Broken Skin (37 page)

BLOOD

59

Opening night and DI Insch's band of merry troubadours were doing their best to murder Gilbert and Sullivan in front of a crowd of friends and relatives. Logan sat on his own in the darkness of the Arts Centre, surrounded by strangers. Brooding. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the thing he'd found in Jackie's bedside cabinet, twisting it back and forth between his fingers for the umpteenth time that evening. Even in the muted light it glittered. He'd been hunting for the spare set of flat keys - the ones Jackie always borrowed because she kept losing her own - and there it was ...

The noise coming from the front of the theatre grew to a crescendo, dragging him back to the land of the living. They'd finally made it to the finale. Two curtain calls, one encore, a short speech from DI Insch about how hard everyone had worked, flowers for the leading ladies, round of applause, and off to the bar.

The little space was crowded, thespians spilling in from the changing rooms, beaming with pride as their nearest and dearest told them how wonderful they'd been. Even the crap ones.

Logan jostled his way through to a small clearing, clutching a bottle of Newcastle Brown and wishing he hadn't said he'd go out for a curry after the show. He really wasn't in the mood.

Someone slapped him on the back and he turned to find Rennie beaming at him: face all polished and shiny, traces of stage makeup still hiding in his hairline. 'Well, was we brilliant or what?'

Logan lied and said he'd enjoyed it.

'Can you believe we got Debs back? Insch had to do some
serious
grovelling, but--'

'You heard anything from Rickards?'

'Not a peep. Went up there this afternoon, nurse said he wasn't having visitors. Oh, ta ...' he accepted a bottle of beer from one of the three little maids from school - Logan couldn't remember which one - and took a hearty swig. 'Mind you, don't blame him, poor bastard. Breakdown is what I heard.'

Logan wasn't surprised: if he closed his eyes he could still see the back of Tina's head splattering all over the kitchen window in slow motion. Scarlet drops and grey chunks as she falls lifeless to the floor, still clutching Rickards, showering him with blood and brain and little shards of bone as he screams and screams and screams ... And she'd been his friend. No wonder he couldn't cope.

'Just between you and me,' said Rennie, leaning in to whisper over the hubbub, 'I think he'll be going off on the stress. A dead woman clutching your dick can't be good for you. You know: mentally. I think ...' he stopped, staring off through the crowd. DI Insch was glad-handing his way towards them, accepting compliments left, right, and centre. 'Whatever you do, don't mention Finnie, OK? He's got a right bee in his-- Inspector: look who I found!'

Insch looked like a vast, overstuffed penguin in his dinner jacket and bow tie. 'Can you believe that bastard Finnie?' he asked, then took a swig from his Guinness. 'What the hell did they think they were doing, making a tit like that Detective Chief Inspector?'

Rennie groaned, rolling his eyes when Insch wasn't looking.

Logan ignored him. 'Well, he did bring in half a million quid's worth of cocaine, they probably--'

The inspector's face darkened. 'Four hundred thousand. Not half a million.' He cast an eye over the assembled crowd. 'Where's Watson?'

'Back shift.' And then Logan changed the subject, steering them round to the
Mikado
again, listening to them bang on about what a great show it was. Not wanting to talk about Jackie, or think about the thing in his pocket. And then Insch had to go be congratulated by someone else, Rennie was dragged off for a photograph, and Logan was alone again. He finished off his beer and wandered out into the cold night, standing on the top step of the Arts Centre, watching the slow-fire blink of tail lights the length of King Street.

He pulled the thing from his pocket once more - the thing he'd found in Jackie's bedside cabinet - holding it up so it sparkled in the city's sodium glow. A large ruby stud earring, just like the one stolen from Rob Macintyre when he was battered into a coma.

Red, the colour of Aberdeen Football Club.

The colour of fresh blood.

Logan McRae is back in

FLESH HOUSE

Out in hardback, May 2008

Turn the page to read an exclusive sneak preview

30 October 1987

'No, you listen to me: if my six-year-old son isn't back here in ten minutes I'm going to come round there and rip you a new arsehole, are we clear?' Ian McLaughlin slapped a hand over the phone's mouthpiece and shouted at his wife to turn that bloody racket down. Then back to the idiot on the other end of the phone: 'Where the hell is he?'

'
When I got back from the pub they were gone,
OK? Catherine's not here either
...
maybe she took
the boys for a walk?
'

'A WALK? It's pissing down, pitch black, freezing cold--'

'What? What's wrong?' - Sharon stood at the door to the living room, wearing the witch costume she'd bought from Woolworths, the one that hid her pregnant bulge and made her breasts look enormous.

Ian grunted, not bothering to cover the phone this time. 'It's that moron Davidson: he's lost Jamie.'

'Jamie's missing?' Sharon clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling the shriek. Always overreacting, just like her bloody mother.

'
I never said that! I didn't say he was lost, I just
--'

'If we're late for this bloody party, I'm personally going to see to it that--'

The doorbell: loud and insistent.

'--your life is going to be--'

The doorbell again.

'For God's sake, Sharon, answer the bloody door! I'm on the phone ...'

There was a clunk and a rattle as Sharon finally did what she was told, and then she shrieked again. 'Jamie! Oh Jamie, we were so
worried
!'

Ian stopped mid-rant, staring at the soggy little tableau on the top step: Jamie and his best friend Richard Davidson, holding hands with some idiot in a Halloween costume. 'About bloody time, I told you to be home by five!' The two small boys looked wide eyed and frightened. And so they bloody should be. 'Where the hell have you two been?'

No reply. Typical. And look at the time ... 'Jamie!' Ian hooked his thumb in the direction of the stairs. 'Get your backside up there and get changed. If you're not a Viking in three minutes you're going to the party as a kid in his vest and pants.'

Jamie cast a worried look at his partner in crime, then up at the stranger on the doorstep - the one wearing the blood-stained butcher's apron and Margaret Thatcher fright mask - before slinking up to his room, taking Richard with him. Great, now they'd have to drop the little brat off at his parents' house.

Today was turning into a
complete
nightmare.

20 Years Later

1

Detective Sergeant Logan McRae winced his way across the dark quayside trying not to scald his fingers, making for a scarred offshore container bathed in the harsh glow of police spotlights. The thing was about the size of a domestic bathroom - dented and battered from years of being shipped out to oilrigs in the middle of the North Sea and back again - the blue paint sprinkled with orange rust. A pool of dark red glittered in the Investigation Bureau's lights: blood mingling with oily puddles on the cold concrete, while figures in white oversuits buggered about with cameras and sticky tape and evidence bags.

Four o'clock in the morning, what a
great
start to the day.

The refrigerated container was little more than a metal box, lined with insulating material. A wooden pallet took up most of the floor, loaded up with boxes of frozen peas, chicken bits and other assorted chunks of meat, the brown-grey cardboard going black and saggy as the contents slowly defrosted.

Logan ducked under the cordon of blue and white POLICE tape.

It was impossible to miss Detective Inspector Insch: the man was huge, his SOC coveralls strained to nearly bursting. He had the suit's hood thrown back, exposing a big bald head that glinted in the spotlights. But even he was dwarfed by the looming bulk of the
Brae Explorer
, a massive orange offshore supply vessel parked alongside the quay, all its lights blazing in the purple-black night.

Logan handed one of the Styrofoam cups of tea to Insch. 'They were out of sugar.' That got him some rumbled swearing. He ignored it. 'SKY News have turned up. That makes three television crews, four newspapers and a handful of gawkers.

'Wonderful.' Insch's voice was a dark rumble. 'That's all we need.' He pointed up at the
Brae
Explorer
. 'Those idiots found anything yet?'

'Search team's nearly finished. Other than some incredibly dodgy pornography it's clean. Ship's Captain says the container was only onboard for a couple of hours; someone noticed it was leaking all over the deck, so they got onto the cash and carry it came from. Shut. Apparently the rigs go mad if they don't get their containers on time, so the Captain got someone to try fixing the thing's refrigerator motor.'

Logan took a sip at his still scalding hot tea. 'That's when they found the bits. Mechanic had to shift a couple of boxes of defrosting meat to get at the wiring. Soggy cardboard gave way on one of them, and the contents went everywhere.' He pointed at a small pile of clear plastic evidence pouches, each one full of a chunk of red. 'Soon as he saw what was in there, he called us.'

Insch nodded. 'What about the cash and carry?'

'Firm called Stephenson's in Altens: they supply a couple of offshore catering companies. Frozen meat, veg, toilet paper, tins of beans ... the usual. They don't open till seven am, so it'll be a while before--'

The large man turned a baleful eye in Logan's direction. 'No it won't. Find out who's in charge over there and get the bastard out of his bed. I want a search team up there now.'

'But it--'

'NOW, Sergeant!'

'Yes, sir.' Arguing with Insch wasn't going to get him anywhere. Grumpy bastard. Logan pulled out his mobile phone and wandered off to call Control, getting a search team and warrant organized between mouthfuls of tea. Doing his best to ignore the cameraman circling him like a short, balding shark.

Logan finished the call, then scrunched his polystyrene cup up and ... there was nowhere to get rid of the thing, unless he just chucked it down on the dockside, or over into the water. Neither was going to look good on the television. Embarrassed, he hid it behind his back.

The shark lowered its HDV TV camera - no bigger than a shoebox, with the BBC Scotland logo stencilled on the side - and grinned. 'Perfect. Thought the sound was going to be a bit ropey there, but it's not bad. This is dynamite stuff! Dismembered bodies, boats, tension, mystery. Ooh,' he pointed at the crumpled-up cup in Logan's hand, 'where'd you get the tea: I'm gasping.'

'Thought you were meant to be a fly on the wall, Andy, not a pain in the arse.'

'Aye, well, we all have our--'

Insch's voice bellowed out from the far side of the quay: 'SERGEANT!'

Swear. Count to ten. Sigh. 'If this programme's a success, can I come work for you guys at the BBC instead?'

'See what I can do.' And Andy was off, hurrying to get a good angle on whatever bollocking the inspector was about to dish out.

Logan followed on behind, wishing he'd been assigned to someone, anyone else. Especially as the news from Control wasn't exactly good. These days, talking to Insch was like trying to do an eightsome reel in a minefield. Blindfold. Still, might as well get it over with, 'Sorry, sir, they don't have any bodies spare - everyone's down here and--'

'Bloody hell!' The fat man ran a hand over his big, pink face. 'Why can no one do what they're bloody well told?'

'Another hour or so and we can free up some of the search team here and--'

'I told you, I want it done now. Not in an hour: now.'

'But it's going to take that long to get a search warrant. Surely we should be concentrating on doing a thorough job here--'

The inspector loomed over him: six foot three of angry fat. 'Don't make me tell you twice, Sergeant.'

Logan tried to sound reasonable. 'Even if we pull every uniform off the boat and the docks, they're going to have to sit twiddling their thumbs till the search warrant comes through.'

Insch got as far as 'we don't have time to bugger about with--' before he was tapped on the shoulder by someone dressed in the familiar white SOC oversuit. Someone who didn't look particularly happy.

'I've been waiting for you for fifteen minutes!' Doctor Isobel McAllister, Aberdeen's chief pathologist, wearing an expression that would freeze the balls off a brass gorilla at twenty paces. 'You may not have anything better to do, but I can assure you that I have. Now are you going to listen to my preliminary findings, or shall I just go home and leave you to whatever it is you feel is more
important
?'

Logan groaned. That was all they needed, Isobel winding Insch up even further. As if the grumpy fat sod wasn't bad enough as it was. The inspector turned on her, his face flushing angry-scarlet in the IB spotlights. 'Thank you so much for waiting for me, Doctor, I'm sorry if my
organizing a murder
inquiry
has inconvenienced you. I'll try not to let something as trivial get in the way again.'

They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Then Isobel pulled on a cold, unfriendly smile. 'Remains are human: male. Dismemberment looks like it occurred some time after death with a long, sharp blade and a hacksaw, but I won't be able to confirm that until I've performed the post mortem.' She checked her watch. 'Which will take place at eleven am precisely.'

Insch bristled. 'Oh no it won't! I need those remains analysed now--'

'They're
frozen
, Inspector. They - need - to - defrost.' Emphasizing each word as if she were talking to a naughty child, rather than a huge, bad-tempered Detective Inspector. 'If you want, I suppose I
could
stick them in the canteen microwave for half an hour. But that might not be very professional. What do you think?'

Insch just ground his teeth at her. Face rapidly shifting from angry-red to furious-purple. 'Fine,' he said at last, the word coming out strangled, 'then you can help by accompanying DS McRae to a cash and carry in Altens.'

'And what makes you think I--'

'Of course, if you're too busy, I can always ask one of the other pathologists to take over this case.' It was Insch's turn with the nasty smile. 'I understand the pressure you must be under: working mother, small child, can't really expect the same level of commitment to the job as--'

Isobel looked as if she was about to slap him. 'Don't you
dare
finish that sentence!' She flung an imperious gesture in Logan's direction. 'Get the car, Sergeant, we've got work to do.'

Insch nodded, pulled out his mobile and started dialling. 'Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a call to make ... Hello? ... That West Midlands Police? ... Yes, DI Insch: Grampian CID, I need to speak to Chief Constable Mark Faulds ... Yes, of course I know what time it is!' He turned his back on them and wandered away out of the spotlights.

Isobel scowled after him, then turned and snapped at Logan, 'Well? We haven't got all night.'

They were halfway to the car when a loud, 'Will you FUCK OFF with that bloody camera!' exploded behind them. Logan looked over his shoulder to see Andy scurrying in their direction while the inspector went back to his telephone call.

'Er ...' said the cameraman, catching up to them by Logan's grubby, unmarked CID pool car, 'I wondered if I could tag along with you for a while. Insch is a bit ...' He shrugged. 'You know.'

Logan did. 'Get in. I'll be back in a minute.' It didn't take long to pass the word along: he just grabbed the nearest sergeant and asked her to give it forty-five minutes, then tell everyone to finish up and get their backsides over to Altens.

Andy was in full whinge when Logan got back to the car, 'I mean,' the cameraman said, leaning forward from the back seat - knee-deep in discarded chip papers and fast-food cartons - 'If he didn't want to be in the bloody series, why'd he volunteer? Always seemed really keen till now. He shouted at me - I had my headphones on, nearly blew my eardrums out.'

Logan shrugged, threading the car through the barricade of press cameras, microphones and spotlights. 'You're lucky. He shouts at me every bloody day.'

Isobel just sat there in frosty silence, seething.

Stephenson's Cash and Carry was a long breeze-block warehouse in Altens: a soulless business park on the southernmost tip of Aberdeen. Inside it was huge, rows and rows of high, deep shelves stretching off into the distance, made miserable by the flicker of fluorescent lighting and the drone of piped muzak. The manager's office was halfway up the end wall, a flight of concrete steps leading to a shiny blue door with 'YOUR SMILE IS OUR GREATEST ASSET' written on it. If that was the case, they were all screwed, because everyone looked bloody miserable.

For someone who'd been dragged out of his bed at four in the morning, the man in charge of Stephenson's Cash and Carry looked bloody awful. Bags under the eyes, blue stubble on his jowly face, wearing a suit that probably cost a fortune, but looked like someone had died in it. Mr Stephenson peered out of the picture window that made up one wall of his office, watching as uniformed officers picked their way through the shelves of jelly babies, washing powder and baked beans. 'Oh God ...'

'And you're quite sure,' said Logan, sitting in a creaky leather sofa with a cup of coffee and a chocolate biscuit, 'there haven't been any break-ins?'

'No. I mean, yes. I'm sure.' Stephenson crossed his arms, paced back and forth, uncrossed his arms. Sat down. Stood up again. 'It can't have come from here: we've got someone on-site twenty-four-seven, a state-of-the-art security system.'

Logan had met their state-of-the-art security system - it was a sixty-eight-year-old man named Colin. Logan had sneezed more alert things than him.

Stephenson went back to the window. 'Have you tried speaking to the ship's crew? Maybe they--'

'Who supplies your meat, Mr Stephenson?'

'It ... depends what it is. Some of the prepackaged stuff comes from local butchers - it's cheaper than hiring someone in-house to hack it up - the rest comes from Abattoirs. We use three--' He flinched as a loud, rattling crash came from the cash and carry floor below, followed by a derisory cheer and some slow handclapping. 'You promised me they'd be careful! We're open in an hour and a half; I can't have customers seeing the place in a mess.'

Logan shook his head. 'I think you've got more important things to worry about, sir.'

Stephenson stared at him. 'I don't ... no. You can't think we had anything to do with this! We're a family firm. We've been here for nearly thirty years.'

'That container came from your cash and carry with bits of human meat in it.'

'But--'

'How many other shipments do you think went out to the rigs like that? What if you've been selling chunks of dead bodies to catering companies for months? Do you think the guy's who've been eating chopped-up corpses offshore are going to be happy about it?'

Mr Stephenson blanched and said, 'Oh God ...' again.

Logan drained the last of his coffee and stood. 'Where did the meat in that container come from?'

'I ... I'll have to look in the dockets.'

'You do that.'

The cash and carry's chill room sat on the opposite side of the building, separated from the shelves of dry and tinned goods by a curtain of thick plastic strips that kept the cold in and the muzak out. A huge refrigeration unit bolted to the wall rattled away like a perpetual smoker's cough, making the air cold enough that Logan's breath trailed behind him in a fine mist as he marched between the boxes of fruit and vegetables over to the walk-in freezer section.

Detective Constable Rennie stood beside the freezer's heavy steel doors, hands jammed deep in his armpits, nose Rudolf-red, dressed like a ninja version of the Michelin Man in layers and layers of black clothing.

'Jesus,' said the constable, shivering, 'it's fucking perishing in here.'

Logan stopped, one hand on the freezer's doorhandle. 'You'd be a lot warmer if you actually did some work.'

Rennie pulled a face. 'The Ice Queen thinks we're all too thick to help. I mean, it's not my fault I don't know what I'm looking for, is it?'

'What?' Logan closed his eyes and tried counting to ten. Got as far as three. 'For God's sake; you're supposed to be looking for
human remains
!'

'I
know
that. I'm in there, standing in a sodding freezer the size of my house, looking at rows and rows of frozen bits of bloody meat. How am I supposed to tell a joint of pork from a joint of person? It all looks the same to me. A hand, a foot, a head:
that
I could recognize. But it's all just chunks of meat.' He shifted, stomping his feet and blowing into his cupped hands. 'I'm a policeman, not a bloody doctor.'