Broken Skin. Stuart MacBride

to them anyway:

      The first was pretty much her standard whine these days, ‘Bloody ACC’s been down here again! Why haven’t we arrested anyone for Jason Fettes’s death? His bloody parents have been banging their gums in the papers again. Jesus, it’s no’ like we didn’t try, is it? No’ our fault their kid was a dirty bondage boy …’ Some muttered swearing. ‘And why haven’t we caught anyone for those break-ins yet?’ Whinge, whinge, whinge. ‘Tell you: next time that pointy-headed bastard comes down here I’m going to shove one of Fettes’s butt plugs right down his throat! See how he likes—’ There was more, but Logan just deleted it.

      The second message was a bit more up to date, ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at? He was eight! How could you let him get away? What the … Hold on, I’ve got someone on the other line …’ and then silence. Beeeeeeep. New message: ‘Where was I? Oh, aye – Eight! Fuck’s sake …’ Then some coughing. ‘Anyway, the hospital called about the bloke your wee villain attacked: punctured lung. It’s no’ lookin’ good. I’ve got a press conference set up for quarter to six, so get your arse back to the station!’ Beeeeeeep.

      Logan groaned. His head was throbbing, the skin tender and swollen where Sean had kicked it. His ribs ached from being stamped on. His suit was stiff with dried blood. Right now all he wanted to do was go home, take a couple of the pills he’d been given after an embarrassing examination – ‘You were beaten up by an eight-year-old? Seriously? Hey, Maggie, come see this!’ – climb into a long hot shower, curl up and feel sorry for himself until Jackie got back from her shift. And then get her to feel sorry for him too. Instead of which he had to be at a press conference in – he checked his watch – just over half an hour. Muttering curses, Logan slouched back into A&E and went in search of one of the PCs stationed at the hospital to give him a lift.

      The natives were getting restless as Logan limped into the media briefing room – rows of cameras and hungry faces from the national press, waiting for the main course to get to the table. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ DI Steel: an unlit fag in her mouth, clicking a cheap, petrol station lighter on then off, then on, then off. DC Rennie trailed along behind her like a nervous spaniel.

      ‘Hospital.’ Logan pointed at the inspector’s cigarette. ‘They’ll throw a fit if you light up in here.’

      ‘Jerry Bloody Cochrane – silly sod went and died on us, so now every bastard under the sun wants to know what we’re going to do about it.’ She pulled the cigarette from her mouth and stuffed it back in the packet. Then took it out again. ‘Shite – why the hell did I have to get this sodding case, why couldn’t Fatty Insch have it instead? He should be used to PR disasters by now. I don’t need any more horrible cases …’ she trailed off as she finally noticed Logan’s suit and shirt were clarted in dried blood. ‘Oh fucking hell! Could you no’ have changed? We’re on in seven minutes!’

      ‘I was at the hospital!’

      ‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck …’ She screwed her face up, then stared at DC Rennie. ‘Right, the pair of you: find somewhere quiet and swap clothes. You’re both about the same size.’ Rennie opened his mouth to complain, but the inspector beat him to it. ‘NOW!’

      There was no one in interview room number three so they used that – Logan grimacing his way out of his shirt, jacket and trousers while Rennie stripped down to his Fred Flintstone boxer shorts, took one look at Logan’s bruised ribs and scar-spangled stomach and said, ‘Bloody hell – you look terrible.’

      Logan couldn’t muster up the energy to scowl at him. ‘Thanks a heap.’

      He got back to the briefing room with thirty seconds to spare and limped up to DI Steel. ‘Happy now?’ he asked, making it clear that he wasn’t. If he sat down too quickly, there was every chance he and his borrowed trousers were going to part company. She gave him a quick once-over.

      ‘You’ll do. But could you no’ have combed your hair? You look like a burst bloody mattress.’ Which was rich coming from her. Logan did his best with his fingers. Steel nodded. ‘Better. Did you get—’ The doors at the far end of the room banged open and the Chief Constable marched in. ‘Oh bollocks – God’s here.’ Deep breath. ‘Right, remember: we are not at home to Mr Fuck-up …’

      The table was longer than usual, set up so there’d be room for a Family Liaison officer and a pale, sixty-eight-year-old woman with puffy red eyes and trembling hands: Mrs Cochrane, the victim’s wife. Logan waited for her to sit down before taking his place next to DI Steel, lowering himself carefully into his chair, trying not to aggravate his bruised ribs or split Rennie’s trousers.

      ‘Right,’ the Chief Constable stood, his silver hair glowing like a shampoo commercial in the bright television lights, ‘before we start today I want to make one thing crystal clear: Mrs Cochrane has had a terrible shock today. She’s lost her husband of nearly fifty years. She’s here because she wants to help us catch those responsible. But the first person I hear making inappropriate comments or asking tactless questions is going to get thrown out on their ear and barred. Do I make myself clear?’ There was an uncomfortable silence. The CC nodded. ‘Good.’ And sat down again.

      ‘Today, at eleven minutes past twelve a pregnant woman shopping in the St Nicholas Centre was accosted by a gang of children, ranging from six to nine years old. They tried to steal her purse, but she resisted, so they subjected her to a vicious assault. Mr Cochrane went to intervene on her behalf …’

      Logan didn’t need to listen to the rest, he’d been one of the first ones on the scene – having nipped out to buy a sandwich and bag of crisps from Markies for lunch. Hearing the screams, running through the jumpers and trousers into the shopping centre, just in time to see Sean Morrison help himself to the old man’s wallet and scarper. Calling for backup, running over to the victim, trying to staunch the bleeding. Telling the store detectives to keep pressure on the knife wound till the ambulance got there, then chasing after the little bastards. And not catching them.

      He listened to Mrs Cochrane make an impassioned plea for anyone who knew where her husband’s killers were to come forward and tell the police, tears sparking in the harsh media spotlight, running down her pale, lined cheeks. And then the Chief Constable thanked her for her bravery and threw the briefing open to questions.

      Mostly it was the usual: ‘Do you have any suspects?’ ‘Are you anticipating any arrests?’ Then the woman from Sky News asked the Chief Constable about the trial of Iain Watt: was he going to be charged with the other rapes supposedly committed by Rob Macintyre?

      The Chief Constable glowered at her – the ‘Granite City Rapist’, as the papers had started calling Watt, was a something of a sore point. And with that, the press briefing was brought to an abrupt close.