulling everyone into a false sense of security with its blue skies, wispy clouds and snowdrops. It would have been pleasant, standing in a little suntrap in Cults, s.h.i.+elded from the wind by a row of granite shops, if it wasn't for the blaring alarm bolted to the off-licence wall. 'I STILL DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT WE'RE DOING HERE!'

'WHAT?' Steel cupped a hand over her ear and Logan repeated himself. 'OH,' she yelled, 'I'VE GOT A SOCIAL WORK REVIEW FOR THAT b.l.o.o.d.y SEAN MORRISON CASE AND I CAN'T BE a.r.s.eD-' the alarm fell silent, '-LISTENING TO ALL THAT s.h.i.+TE ABOUT... Oh. Right.' The small crowd of onlookers were staring at her as if she was some sort of dancing monkey. 'Ahem, yes, well, as I said, carry on, Sergeant.'

The key-holder bolted from the off-licence door, hands over his head, screaming for help as an empty bottle of whisky soared past his ear and shattered against the pavement. 'He tried to kill me!' He was closely followed by PC Rickards and a volley of gin bottles. They screeched to a halt behind the patrol car parked at the kerb.

'Well, Spanky?' asked Steel, sauntering over with her hands in her pockets. 'You talk him down like I asked you to?'

A full bottle of brandy spun end over end from the doorway, exploding in a shower of sparkling gla.s.s and amber liquid. The key-holder looked as if he was about to faint. 'That stuff's ninety quid a bottle!'

Rickards pulled on a sickly smile and shrugged. 'Sorry, ma'am.'

She shook her head. 'Never send a bondage freak to do a lesbian's job.' Steel hooked a finger in Logan's direction. 'Come on Lazarus, you go first: he might get frisky.'

Logan edged along the wall and peered through the shop window. The place was a mess, bottles littering the wooden floorboards, some full, some empty, some smashed. No sign of the intruder. He- A bottle crashed into the window by his head, turning the safety gla.s.s into a cracked spider's web as advocaat oozed down the inside. Logan stared at Steel who shrugged back at him.

'Soon as you're ready.'

Logan poked his head round the open door and shouted, 'We only want to talk!' That got him four tins of Tennants and a bottle of Merlot. The wine smashed, but the cans just dented, then fizzed out spumes of lager all over the place. Taking a deep breath he dashed inside. The shop was a long rectangle, stretching away from the front window shelves on all walls, counter and gla.s.s-fronted fridges on the right, display stands of wine on the left and a limp leg being dragged behind a stack of Australian sparkling. Logan charged for the counter, vaulting it as a Drambuie hand grenade exploded on the shelves beside him. He dived to the floor, scrabbling forwards on his hands and knees as more gla.s.s burst above, showering him in gin, whisky and vodka.

DI Steel shouted in from outside: 'You got him yet?'

Swearing quietly, Logan eased himself to the edge of the counter and peeked round. The intruder was slumped back against a stack of Italian wine, swigging from a bottle of Talisker, his left leg bent back at a very funny angle. He pulled the bottle from his mouth and belched, and that was when Logan recognized him. 'Tony?' The man turned a bleary, bloodshot eye in his direction, the other squinted shut, presumably to help him focus. 'Jesus, Tony, what the h.e.l.l have you done to yourself?'

'Fffff...' He waved the bottle at Logan. 'Fffff.u.c.kin' fell, did ... didn't I?' He pointed at the unnaturally bent leg and Logan realized what the lump sticking out of the side of Tony's calf was.

'We need to get you an ambulance Tony, OK? You've fractured your leg.'

The man wobbled a bit. 'Does ... doesn't hurt ... at all!' And took another swig. 'Fffff.u.kin' skylight b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!' He grabbed a bottle of rioja and sent it flying out the front door. Even drunk on his a.r.s.e the man's aim was impressive.

'Come on, Tony, let me help you. I'm drowning in booze here...'

'Iss, isss...' He belched, winced, and rubbed at his chest. 'Iss too late. Only wannnned some money. Couple of hunnerd, tops. Juss ... juss enough. Eh?' More Talisker disappeared. 'Pa.s.sssport. Gonnae take mother on ... on... Florida! See Mickey Mouse! Big ... big f.u.c.kin' mouse.'

Logan pulled out his phone and called for an ambulance.

'Cannnn go see Mickey Mouse withow ... withow pa.s.sport.'

'Ambulance is on it's way Tony. You'll be OK. You going to come outside with me? Sit in the sun? Much nicer out there.'

'Fffffff... no can't get pa.s.ssssport back. Have ... have to ... you like horses?' Tony giggled and helped himself to more whisky. 'I like horses! But ... but money ... too much money...' He leant forward, tapping his nose conspiratorially, his voice a wet, loud whisper as he keeled over onto his face, 'Ma woan ... woan let me...' THUD! 'Pa.s.sssssport. Big f.u.c.kin' mouse ...' He was snoring long before the ambulance got there.

'You smell like a brewery.' Steel was sitting on a low granite wall, rewarding herself for her inspirational leaders.h.i.+p with a cigarette.

'Thanks for your help.' Logan peeled off his coat and tried wringing the alcohol from the sodden sleeves, already starting to feel a little light-headed from the fumes. 'He breaks in about three in the morning, bypa.s.ses the alarm with a set of crocodile clips, only the rope he's using to lower himself in through the skylight breaks. He falls about eighteen feet, smashes his mobile phone, breaks his leg and lies there in agony. Then realizes he's surrounded by bottles of DIY anaesthetic-'

Steel laughed, bellowing out a cloud of second-hand smoke that ended in a coughing fit. 'Christ,' she said when it had all settled down again, 'think I weed myself a little bit...'

'Owner turns up at half eight to open up and do a stock take, only before he can enter the alarm code he's being pelted with pinot grigio and sweet sherry.'

The inspector doubled up, slapping her thigh and hooting with laughter as Logan told her how Tony Burnett had only done it to get back his pa.s.sport security against a loan from Ma Stewart to cover his losses on the Hennessy Gold Cup.

'Brilliant,' she said, wiping a tear from her eye. 'Silly b.u.g.g.e.r could have just gone got himself a replacement pa.s.sport, but he goes and does a Mission Impossible in Oddbins instead!' And she was off again.

It didn't look like much from the outside, which just went to show: sometimes you could judge a bookies by its cover. J Stewart & Son Bookmakers est. 1974 was the sort of place that gave old men and their phlegm somewhere to hang out drinking tins of special till the last race was run and it was time to go home for their tea. The betting shop's name was purely ornamental: J Stewart Snr was long dead, and the '& Son' had run off to London with a marine biologist called Marcus. So now it was just Donna 'Ma' Stewart: sole proprietor, widow, and one of Logan's first-ever arrests.

The place wasn't quite empty: there was a handful of auld mannies in bunnets and anoraks, fidgeting uncomfortably under the NO SMOKING signs as the horses for the Sparrows Offsh.o.r.e Handicap Hurdle from Ayr jerked and pirouetted to the starting line on half a dozen widescreen televisions bolted to the wall.

Ma Stewart was behind the counter, draped over some s.h.i.+ny celebrity gossip magazine, one fat cheek supported by a beringed hand as she flicked through the pages, giving Logan and Rickards a perfect view of pasty, wobbling cleavage. Ma's ratty grey hair was swept up on top in a bun, the chain for her gla.s.ses glittering against a violently colourful blouse. She didn't look up till they were standing at the counter. 'Afternoon, what...' and then she recognized Logan and beamed at him. 'Sergeant McRae! How lovely! You don't come round nearly often enough! Have you eaten?' Turning to bellow through the back, 'Denise! Get the kettle on, and see if we've still got any pizza left.'

A m.u.f.fled, 'A'm busy!' came from the open doorway behind the desk.

'Get the b.l.o.o.d.y kettle on, or I'll make your Michael look like a b.l.o.o.d.y pacifist!'

'A' right, a' right...'

And the matronly smile was unleashed on Logan again. 'There we go. What can we do for you? You're looking lovely by the way; you got some sun, didn't you? Hasn't the weather been dreadful!'

Logan knew Ma Stewart wasn't a day over sixty, but she looked anything between fifty and a hundred and three in that strange, ambiguous way fat old ladies have. The wrinkles smoothed out from the inside by layers of subcutaneous lard. He tried not to cringe as she lent across the desk and pinched his cheek. 'Honestly,' she tutted, 'you're nothing but skin and bone. That woman of yours isn't feeding you properly! Marcus is just the same with our Norman, it's all tai chi and no tatties.'

'I need to speak to you about Tony Burnett, Ma.'

'And who's your little friend?' She turned the smile on Rickards who stammered and stuttered. 'Oh, a shy one! We like him! Denise! Where's that b.l.o.o.d.y tea?'

'Coming! f.u.c.k's sake...'

'Anyway, I was just saying the other day that we don't get enough policemen in these days. Oh it's not like it was when my Jamesy was alive, we-'

'We've asked you not to confiscate pa.s.sports as collateral, Ma.'

'Especially with the Cheltenham Gold Cup coming up; you could have a sweepstake down the station!'

'The pa.s.sports, Ma...'

A short woman with a black eye pushed through from the back room, carrying a tray with four teas on it and what looked like reheated pizza slices. 'I've no milk, so it's that evaporated stuff from a tin or nothin'.'

They took their tea and microwaved spicy American in Ma's office: a small room out back, the walls and ceiling lined with varnished tongue-and-groove wooden floorboards like a homemade sauna. Ma Stewart had a thing for little porcelain figurines of Scottie dogs, and photos of her grandchildren: the whole place was festooned with them. A little old-fas.h.i.+oned transistor radio sat on a high shelf, dribbling music into the potpourri-scented room as they ate. 'Have you been watching that Celebrity Pop Idol?' said Ma, taking a big bite of reheated pizza. 'I never would have thought that coloured man off the news had such a lovely voice.'

Logan tuned her out. She was always a nightmare to deal with. Not obstreperous, just ... nice. And completely b.l.o.o.d.y oblivious. And how on earth did she find enough time to dust all these nasty wee china dogs? He looked around the room. Maybe they should just... There was a plain brown box sitting the floor by Ma Stewart's desk, right next to Logan's feet; the top open just far enough for him to make out the words Lesbo Nurses. He picked it up, and emptied it out onto the desk. It was a pick-and-mix of hardcore p.o.r.n, and right at the bottom a copy of In Deep Sheep: Five and other 'animal husbandry' t.i.tles.

'Oh Ma, not again!'

'What?' She dabbed at her scarlet lips with a pristine hanky. Logan settled back in his seat and stared at her, his bit of pizza solidifying on its paper plate. 'Oh, all right!' she said at last. 'So sometimes I sell a few naughty movies to people who can't get out on their own. Where's the harm in that? Half these poor old dears can't even get it up, never mind do anything else!' She leaned forward, exposing her cleavage again, tapping on the desk with a bright-red nail. 'If I can help spark the flames of their wrinkly ardour, I will. It's my public duty. Not like it's illegal or anything.'

Logan groaned. 'Yes it is! You have to be a licensed s.e.x shop to sell R-eighteen movies! And this stuff...' he poked the cover of Farmyard Frolics, 'isn't legal anywhere.'

'You're not eating your pizza... You want some cake? We've got some Battenburg Denise's other half works in a baker's and we get all sorts in here-'

'Ma: the DVDs. Where did you get them?'

An exasperated breath sent the pale cleavage heaving. 'Can we not come to some sort of arrangement? I mean, I didn't know it was against the law! I would never-'

'Where!'

She pouted. 'You used to be such a nice young man... Are you sure you don't want some cake?'

The search team Logan had called in from FHQ made bulls in china shops look like ballet dancers, much to the distress of Ma Stewart, who stood at the epicentre of destruction shouting, 'Be careful with that! It's a family heirloom!'

'Everything's a family b.l.o.o.d.y heirloom,' muttered a PC, sticking one of the millions of china dogs in a cardboard box.

Ma turned pleading eyes on Logan. 'Oh, do make them be careful!'

'Find anything yet?'

Rickards pointed at a pair of cardboard boxes sitting on top of a cleared desk. 'Movies. Nothing too filthy, just the latest blockbusters, all stuff still in the cinema.'

Logan gave Ma Stewart a chance to explain herself and she puffed up like a prize pigeon. 'It's for my old folks,' she said with her nose in the air. 'They can't get out to the pictures, so I bring the magic of Hollywood to them. There's nothing wrong with that!'