Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘All the sodding same.’ She took the turning at the chip shop.

‘I get it: your boyfriend, Mark, is a dick who thinks whatever he wants is more important than what you want.’ The houses were getting bigger with every street. ‘And do you know why he thinks that?’

Franklin scowled straight ahead, mouth clamped shut.

‘Because he’s a dick.’ Callum turned in his seat. ‘And do you know what? He’s a merchant banker — that was your clue, right there. Take a left at the roundabout and it should be about halfway down.’

‘He wasn’t a dick when I met him.’

‘Yeah, well, you know the old saying: some men are born dicks, some have dickishness thrust upon them, and some achieve dickosity all on their own.’ He gave her a smile. ‘I’m paraphrasing a bit.’

‘I am not giving everything up to be a bloody housewife with a bloody pinny, two-point-four bloody children, and a Cocker Bloody Spaniel!’

Callum knocked on the passenger window. ‘That’s us there on the left, number thirty-two.’

She pulled into the kerb. ‘I’m not.’

Number 32 was one of Watt’s grey-arrow properties, all the windows sealed with chipboard. The garden looked almost as bad as The Cloisters, only without the constant parade of Smurfs, brambles, and body bags.

Callum undid his seatbelt. ‘So ditch him. Tell him you’ve had enough of his crap.’

She chewed and chewed and chewed.

‘Someone I know gave me a very good piece of advice once. You want to hear it?’

‘No.’

‘You can just sit there, playing the tragic jilted hero.’ He climbed out of the car, turned, and stuck his head back in. ‘Or you can get off your moaning backside and do something about it.’

‘... absolutely sod-all. Well, except for the fact I haven’t throttled Detective Sergeant I-Do-Nothing-But-Moan Hodgkin. That’s an achievement all in itself.’

Callum winced as Dotty’s voice scraiked out in the background: ‘Oh, you think you’re such a delight, do you? You sour-faced, pube-bearded—’

‘Go roll yourself under a bus.’

‘I’ll roll my boot right up your—’

‘For God’s sake! Do you two never stop?’ He swapped the phone to his bad hand, freeing up his left to massage the ache growing between his eyebrows.

Mother deserved a knighthood, she genuinely did.

A manky old Renault parked itself next to the Mondeo, a chubby bearded bloke and a thin blonde rock-chick type getting out and having a stretch in the drizzle, before hurrying off across the lay-by. Making for the burger van that lurked along a bit from the public loos.

Dotty was the first to break the silence, obviously trying to sound light and cheerful. And failing. ‘What about you and Rosalind?’

‘Naught for seven. Thought we were on to something with a derelict house in Cowskillin, but nothing doing.’

‘Well... there’s plenty of time, isn’t there? Ashlee’s still alive. We’ll find her.’

‘Don’t be naive.’

‘I’m not being sodding naive!’

And they were off. Again.

‘Tod Monaghan’s been dead for three days — unless he left her with plenty of food and water, she’s already died of thirst.’

‘She could still be alive.’

‘Can we not go two minutes without you pair—’

‘All the other victims got starved and dehydrated before he stuck them in his smoker, so he’s not going to leave her a fourteen-inch ham-and-mushroom with extra cheese and a big bottle of Diet Coke in case she gets peckish, is he? Use your head.’

‘I have had just about enough of your bloody lip, Constable .’

‘Blow it, Sergeant . Genuinely. Out your arsehole, like a trumpet.’

What was the point?

One last go. ‘I’m asking you both nicely: can you try—’

‘That’s it: get out of my car.’

‘It’s not “your” anything, so—’

‘GET OUT OF MY BLOODY CAR!’

Silence.

Franklin emerged from the ladies’ side of the public loos, wiping her hands on her suit trousers. Face wrinkled and sour.

‘GET OUT!’

‘Fine. Great. You know what, I will.’

‘Go on then.’

‘I am.’ Some clunking and rattling. ‘Here!’

‘Don’t you throw stuff at me! You—’

‘It’s your half of the list, you moron.’ Then the coffin-lid thunk of the car door slamming.

‘AND GOOD RIDDANCE!’ The sound of an engine revving, then growling, getting louder as she worked through the gears. ‘GAAAAAAARGH!’

Franklin turned her collar up and marched over, weaving her way between the pothole puddles.

‘That man drives me totally insane! He’s impossible.’

‘Dotty—’

‘Everything’s an excuse to moan and be sarcastic and nip, nip, nip.’

Franklin hauled open the driver’s door and threw herself in behind the wheel. Shuddered. ‘God, that toilet is disgusting.’

‘You know what I should do? I should turn this sodding car around and drive right over the top of him!’

She pointed at the phone in Callum’s hand. ‘Anything?’

He pulled on a grimace. ‘Don’t ask.’

‘You heard what he said to me, Callum, didn’t you? You heard.’

‘Look, you can’t just abandon him, you’re police officers. You need to work—’

‘Should turn right round and squash him like the turdbeetle he is! Leave nothing but a skidmark behind. You see if I don’t! He can...’

Callum held the phone against his chest. ‘Dotty’s thrown Watt out of the car, and driven off without him.’

‘Children.’

A big sigh, then he went back to the phone.

‘... never hated anyone so much in my whole sodding life. Not even the wee shite who cost me my leg. He’s that bad!’

‘Yeah, well, maybe he only does it because he’s secretly in love with you.’

‘Urrrrrrgh... Think I just threw up in my mouth a bit.’

‘You’re welcome. Now turn round and go pick him up. We’ve got a little girl to find.’

— Detective Constable John Watt –

‘I HOPE YOUR SODDING WHEELS FALL OFF!’ John steps out into the middle of the road and slams the palm of his left hand into the crook of his right arm, punching his fist up as DS Moron drives off into the rain.

Woman’s a bloody disgrace.

No way she made sergeant on her own merit. No: must’ve been a bribe to stop her suing the force after the crash. Which was probably her own fault anyway.

John hurries back onto the pavement, stands under the awning outside a tat shop and has a squint at his watch. Half eleven.

Could head back to Division Headquarters, put in a formal complaint about his useless DS... But what good will it do him? No way they’ll fire her, no matter how crap she is. So the only option is to outshine her. Show them how a real police officer does things.

He pulls the other sheet of paper from his pocket — the other half of their list.

DS Hodgkin is such a moron.

Did she actually think he’d printed all those addresses out at random? That he hadn’t done a Bayesian statistical analysis, based on the property’s location and the location of the victims, and ranked them in order of likeliness? And, having gone to so much trouble, that he wouldn’t keep the best ones for himself?

She could’ve just ridden his coattails to glory, but no. Hodgkin had to be the thorn in his toilet paper, the nettles in his underwear, the razor blade in his sock, the bleach in his eyedrops.