Broken Skin Read Online Free PDF Page B

lack-lustre, only about a dozen people had phoned in claiming to know who the dead man was. No one had recognized the killer yet. But all that would change as soon as the press conference went out on the lunchtime news; then they'd be swamped. Televised appeals always brought the nutters out in droves. Still, you never knew ...
    'Hoy, Laz.'
    Logan looked up to see a thin man in a sergeant's uniform and huge Wyatt Earp moustache. Sergeant Eric Mitchell, peering over the top of his glasses and grinning like an idiot. 'Your "lady friend" about?'
    Logan frowned, suspicious. 'Which one?'
    'Watson, you daft sod. Is she about?'
    'Back shift, won't be in till two.'
    'Aye, well you might want to tell her to call in sick ...' he tossed a rolled-up copy of the Daily Mail onto Logan's lap, winked, then sauntered off. Whistling happily to himself.
    But before Logan could ask what was going on, DI Steel plonked a pile of files on the table in front of him. 'This bloody thing's killing me,' she said, fiddling with her bra strap. 'Get a couple of uniforms to go through these, OK? See if we can't find someone on the dodgy bastards list who matches that e-fit. Then you can go chase up that dental records lot.' She gave up on the strap and started hauling at the underwire. 'And while you're at it--'
    'Actually,' said Logan, cutting her off, 'I thought I might go out and follow up a couple of those possible IDs for our victim. You know: show willing for the troops.' Which had the added advantage of getting him away from the inspector before she could think up any more crappy jobs for him to do.
    Steel thought about it, head on one side, focusing on a spot between Logan's ears, as if she was trying to read his brain. 'OK,' she said at last, 'but you can take ...' she did a slow turn, pointing at a constable in the corner, scribbling something up on the incident board, 'yeah, take Rickards with you. Do the poor wee sod good to see the outside world. Might stop the short-arsed bastard whining for a change. He's--'
    'Inspector?' It was the admin officer, waving some more paperwork at them.
    'Oh God,' Steel groaned and then whispered to Logan, 'cover for me, will you? I'm dying for a fag.' She turned and told the admin officer she had an urgent meeting with the ACC to get to, but DS McRae would deal with whatever it was. Then made herself scarce.
    With a sigh, Logan accepted the sheets of paper.
    He signed for a CID pool car - one of the many scabrous Vauxhalls in the FHQ fleet - and made Constable Rickards drive, so he could slump in the passenger seat and doze. At least he was starting to feel a little better now. After the whisky they'd gone onto vodka, then some weird little bloke had tried to chat Jackie up, and they'd all had a good laugh at him, and then it was more beer, tequila, and then ... it was kind of blurry until they were standing outside the kebab shop on Belmont Street. And when they finally got home, Jackie had fallen asleep in the toilet.
    Logan ran a hand over his face, stifling a yawn - he was getting too old for this ...
    Yesterday's rain had gone, leaving the city sparkling clean. Everything glowed in the light of an unseasonably warm February sun, glinting back from chips of mica trapped in the pale grey granite. Rickards drove them down Union Street, heading for a small semi-detached in Kincorth - a blob of houses on the south-side of the city - and an old woman who claimed to know the dead man from the papers.
    'So,' said Logan, as the PC swung the car across the King George IV bridge, the water sparkling like sharpened diamonds on either side, 'you were in on that big brothel raid in Kingswells last week?'
    Rickards mumbled something about a team effort. 'Kinky dungeon, wasn't it?' said Logan, watching a pair of seagulls fighting over an abandoned crisp packet. 'Whips and chains and nipple-clamps and all that?'
    'Ah ... er ... yes ... it ... erm ...' Rickards blushed, the twisted line of scar tissue that snaked up the