Broken Skin Part 30

A large lump of granite was sitting in a splash-pattern of broken gla.s.s. It must have taken two or three people to heft something that heavy through the double glazing the thing was huge.

'Indoor rockery. Cla.s.sy.' Steel scratched away at her shoulder, then dug out a packet of nicotine gum, offering it round as if it were cigarettes. 'Any more hate mail, or was it just the dirty big stone?'

Mr Morrison didn't even look at her. 'Someone could have been hurt. Gwen's not well...'

'Aye, you're right. Sorry.' Much to Logan's surprise, she actually sounded genuine. 'You still getting the phone calls?'

He shook his head. 'We went ex-directory when Sean was ... found.'

'Well, that's something at least.' She picked her way across the carpet, glittering shards crunching beneath her boots, and peered out of the one remaining pane of gla.s.s. 'What happened to all the journalists?'

Morrison shrugged. 'We just want our son home.'

'Uh-huh. Got any idea who'd chuck a lump of granite through your window?'

'They'll let him home to visit his mother, won't they? She's not well...'

Steel closed her eyes, rubbing at the bridge of her nose with nicotine-stained fingers as if she were trying to shift a headache. 'Sergeant McRae, maybe you should go make us all some tea, eh?' she said at last. 'And see if you can find any biscuits.'

The Morrisons' kitchen was a mess: unwashed dishes piled in the sink; overflowing laundry basket; a black, oily crust of burnt-on food like scabs on the hob; stuffed black bags sitting next to the bucket, as if Sean's dad was scared to go outside and put them in the wheely bin for collection. Feeling nosy, Logan had a good rummage through the kitchen, pretending he was looking for tea bags. The cupboards were bare, not so much as a tin of soup. Like it or not, Mr Morrison was going to have to go outside soon, or they'd starve to death in here. Logan wondered if the man would be safe enough ordering takeaway, or if it would come delivered with a free side order of sputum and dog s.h.i.t. Nothing like being the parents of an infamous child.

There was a small container on the work surface marked TEA, but it was as empty as the food cupboards. In fact, other than plates, gadgets and cutlery, the only thing Logan could find in the kitchen was a drawer full of envelopes. Some opened, most not. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and pulled one out: YOUR SON IS AN ABOMINATION! THAT OLD MAN DESERVES BLOOD! It went on for a page and a half, but the basic message was that they should bring back the death penalty and give it to Sean Morrison. Even if he was only eight. And hanging was too good for him.

Logan picked them all out of the drawer and carried everything through to the lounge. 'Sorry,' he said, setting them down on the coffee table, 'there's no biscuits. Or milk. Or tea.'

'Oh.' The inspector looked disappointed, but she perked up again when she saw the stack of letters.

'I found them when I was looking for the teabags.'

Morrison shuddered. 'We've been keeping them, like you said. I don't open them any more...'

Steel nodded, borrowing Logan's gloves so she could poke through the pile, pulling sheets from the open ones and squinting at them in the dim light. 'Aye, nasty wee s.h.i.tes one and all.' She flicked through another couple then asked if Logan had an evidence bag on him. 'We're going to take these away and see if we can get anything off them. And I'll get someone from fingerprints to come down and give your rock the CSI treatment. OK?'

Morrison didn't reply, just went on staring at his boarded-up window.

'I was wondering,' said Logan as they stood to leave, 'Sean's friend: Ewan. Has his dad been in touch with you at all?'

The man looked puzzled, as if trying to remember why they were there. Logan got the feeling he probably hadn't slept in a week. 'No. Not since Sean stopped going round there. Not since we came back from Guildford.'

'So he hasn't said anything to you about his house getting vandalized?'

'Look, I'm sorry but Gwen needs her medication.' He levered himself out of the armchair. 'She's not been well.'

They let themselves out, scurrying through the rain to the car. 'Can you no' keep your mind on one thing at a time?' asked Steel as Logan cranked the blowers up to full. 'Vandalism, my sharny a.r.s.e.'

'You never wondered about Sean-'

'Oh for Christ's sake, no' this again: I get enough grief from the b.l.o.o.d.y social workers. He's a wee s.h.i.te. That's all there is to it.'

Logan pulled out from the kerb, heading downhill back towards FHQ. 'I don't buy it: you don't go from being a well-balanced wee boy to a thieving little thug who knives old men and policewomen for no reason. Something happened.'

Steel sighed. 'Look, and I want you to pay attention this time: I don't care! OK?'

'Oh, come on, you've got think it's a bit-'

'I don't care! b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. In the good old days you caught the bad guy, you banged them up, and you forgot about them for seven, eight years. Nowadays it's all "community-f.u.c.king-service" and "addressing offender behaviour". That social work department needs a stiff kick up the a.r.s.e with a pointy boot!'

'Why was he vandalizing his ex-best-friend's house?'

'We speakin' the same language here? h.e.l.lo? I couldn't give a rat's a.r.s.e!'

'How come the family never reported him for all the damage he did to their house? They knew it was him. We-'

'OK! OK, FOR G.o.d'S SAKE!' She sat and seethed. 'Ten minutes. We go round there for ten minutes, and if we don't find anything you never, ever get to mention that wee s.h.i.te again? Understand? Like a b.l.o.o.d.y broken record...'

Ewan Whyte Sean's ex-best friend was still at school and his dad was at work, but his mother and little sisters were in: the girls finger-painting in the kitchen while Mrs Whyte made sure they didn't do anything stupid, like eat the paint, or start colouring in the walls. DI Steel begged a cup of coffee and a custard cream while Logan went outside to talk to the grandfather.

The old man was in the shed at the bottom of the garden, the little wooden hut smelling of engine oil and hand-rolled cigarettes as he cleaned the blades of an old-fashioned lawnmower. Rain drummed on the roof. He smiled and waved when Logan shouted, 'h.e.l.lo?'

'Here, hold this bit, will you?' Mr Whyte Senior tipped the mower up on its side.

'You remember when I was here before,' said Logan, as the old man started in with the WD40, 'we talked about Sean Morrison?'

Whyte nodded. 'I read all about his arrest in the paper can you believe they used pepper spray on the poor wee soul? He's only eight... Thanks, you can let go now.'

'I wonder why your son didn't report Sean for all the vandalism.'

The old man smiled sadly. 'Oh, he wanted to, but there was never any proof, and I thought Sean had enough to deal with without all that. What with his granddad being at death's door and problems at school. It wouldn't have been right.' He levered the mower down from the worktop with a grunt. 'Old sporting injury. Always gives me gyp when it's wet out. Now, would you like a cup of tea? It's no bother.'

They were walking back across the lawn when Mr Whyte stopped at the koi pond. A large orange and white fish broached the rippled surface, then disappeared back into the shadowy depths. 'My son's a good man, Sergeant. A better father than I was in many ways. He just gets a bit stressed from time to time. I'm sure he'll forgive Sean eventually. His brother's death hit him hard, and Sean looks so much like Craig.' He shivered. 'Anyway, what about that tea?'

In the rain FHQ looked even more miserable than normal, the lobby slick with dirty grey water walked in off the streets. Sergeant Mitch.e.l.l collared Logan as soon as he was back in the building. 'Hoy, what the h.e.l.l is it with you and mobile b.l.o.o.d.y phones? Do I look like your secretary?' Moustache bristling.

Logan pulled out his phone and peered at it. The battery was dead, but he wasn't about to admit it. 'You sure you're calling the right number? I-'

'We give everyone a sodding Airwave handset for a reason!'

'What's the message?'

'That Weegie reporter of yours has been on half a dozen times call him back for G.o.d's sake. I have to listen to his soap-dodging nonsense once more I'm going to kill someone. The rest are in your b.l.o.o.d.y email.' He wagged his finger under Logan's nose like an irate schoolteacher. 'And switch your b.l.o.o.d.y phone on, or I'm going to report you. Got better things to do than sod about after you all day!'

There was always a big mess of phone chargers in the CID office, so Logan helped himself to one that fit and plugged his mobile in, then rummaged through his desk until he found his Airwave handset. It was about four times the size of his normal phone, but it would have to do. The battery was nearly fully charged, which wasn't surprising: he'd barely used the thing; it had spent most of its life switched off in a drawer. He tried calling Miller, but it went straight through to voicemail so he left a message and contact number. If it was anything important the reporter would call him back soon enough. Until then Logan had some digging to do.

Over an hour later he was no further forward. As far as the various police databases were concerned, Sean's ex-best-friend's family were clean. Not so much as a parking ticket. In fact, the only blemish on the Whytes' family tree was Craig, the dead brother. He'd got into a fight when he was sixteen and ended up crippling a lorry driver with a snooker cue. The man had accused him of being gay. There was a spell at Her Majesty's pleasure, followed by a battered girlfriend, therapy, then an overdose of sleeping pills. Daniel had no reason to be jealous of his younger brother he'd not even made it to twenty-four.

When the Airwave handset started ringing it was such an unfamiliar noise that Logan nearly didn't answer it. 'h.e.l.lo?'

'Where the h.e.l.l you been, man? I been callin' you for ages!' Colin Miller sounding agitated, which was pretty much par for the course these days.

'Afternoon.' Logan tried for one last mouthful of coffee, only to find it stone cold. He spat it back out into the mug. 'Urgh, Jesus...'

'She's done it!'

He peered at the marbled liquid then tipped it into the nearest pot plant. 'Done what? Who's done it?'

'It's a wee boy! Seven pounds! He's f.u.c.kin' brilliant! Wee fingers an' toes an' everythin'!'

'Oh...' There were things you were supposed to say to new fathers: 'Congratulations. How's Isobel?'

'Knackered. Says if I come near her again she's going to chop ma d.i.c.k off!' He laughed. 'Can you believe it: six days early?'

'Well, I suppose it's-'

'You gotta come see him!'

'Thing is, Colin...' Logan looked at his desk. It wasn't exactly overflowing with urgent actions, just DI Steel's paperwork all the things she was supposed to do, but never did. And the sooner he reported back to Insch, the sooner the grumpy sod would shout at him for being dragged away in the first place. As if Logan had any say in the matter. 'No, sounds good. See you soon.'

He abandoned his CID pool car as close to the maternity ward as he could and hurried in out of the rain. A nurse gave him directions and after a brief shopping spree in the Women's Royal Voluntary Service shop, he was marching down the corridor, clutching a cat-shaped helium balloon, a box of chocolates and a Hallmark card with IT'S A BOY! on it. As if the parents didn't already know.

The reporter was waiting for him at the maternity ward door. 'Laz, my man! Come see the bairn!'

The next twenty minutes pa.s.sed in something of a blur. The baby, no matter what his proud father said, looked like a shaved monkey, but Logan kept quiet about it and pretended not to notice. Isobel looked dreadful: pale, tired and sweaty, with dark purple bags under her eyes. She clearly wasn't up to a prolonged visit, so Logan made his excuses, promising to meet up with Colin when the fathers were kicked out at nine, to wet the baby's head with some thirty-five-year-old single malt whisky the reporter had bought specially.

Outside, the rain had stopped, late-afternoon sunlight cutting through the low clouds, painting everything gold and ochre, casting long blue shadows as it sank towards the horizon. Logan climbed into the pool car and switched his handset back on, trying to remember how to check for any messages and failing abysmally. So he called Control and asked Sergeant Mitch.e.l.l.

'For G.o.d's sake! I'm not your-'

'b.l.o.o.d.y secretary, yeah, I know. Look, I'm using the d.a.m.n thing, what more do you want?'

'Will wonders never cease? Insch is looking for you.'

'Any idea what-'

'No. So don't ask.'

Logan hung up. It was just on the cusp of five: if he could stay out of the inspector's clutches for another ten minutes he could sign out and slope off home, putting off the inevitable shouting at till tomorrow. But that would mean going back to the flat and dealing with Jackie... He dialled Insch's mobile.

'Where are you?'

Logan thought about lying, but it probably wasn't worth the aggravation. 'Up at the hospital.'

'What?' There was a moment's pause, then the inspector said, 'How did you get... ? No, never mind. Is that slimy b.a.s.t.a.r.d there yet?'

'Er...' He looked up and down the car park, trying to figure out what Insch meant. 'Which one?'

'Hissing b.l.o.o.d.y Sid who do you think? Soon as the TV cameras turn up he's all over the place like a foul smell.'

'Ah, right, not seen him yet.' Which was true.

'I've got a rehearsal at half-six, so I'm relying on you: don't let the wee s.h.i.te say anything stupid, OK? Last thing we need is more grief.'

Logan didn't have a clue what the inspector was on about, but it would probably be bad. It usually was.

48.

They were gathered outside the main entrance, holding up placards with things like WE LOVE YOU ROB!, GET WELL SOON! and AFC CHAMPIONS! scrawled on them. Floral tributes were piled up to either side of the hospital doors, with the occasional teddy bear dressed up in Aberdeen Football Club colours thrown in for good measure. Half the crowd had their replica shirts on under their thick jackets, and all of them were tearfully singing football songs.

'Oh for G.o.d's sake...' Logan stood next to one of the uniformed constables stationed at the hospital, staring out at this public display of grief. 'They been at this long?'

The constable nodded, her face puckered up like a chicken's b.u.m. 'Aye, ever since it was in the papers this morning. One b.u.g.g.e.r drops off a bunch of manky carnations from a petrol station, and suddenly everyone's at it. Like he's Lady f.u.c.king Di or something.' She pointed off into the middle distance where a group of TV journalists were hanging about drinking tea and coffee from polystyrene cups. 'And those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds aren't helping.'

It was nearly half an hour before things kicked off: Rob Macintyre's mum and her grieving daughter-in-law-elect emerging from the hospital blubbering bravely for the fans and cameras. The sun had long since disappeared, but it'd been replaced by the harsh white glare of television lights. Macintyre's mother shuffled forwards and dabbed at her eyes. 'I want to thank you all for coming to wish my wee boy well,' she said, launching into a speech about how her little darling was the best son in the world, who didn't deserve this, and if anyone knew who was responsible ... pretty much the same thing she'd said at the press conference, only this time Sandy Moir-Farquharson was nowhere to be seen.

'Good wee boy, my a.r.s.e,' said the constable, keeping her voice down, in case anyone overheard. 'Little rapist f.u.c.ker got what he b.l.o.o.d.y deserved. Whoever did him wants a medal.'

Then the questions started from the press, most of which were variations on the theme of, 'How does it feel to have your son in a coma?' as if his mum and fiancee were going to say it was great. Then it was onto Macintyre's medical condition and what it meant for the wedding plans. Ashley struck a determined pose, one hand over her tiny pregnant bulge. 'We're still getting married! Robert will get better his baby needs a daddy and I'll always stand by him!'

'Aye,' hissed the constable, 'and his seven-figure book deal. How much you think she's in for, fifty per cent with the mother? They'll be rolling in it.'

'Well,' said Logan, 'the guy is in a coma-'

'Best place for him.'

The questions kept coming. Up till now, Hissing Sid had handled the media side of things, manipulating, spinning, lying, but without him Macintyre's mother was forced to take centre stage, and she was doing a surprisingly good job of it too, only wheeling Ashley out for the emotional bits.

The footballer's fiancee was in the middle of telling everyone how her Robert wouldn't hurt a fly when a man lurched drunkenly up from the road, shouting, 'f.u.c.ker deserves to die!' As soon as he opened his mouth Logan recognized him: Brian something, boyfriend of Macintyre's sixth victim: Christine Forrester. The one before he'd tried it on with Jackie and got himself kneed in the b.a.l.l.s and arrested.

'Here we go...'

The man wasn't just drunk, he was pickled: tears rolling down his face, slurring as he shouted the odds about how Macintyre was a raping sc.u.mbag who deserved to die for what he'd done. How a coma was too good for him. How he'd ruined Christine's life. Killed her. The cameras were on him in a flash, capturing his pain for the next news bulletin.

Logan pushed through the ring of journalists and took hold of the man's arm. 'Come on, Brian, you don't want to do this. Let's you and me-'

But Brian was stronger than he looked, breaking free and hurling a barrage of foul language at Macintyre's family. Logan waved the constable over and told her to take Brian inside. But he had no intention of coming quietly; lunging at Ashley, shouting: 'You gave him a f.u.c.king alibi! You lying b.i.t.c.h! They could've stopped him!' Taking a wild swing and missing. 'It's your fault!'

'Come on, sir.' The constable grabbed his wrist, twisting it up behind his back before he could do any real damage, and frogmarching him away, the TV cameras hurrying after them.

With the spotlight off Macintyre's nearest and dearest, Logan suggested it might be best if they went home now. 'Before anything else happens.'

Macintyre's mum glared after Brian watching him struggle as he was forced through the doors into the hospital. 'I want to press charges! He's got no right talking to us like that when my boy's in a coma!'