Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Mother let her arms fall by her sides. ‘Thanks for that, Andy. I feel much better now.’

‘Glad I could help.’

‘Does anyone have anything constructive to say? Any ideas at all? The floor’s open.’

Franklin was sitting at the back, arms and legs crossed, face tight and angry. ‘Public appeal. Any suspicious behaviour. Have you seen smoke coming from your neighbour’s shed on a regular basis?’ She bared her teeth. ‘Heard any screaming lately?’

Mother frowned at her. ‘OK... Well, I’ve got a media briefing at ten, and that’s on the list. But you know what’s going to happen: every well-meaning citizen, idiot, and attention-seeking special-little-snowflake will be ringing up within the hour. And they’re only giving me ten support staff to man the phones. So that’ll be fun.’ Back to the rest of the room. ‘Anyone else? I will literally consider anything at this point.’

Dotty held up her hand. ‘I’ve been looking for any connection between Monaghan and Jeffries, and if there is one, I can’t find it. So how did Monaghan get access to all these Northeast God-Bothering Trust properties? Even they didn’t know what they owned till we made them look.’

Watt rolled his eyes. ‘He doesn’t have to have access to all of them, just a couple. Obviously.’

‘Don’t you “Obviously” me, you gingery wee—’

‘Children! That’s enough.’ Mother stood. ‘We stick with the plan, till someone comes up with something better. Rosalind: you and Callum take a list. Dorothy: you and John clearly need to spend some quality time together—’

‘Aw, sodding hell...’ Dotty folded her arm over her head.

Watt bared his teeth. ‘I’d rather staple my scrotum to a leaky tumble dryer full of angry wasps.’

‘—give you a chance to bond. And maybe act like grown-ups for a change. Wouldn’t that be nice?’ Mother clapped her hands together. ‘Off you go.’

‘Arrrgh. Fine.’ Dotty wheeled herself from the room. ‘But if I end up killing him, it’s your fault.’

Mother waited until Watt snatched a stapled list from the pile and stomped out after her, before grimacing at the ceiling — both hands curled into claws. ‘Arrrrgh...’

‘Oh, you love it really. Our book is reinvigorated: we have fresh leads to follow. The readers know a big reveal is coming soon and are relishing every page.’ McAdams picked up the last remaining list. ‘Want to take your car or mine?’

She sagged. ‘I can’t. I’ve got a dozen of DCI Powel’s cases to review, teams to organise, updates to hear, rotas to organise, overtime to authorise, budgets to work up, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera...’ Mother scrubbed a hand across her face. ‘Could Reece have picked a worse time to go AWOL?’

Callum stared down at the tips of his shoes.

Don’t get involved.

Don’t say anything.

‘Pff... Anyway. No point hanging about here feeling sorry for ourselves. We’ve got a missing teenager to find. If she’s even still alive.’

Callum held the picture of Ashlee Gossard out again. ‘And you’re sure you’ve not seen her? Or her mother?’

The crooked lady in the twinset shook her head, setting free a little flurry of dandruff from her long grey hair. ‘Sorry.’

‘That’s OK. Thanks anyway.’ He waited till she’d gone back inside and shut her door before dragging a red pen through address number four on the list.

Franklin was already behind the wheel by the time he got back to the car. Still wearing her best Everyone-In-The-World-Needs-To-Die face.

Oh joy.

He slid into the passenger seat. ‘Come on then: who climbed up the drainpipe and crapped down your chimney?’

‘This is a waste of time.’

‘Have I done something? Because I don’t remember doing anything.’

She wrenched the steering wheel around, executing an angry three-point turn. ‘We’re just out here chasing our backsides.’

‘Only you’ve been chewing a wasp all morning.’

She scowled across the car. ‘You’re all the same, aren’t you?’

‘Ah, here we go. Let me guess: Mark?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

The terraced street gave way to another one, winding back towards the centre of town. ‘Suits me.’ He checked the list for address number five. ‘Hang a right here, then left at the end of the road onto St John Crescent.’

More identical, depressing, featureless houses. Sulking beneath the rain.

Franklin banged her hand on the steering wheel. ‘I mean, look at us. Going round and round, achieving nothing. How’s that supposed to help Ashlee?’

‘Well, if you‘ve got a better idea, we’re all ears.’

‘The question we should be asking is: who killed all those women?’

‘Fair point.’ He nodded. ‘My money’s on Paul Jeffries. Those bodies have been buried at least twenty, thirty years, right? And Jeffries did time for rape. When he gets out of prison he pretends he’s put all that behind him and found God, but it’s all just a front. He’s still a raping little wankmonger, he’s just learned how to keep his victims from going to the police.’

‘By keeping them chained up in the basement. Then burying them in the back garden when he’s done with them.’ Franklin took the turning onto St John. More horrible little houses. ‘Which begs one more question.’

‘Who killed Paul Jeffries and stuffed him into a shallow grave in his own private cemetery?’

She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. ‘Monaghan?’

‘He’d only be a kid at the time. More likely Jeffries was part of some sort of ring and he had a falling out with one of his nasty friends.’ Callum pursed his lips. ‘Course, if this was a film, it’d be one of his victims’ husbands. Jeffries gets careless and leaves a clue behind. Our man tracks him down, tortures and kills him, then buries him in his own back garden. And if it’s a good film, he finds and saves his wife just in the nick of time.’

Franklin groaned. ‘All hail the great male hero!’ A snort. ‘Sexist piggery. Why can’t it be one of the victims’ sisters doing the rescuing? Or maybe one of the women escapes and gets revenge on her abuser. Why does it always have to be a man saving the day?’

‘True. We are horrible.’ A smile. ‘Just look at your Mark.’

And just like that, the muscles in Franklin’s jaw were clenching again.

Yeah... probably shouldn’t have done that. Seemed like fun at the time, but he was the one who’d have to suffer the ensuing foul mood.

Callum flicked through Watt’s list of properties: four down, sixteen to go.

Six teams of two, plus them, plus Dotty and Watt. Eight teams. Twenty buildings each. Hundred and sixty houses and/or businesses. Plus whatever odds and sods McAdams was looking into. ‘N.E.T.H. Limited have got a lot of interests in Oldcastle. And over six hundred properties Scotland-wide. Must be worth a fortune. Millions.’

Franklin just chewed on her sulk, glowering through the windscreen.

‘Right, opposite the chip shop.’

She thumped the steering wheel again. ‘I mean, where does he get off, dumping an ultimatum like that on me?’

‘Didn’t think there’d be so much money in Religion.’ Callum stuck the list back in his pocket. ‘Why don’t they just liquidate the lot and give the proceeds to the poor?’

‘What the hell happened to, “Your career is every bit as important as mine”?’

‘Mind you, it’s a trust , isn’t it? Do you think it’s all priests’ pensions and bishops’ investments?’

‘Are you even listening to me?’

A shrug. ‘Thought you didn’t want to talk about it.’