Broken Skin (33 page)

52

There was still no sign of Insch, but it didn't make Logan feel any better: whatever the inspector was up to, it just postponed the bollocking he was going to get for last night's fiasco. So when Colin Miller called it was all the excuse he needed to get the hell out of FHQ.

A cold wind whipped through the streets, the sky opaque and milky-grey as Logan drove up Schoolhill, making for the maternity hospital. A crowd of nervous fathers-to-be and knackered fathers-already-been clustered just around the corner from the hospital doors, smoking. Miller was on the outskirts, yawning his head off, a cigarette cupped in his hand as if he was trying to hide it. He barely looked at Logan, took one last drag and dropped the butt, grinding it into the concrete with his foot. 'Here.' The reporter pulled a thick envelope from his pocket and handed it over.

'What's this?'

'Read it.'

Inside were about two dozen bank statements belonging to Frank Garvie. 'How did you--'

'I didn't. Whoever you got them from it wasnae me.'

Logan flicked through the sheets. Most of Garvie's purchases were online, bits of electronic equipment and gadgets. 'What am I supposed to be looking ...' He frowned - there was a payment into Garvie's account every month marked BACS, that would be his salary, but there were others, cheques coming in at regular intervals.

Miller unwrapped a packet of extra strong mints and stuffed three in his mouth: crunching. 'Bloke rents out encrypted server space.'

'Did you--'

'No idea what you're talkin' about.' And the reporter marched back through the doors into the maternity hospital.

Logan called Force Headquarters, looking for Insch, even though he
really
didn't want to speak to him. Voicemail. He left a vague message and tried DI Steel instead. '
Don't care
.' Then there was a chest-rattling cough and some swearing. '
Better off when
I was bloody smoking ... Garvie's no' getting any less
dead, is he? And I've got whoever battered Rob
Bastarding Macintyre to worry about: search teams are
a waste of bloody time, door-to-doors are useless and
everyone who says they left the nightclub with the wee
footballing shite can't remember a thing. Blootered out their faces. And the CC's getting right up my
...' she went on for a bit, but Logan had stopped listening. He was scribbling down the cheque numbers paid into Garvie's account. When she finally hung up, he crossed his fingers and dialled the PF's office, hoping to get anyone other than Rachael.

He wasn't lucky. There was an awkward pause, then she said, '
You didn't call
.'

Bollocks. He wandered away from the maternity ward, heading back to where he'd parked as the first spits of rain put a dull sheen on the ranks of cars. 'I'm sorry. It's been ... Macintyre and Fettes and ...' And he was a spineless bastard who should have phoned up and cancelled.

'
Boeuf
bourguignon
. I had to throw half of it out
.'

Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot. 'I'm really, really sorry.'

Another pause. Then a sigh. '
I've never gone out
with a policeman before. Is this what it's like? Never
knowing if you'll be there or not?
'

Logan closed his eyes and tried not to think about where this was leading. 'Pretty much, yeah.' Tell her. 'I--'

'
What do
--' She stopped. '
You first
.'

'I ...' TELL HER! 'I need to ID some people from their cheque numbers.'

He drove back to FHQ, cursing himself all the way. Rachael had forgiven him for not turning up and promised to get back to him as soon as she'd got a warrant together, so now he felt doubly guilty ...

The incident room was quiet, just a single uniformed constable, dribbling information into HOLMES as it came in. Apparently the hunt for Rob Macintyre's little red hatchback was running out of steam, they'd searched every street in a two-mile radius from the footballer's house and come up empty. The question was: how did Macintyre's mum know to get rid of the damn thing? His fiancee had given a pretty convincing performance this morning, as if she
genuinely
didn't know what her beloved was up to - or didn't want to believe it - that left the boot-faced old cow who'd been lying for Robert since the day he was born. It wasn't hard to see her brow-beating Ashley until she toed the party line: '
Yes officer, Robert was with me all night
.'

Ashley was the weak link. There had to be a way to break her.

He was still trying to figure out how when Insch stormed into the incident room looking about ready to burst - scarlet, puffy face, gritted teeth, angry, piggy eyes. Logan scrambled to his feet. Here it came.

'Well, don't just stand there: get your coat!'

'But ... Garvie: I'm waiting on--'

'NOW!'

Logan grabbed his jacket and followed in the huge man's wake as he thundered out of the room and down the stairs. Sergeant Eric Mitchell was halfway out of his seat as they marched past, then he caught the expression on Insch's face and sat right down again, keeping his mouth shut.

All the way through the building and out to the rear podium car park, constables, sergeants, ancillary staff and inspectors got the hell out of the huge man's way. He marched up to his filthy Range Rover, plipped the locks, then threw the keys to Logan. 'You're driving.'

There was a brand new Magic Tree air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror. 'Where to?'

'Can you believe that bastard Finnie? How the hell he
ever
got to be a bloody DI ...' Insch went hunting in the glove compartment, coming out with a tiny packet of Jelly Tots, shoving them in his mouth one at a time. 'You'd think we were all supposed to be on the same side: solve crime, keep the streets safe, put bloody crooks away. But not Finnie,
no
he has to be the
big
man.'

Logan knew better than to ask. Instead he started the inspector's car and pointed it in the direction of Mastrick, already having a pretty shrewd idea where the fat man's rant was heading.

'Where does he get off telling the DCS to cancel my lookout request? Not in the interests of his ongoing investigation, my arse!' Insch threw the last little disk in his mouth and crushed the packet in his huge fist. 'When I get my hands on him I'll ...' The words stopped coming, but the inspector went on trembling with rage, breathing in and out through his nose, doing his calming-down exercises again. It was getting more alarming every time Logan saw it. Never mind thirteen stone, at this rate Insch would be dead long before he lost any of it. 'Right,' said the fat man, when he was finally back to a nearly normal shade of pink, 'we're looking for Jimmy Duff, so get your backside ...' he trailed off as Logan pulled up to the kerb, directly opposite the address Ma Stewart had taken them to last time. Where Jimmy Duff was supposed to live. 'Oh ... right.'

Logan went to unclip his seatbelt, but Insch's huge hand covered his own. Holding it in place. 'Well?'

Here it came. 'I called her work this morning, then I checked with the hotel and convention centre in Bristol, and the airport, and--'

'
Today
, Sergeant!'

'Her alibi looks sound, sir. Sorry.'

Insch nodded, but didn't let go of Logan's hand. Instead he increased the pressure slightly, until Logan's bones started to groan. 'You mean to tell me I pissed off the only person in my entire cast who was any bloody good because you got it
wrong
?' The pressure increased again. Now it was actively painful.

'Ah ... yes, sir, sorry, sir!' Logan tried to make his hand go limp, before Insch squeezed the life out of it. 'Do you think you could--'

'If I can't get her back, Sergeant, I'm going to have your bollocks on a plate. Are we crystal clear on that?' And all the time the inspector's voice never rose above a polite conversational level, his face didn't even go red as he threatened Logan. Which somehow made it even worse.

'Yes, sir!'

'Good.' He let go, then clambered out into the sunny morning, leaving Logan to lock the car. As soon as the fat man's feet hit the pavement his phone started to ring -
Behold the Lord High
Executioner
sounding in the cold morning air. He switched it off.

Then the Airwave handset in Logan's pocket started bleeping at him. 'McRae.' He flexed his fingers, trying to get some life back into them as he followed Insch up the path to the front door.

'
What the fuck is wrong with you?
'

Logan pulled the thing away from his ear and frowned at the illuminated display, looking to see if he recognized the caller's badge number, as the voice on the other end went into a full-blown rant about teamwork and loyalty and what would happen to them if they didn't turn round and get the hell away from that bloody house!

'Sir,' he said, tapping Insch on the shoulder before the big man could start pounding on the front door, 'I think it's for you.'

Insch took the handset and mashed the off button with a huge thumb, passed it back, then started knocking so hard it felt as if the whole front of the house was vibrating. 'OPEN UP!'

Logan closed his eyes and swore quietly to himself - the inspector might not give a toss about his own career, but Logan
really
didn't want to get hauled up in front of Professional Standards yet again.

Finally the door opened a crack and a sliver of face peered out at them. 'What?' Not a local accent, somewhere between Manchester and Liverpool.

'Jimmy Duff.'

'Do I look like a fucking haggis-muncher?'

'Where is he?'

'How should I know?'

Insch pulled a sheet of paper from his inside pocket. 'I've got a warrant here for his arrest. You can hand him over, or I can force entry and have a good look round. Up to you.'

'Hold on.' The face disappeared and the door closed. Two minutes later it opened again, and a battered and dazed figure was unceremoniously thrust out into the sunshine: tall, brown hair, sideburns, but the nose wasn't just squint any more: it'd been flattened. Dried blood outlined the nostrils in crumbling black; mouth and cheeks swollen; bruises hiding the man's natural pallor. Duff's right leg was encased in fresh plaster, and so was his left arm, all the fingers splinted together on that hand. Someone had given him a proper going over, but Jimmy Duff felt no pain.

He stood, wobbling on the top step, pupils constricted to tiny black pinpricks. Insch grabbed him by the collar, dragged him back to the Range Rover, and climbed in after him, shouting at Logan to get a bloody move on.

Sighing, Logan climbed in behind the wheel. This would all end in tears, he just knew it.

* * *

DI Steel was standing outside interview room one when Logan came back from the canteen with a tray of black coffees. 'You know the DCS is going mental, don't you?'

Logan groaned. 'Don't look at me, I'm--'

'You've got about half an hour before it all hits the fan.' She sniffed, then nodded her head at the interview-room door. 'Going to get a confession by then?'

'Doubt it: Duff's smacked off his tits.'

The inspector nodded sagely. 'Right, well, let me know when he's back
on
his tits again. If we're lucky they'll have suspended DI Fat And Grumpy by then and we can all get on with our lives.' She tipped him a wink, then helped herself to one of his coffees, said, 'Cheers,' and wandered off.

Through in the interview room, Insch was wasting his time. There was no way Jimmy Duff was going to say anything coherent in the state he was in, and whatever he
did
say wasn't going to be admissible in court.

Duff rocked back and forth in his seat, clutching his broken arm to his chest, trembling and sweating, mumbling about the walls being too loud while the inspector kept hammering on about Jason Fettes. Not surprisingly, four black coffees did nothing to straighten Duff out, they just made him twitch faster.

Steel had underestimated the Detective Chief Superintendent - it was only twelve minutes before the knock came on the interview-room door and the DCS barged in without waiting for a reply. 'DI Insch,' he said, voice like a sharpened knife, hooking his thumb over his shoulder at the corridor outside, 'suspend your interview and join me out here, please.
Now
.'

When the door was closed, Logan sat back in his seat and swore. Insch had really done it this time. The head of CID had looked apoplectic. DI Finnie would be screaming blue murder about his operation being ruined, and all so they could drag a doped-up halfwit in to drink coffee, twitch, and complain about the decor trying to kill him.

Jimmy Duff leaned across the table, his one good hand scratching at the Formica, as if it was itchy, and stared Logan straight in the eye. 'I wanted to be a fireman.'

Yesterday it had been Macintyre's mother shouting the odds in the cell block: today it was Jimmy Duff, screaming about snakes and policemen made of broken glass. Logan left him to it. There was some sort of 'who can tell the filthiest anecdote' competition going on in the CID office, with DI Steel adjudicating: giving points for originality, creativity, and pure smut. Which probably meant she was avoiding paperwork and Logan would be lumbered with it instead.

DS Beattie was in the middle of his 'two pokes of chips for a blowjob' story when a familiar polyphonic ring tone sounded in the room. Groans of 'Not a-bloody-gain!' and everyone patted their pockets, pulling out various phones and declaring it not to be them. It took Logan nearly eight rings to find his mobile, buried in the nest of wires, plugs and rechargers piled up on the desk by the window. 'McRae.'

'
Logan, hi
.' It was Rachel. '
I've been onto the
bank's
legal people. Took some doing, but they've come
back with names. I can email them?
'