Читать книгу Broken Skin - Stuart MacBride - Страница 16

DI Steel had her feet up on the desk, a cup of coffee in one hand, and an unlit cigarette bobbing about between her lips as she spoke. ‘So how come Rickards recognizes this guy’s arse then? He been there?’

Logan shrugged. ‘Says he saw it on one of the DVDs they confiscated from that brothel raid. He’s getting it out of evidence now.’

‘Excellent. Nothing like a spot of hardcore porn in the morning to set you up for the day!’

They convened in the board room, Rickards fighting with the DVD player while Steel examined the case. ‘James Bondage?’ She peered at the small print on the back, holding it at arm’s length to get it in focus. ‘Hey, this is shot in Aberdeen! Brilliant! Never knew we had our own dirty film industry.’

The constable sat back on his haunches and smiled as the TV flickered into life. ‘They do quite a few titles. Not bad actually, once you get past the accents. They …’ He drifted to a halt as he turned and saw the look on DI Steel’s face. Then he went bright red. ‘I mean, that’s what the guys we arrested said. Em …’ He coughed, fidgeted, then said, ‘We’re, em … ready to go …’

‘I’ll bet you are.’ Steel plonked herself down on the end of the conference table as the screen faded to dark blue, then there was a copyright notice, and a warning that this presentation had been rated R18 by the British Board of Film Classification. And then the production company logo appeared and Logan couldn’t help laughing: CROCODILDO FILMS LTD! featuring what could only be described as a rampant, battery-operated reptile. And then the titles started, along with a thinly-veiled pastiche of the James Bond music.

Rickards stabbed the buttons on the remote control, and everything whirred into fast forward: sports car, house, what looked like Balmedie beach, people whizzing about at sixty-four times normal speed. Suddenly the screen filled with pink and the inspector shouted, ‘Play! Press play!’, but Rickards didn’t.

‘It’s coming up in a minute.’

‘But I want to see this bit!’ More cars, a fancy house, a brunette in a bikini, a fat man with a goatee, and then more pink. ‘Oh come on! Let us see something!’

‘Just a … this is it!’ Rickards hit play and the jerking figures settled into something more recognizable. And explicit. It was clearly meant to be a take-off of the old ‘Secret Agent is captured and tortured for information before being left alone to escape’ routine. Only this time the man in the tuxedo was being strapped, face down, onto a customized massage table by a very busty redhead in a rubber nun’s outfit. And then spanked. ‘Here …’ said Rickards, tapping the screen as the nun ripped James Bondage’s trousers and pants off. ‘The henchman.’ A figure emerged from the shadows – mid-twenties, short blond hair, dark glasses – dressed like a priest.

The man pulled off his shades and said, ‘There’s no point in resisting, Mr Bondage, you will tell us everything!’ as the nun stopped spanking and pulled on a neon-blue strap-on. Rickards hit pause and everything stopped. ‘See – it looks just like him!’ He held up one of the IB’s touched-up morgue photos. Logan had to admit he had a point.

‘What about the scar?’

PC Rickards hit fast forward again, much to DI Steel’s displeasure. Pink, more pink, figures whooshing about, and play: the priest-henchman thrusting away at the back-end of the nun while the front end was busy with Mr Bondage’s erection. In, out, in, out, in, out – freeze. Caught mid-stroke the crescent-shaped scar was easy to spot. Rickards looked expectantly at them. ‘Well, what do you think?’

Logan checked the post mortem file: the victim’s scar was identical to the one currently filling the television screen. ‘It’s definitely him.’

‘So who is he?’

Logan didn’t think it was possible, but Rickards actually went redder as he said, ‘According to the credits he’s called Dick Longlay.’

‘Aye, that’ll be bloody shinin’. “Dick Long Lay”? Porn star name if ever I heard one. Might as well call himself “I’ve got a huge cock”.’ She squinted at the DVD case again. ‘You got an address for this lot?’

Rickards nodded, and Steel stared at him for a moment, before saying, ‘I’m not bloody clairvoyant: where are they?’ Rickards told her and she smiled. ‘Well, get a shift on then! I fancy a trip to Crocodildo Films.’

‘You sure this is the right place?’ Steel took two steps back and stared up at the small industrial unit, hidden away down a small alley off Hutcheon Street. The sign on the wall said CLARKRIG TRAINING SYSTEMS LTD.

PC Rickards checked his notes again. ‘Should be. It’s their registered office anyway.’

Inside it was all potted plants and framed shots of oil rigs and people posing with safety equipment. Two large, ancient-looking projectors sat on mahogany plinths in the middle of the floor, locked away in matching glass cases, like an exhibit at the Natural History Museum. The receptionist – a bloated woman in her sixties – put down her copy of Hello and smiled at her visitors. ‘Can I help you?’ Like someone’s mum putting on a posh voice for the telephone.

Logan flashed his warrant card. ‘We need to speak to someone about …’ he paused, not quite sure how to ask her about Crocodildo Films. She looked like the type that would shock easily. ‘Er …’

‘Oh for goodness sake,’ said Steel pushing past him. ‘We want to talk to someone about the porn.’

‘Aye?’ said the receptionist, dropping the posh voice. ‘Hud oan and I’ll give the boss a bell.’ She punched a number into her switchboard, listened to it ring for a while, then a pop and crackle came from the speakerphone and a less than happy voice said, ‘Oh for God’s sake: what now? I told you we’re filming!’

The receptionist puffed up. ‘Alexander Lloyd Clark! Don’t you dare talk to your mother like that!’

A pause, then a long-suffering, ‘What can I do for you, Mother?’

‘You’ve got visitors.’

‘Can you tell them to sod off? I’m busy. If they—’

DI Steel leaned over the desk and shouted, ‘It’s the police.’

Another pause. ‘Mum, have you got this on speakerphone again? How many times do I have to tell you—’

‘We need to talk to you, Mr Clark.’

‘Is it about the break-in? Because it’s about bloody time!’

Steel mouthed ‘break-in?’ at Logan, but he just shrugged. ‘No, it’s about—’

‘Look, come back tomorrow. I’m busy today. Make an appointment. I—’

Steel cut in before the receptionist could get out the diary. ‘Listen up Sunshine, you can either assist us with our enquiries, or I can arrest your pornmongering arse and drag it down the station. Up to you.’

‘Oh, bloody hell. OK, OK, I’ll come back to the office.’

A broad smile slid across the inspector’s face. ‘No, you stay where you are and we’ll come to you.’

‘Fine, OK, whatever …’ He gave them the address – a container yard in Altens – then hung up.

Steel beamed. ‘Always wanted to see a porn film getting made. Think they’ll let me audition?’

Altens wasn’t exactly scenic: a collection of industrial units on the southern edge of the city; hideous oil company buildings; storage yards; vans selling fast food; and the abandoned back ends of articulated lorries, some stacked with lengths of drilling pipe, others carrying nothing more than a couple of greasy coils of blue rope. They found the film crew set up by a stack of the huge metal containers used to transport goods offshore. Lights, cameras, and not a lot of action.

‘Which one of you’s Clark?’ Steel shouted. Nearly everyone pointed at a large bloke in a massive padded jacket, woolly hat and greying goatee beard, drinking something from a polystyrene cup – the steam coiling up around his strange little rectangular glasses. He wasn’t quite as big as DI Insch, but it was close. The man froze, as if he’d been caught doing something naughty, then pulled on an ingratiating smile.

‘Zander Clark, with a Z,’ he said, sticking out a gloved hand. ‘Hi. You must be …?’

‘The police. So …’ she looked at the camera, the lights, and then the small cluster of people huddling round a script, ‘when does the shagging start?’

A spray of coffee exploded from Zander’s lips. ‘Shh!’ He grabbed Steel by the arm and led her away. ‘We’re shooting a safety training course, OK? I don’t want my client finding out I do adult films on the side.’

‘No’ proud of them, eh? I can understand that: I’ve seen one.’ She hauled out the James Bondage DVD.

‘Actually,’ said Zander, straightening up to his full height, which had to be at least six three, ‘my films have won awards all over Europe, thank you very much. I just like to keep my businesses separate.’

‘Worried your client’s going to ditch you if he knows you do stuff about nuns buggering secret agents?’

He scowled, looking more petulant than angry. ‘You said you wanted to see me.’

‘Oh, aye.’ She held the DVD up again. ‘This bloke, Dick Longlay: who is he?’

Zander took the case off her and squinted at it. ‘Jason,’ he said at last. ‘Jason Fettes, I gave him his big break.’

‘Spit-roasting a nun?’

‘Look, do you have a problem with something? Erotic films too “real” for you? Just because you’ve never had sex in your life it doesn’t mean—’

Logan cut him off before things got ugly. ‘When did you last see Mr Fettes?’

The large man treated Steel to a scowl, then turned his back on her. ‘A couple of weeks ago: had to get him in to do some foley work on his last film. Bloody sound was appalling.’ He waved at a cadaverous man with a boom mike and a bored expression. ‘I swear to God I’m going to fire his skinny arse if he doesn’t pull his socks up.’

‘Jason.’

‘Oh, right, right. Yeah, I use him quite a bit. He was in James Bondage, the sequel: From Rubber With Love, a couple about a plumber – well, you have to, don’t you? It’s tradition. Harriet Potter and the Chamber of Filth, Jamie and the Magic Crotch, and, of course, Crocodildo Dundee. I won the XRCO Best Film for that.’ Glowing with pride. ‘In fact, he’s going to be in my new one too: Down-Hole Tools. It’s about this accident investigator who goes offshore, only to discover that Amazonian Viking women have come back from the past and are making all the guys on the rig have sex with them until they die! It’s going to be huge.’

‘I see …’ said Logan, trying to keep a straight face. ‘And do you have an address for Jason?’

‘Not on me …’ Frown. ‘Cults I think … No, wait, he’s just moved. Blackburn. His mum and dad bought one of those new houses.’

Logan tried not to swear.

‘So are you telling me,’ said Steel, twisting round in the passenger seat so she could glare at Logan in the back, ‘that you daft buggers were at the guy’s address yesterday morning and didn’t say anything?’

Up front, Rickards went bright red, but kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut. So it was down to Logan. ‘It’s not our fault! The woman wasn’t even sure she recognized him! And anyway, what was all that about back there? You didn’t have to antagonize him.’

‘Aye, well,’ Steel shrugged, ‘I was all fired up to see some steamy, explicit sex, instead of which they’re all buggering about with bloody forklift trucks.’ She turned back to face the front. ‘Besides, he shouldn’t have been such a big fat bastard: reminded me of Grumpy Insch.’

The blue sky was a thing of the past by the time they arrived at the housing development. A pall of grey-purple cloud hung overhead, a cold wind whipping through the half-built houses, their roof joists sticking out like ribs picked clean of meat. ‘Bloody hell, it’s freezing!’ said Steel, clambering out of the car and onto the dusty road. ‘Rickards: go find out if the neighbour’s seen Jason Big Dick since Monday – We’ll look like a right bunch of tits if it’s not him.’

As the constable scurried off next door, Steel lit a cigarette, stuck her hands deep in her pockets and trudged up the path to the silent house.

The place was just as deserted and locked up as last time, but the inspector insisted on peering in every window, leaving boot-prints in the empty flowerbeds and finger marks on the glass. They’d got as far as the garage before Rickards returned with the news that no, the neighbour hadn’t seen Jason again and would they all like to come in for a cup of tea?

‘Too bloody right I would!’ said Steel, sooking the last puff from her cigarette before grinding the butt out on the pale brick walls. ‘Freezing me nipples off here.’

Logan tried not to picture it. ‘I’ll go see the site office, they might …’ He trailed off as a large red Citroën pulled into the drive, the back full of suitcases and boxes.

The driver killed the engine, took one look at Rickards standing there in his police uniform, and climbed out. ‘Bloody hell!’ He was in his early fifties with lots of pink scalp showing between the grey hairs. ‘It’s those little vandals from the village again, isn’t it? I’ve told the builder they need to get some bloody security sorted out, but will they listen to me? No! We go away for two bloody weeks … What have the little bastards done now?’

Logan and Rickards looked at DI Steel. This was one of those times where rank was a burden rather than a privilege. Senior officer on site got to break the bad news, those were the rules. But the inspector wasn’t playing by them. ‘Go on then, Sergeant,’ she whispered, ‘you’re up. Be gentle though, eh?’

Wonderful. ‘We’re not here about vandalism, sir.’ Logan pulled the IB’s touched-up morgue photo out of his pocket and handed it over. ‘Do you recognize this man?’

That got a long-suffering sigh and a weary, ‘What’s he done?’

‘I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you.’