Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

John scans the list. Definitely going to need a car to get round all these.

That’s OK, though. Just grab a taxi back to Camburn Road where he parked this morning, collect the Clio, and head out to save the day.

Goodbye, DS Dorothy Pain-in-the-Arse Hodgkin, hello promotion.

And speak of the devil...

Her crappy Wheelchairmobile drifts down the road again, windscreen wipers going. Stupid fat face peering out through the rain-streaked glass.

John ducks down behind the little blue van parked outside the tat shop.

Off you go, Hodgkin. Keep on driving.

There, that’s much better, isn’t it?

Bye-bye.

Don’t let tomorrow’s headlines hit you in the arse on the way past: ‘POLICE HERO JOHN WATT SAVES MISSING TEEN ~ FIRST MINISTER PAYS TRIBUTE TO BRAVE DETECTIVE CONSTABLE...’

No: ‘PRIME MINISTER AWARDS KNIGHTHOOD TO NEWLY PROMOTED HERO COP!’

Yeah, that’s better.

John sticks his list in his pocket and hurries off to the nearest taxi rank.

‘Here.’ Callum thumped back into the passenger seat and held out a warm newspaper parcel.

Franklin took it. ‘Mayonnaise?’

‘They stuck a couple of sachets in there.’ He unwrapped his fish supper, filling the car with the loving scent of hot batter and brown vinegar. ‘Only chip shop in Oldcastle where they still wrap everything in newsprint. Well, if they know you.’

Steam paled the car windows, hiding the grey street. Rain danced on the roof.

She crunched on a chunk of batter. ‘McAdams was on while you were out. The SEB did another sweep of Paul Jeffries’ back garden and guess what they found.’

He popped a chip in his mouth, crisp and brown and salty, sharp with malt vinegar. ‘Go on then.’

‘The male body, with the clothes — there was another set of female remains buried underneath it. And it definitely wasn’t like the others: covered in kerf marks. Whoever she was, Jeffries had a serious go at her with a knife.’

‘Urgh... He just gets nicer and nicer, doesn’t he?’

‘That’s men for you.’ She crunked the top off her tub of mushy peas. ‘How many have we still to go?’

The list was on the dashboard. ‘Six: four private houses, a block of flats, and a disused green grocer’s. Should be done by about four, maybe five o’clock?’

‘If we’re lucky.’ Franklin dug in a chip and scooped out a splodge of neon green. ‘Odds on we’re—’

Her phone sat on the dashboard, buzzing as it launched into ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’. Again. For the third time in twenty minutes. She just grimaced at it. Then ate another pea-smeared chip. Chewing as the ringtone came to a sudden halt.

Callum broke off a chunk of flaky white haddock and tipped it into his mouth. Almost too hot to eat. ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t seem to like this Mark of yours very much.’

‘Maybe Monaghan never had access to Northeast Ecclesiastical Trust Holdings Limited list? Maybe he just knew that property was vacant?’

‘Maybe.’

‘So maybe he knew Paul Jeffries? Just because Dotty can’t find a connection doesn’t mean one wasn’t there. Jeffries was a lay preacher, right? Maybe that’s how Monaghan knew him? He was in the congregation.’

‘So, if you don’t like Mark, why are you still with him?’

Franklin chewed, frowning straight ahead at the opaque windscreen. ‘We should find out where Jeffries preached.’

‘Life’s too short: take it from me.’

‘He must have neighbours of some kind, right? They might know a bit about him.’

Callum peeled the outer layer off a pickled onion with his teeth. ‘Can’t believe I wasted five years of my life with Elaine.’

‘You’re not helping.’

‘Fine: he’s a lay preacher. What do lay preachers do?’

‘Depends what flavour he was. But there’ll be sermons, raising money for charity, organising trips for wayward youths, rescuing fallen women, visiting members of the congregation if they end up in hospital or their partner dies. So officiating at funerals too, probably.’ She shovelled in more chips. ‘Don’t know if they’re allowed to give people the last rites or not.’

‘Nah, that’ll be a union job. Demarcation and all...’ Callum put the pickled onion down. ‘Dying and elderly members of the congregation: they think Jeffries is God’s representative, right? They want to keep in with God on their deathbed, don’t they?’

‘Argh! Of course they do.’ Franklin sooked her fingers clean then pulled out her phone. Poked at the screen. Held the thing to her ear. ‘Hello? Yes, it’s DC Franklin. I need someone to get onto the Land Registry Office—... I don’t care if it’s Sunday. We need to know if a Paul Terence Jeffries owned any properties. Probably left to him by grateful OAPs right before they died... OK... Right. Tell them it’s urgent and call me back soon as you hear... OK, thanks. Bye... Bye.’ She thumbed the screen, then slipped the phone away. Grinned across the car. ‘We’re onto something, I can feel it.’

Callum popped a chip in his gob and grinned back. ‘We’re going to save Ashlee Gossard.’

John’s stomach makes a sound like an angry badger trapped in a bath. Should’ve stopped to grab a sandwich or something on the way. Too late now. Just have to wait till he gets back to town.

His Clio lurches and bumps along the dirt track, little stones pinging in the wheel arches as he slaloms left and right between the potholes.

The outskirts of Holburn Forest run along one side of the road, beech and sycamore giving way to the dark regimented mass of pine trees, stretching away up the hill. The other side is all gorse and broom, spines and spears, reaching down across plowtered fields full of reeds.

And there we go: Thaw Cottages. Number two on the good list.

There’s three of them — two semi, one detached, all grey. They look solid enough, but the semidetached cottages are missing glass in their windows, front gardens bounded by a sagging wall with most of the harling hanging off. Nothing but thistles, dock, and nettles growing within its boundaries.

The house next door isn’t much better — both front windows boarded up with rain-darkened chipboard, one chimney pot missing, a row of jackdaws glaring down with beady eyes as he parks the Clio outside.

Another sagging wall, another garden full of weeds.

Must’ve been quite something, living here. Probably monumentally crap in winter: trapped halfway up a hill, at the end of a long winding track, wolves roaming the woods behind the house.

OK, so maybe not wolves, but no way anyone comes anywhere near the arse-end of nowhere like this with a snowplough.

The view, though. That’s something.

The hill runs down, past a tumbled-down church and its crumbling graveyard, then out along the River Wynd, nestling in a valley that opens up as it hits the outskirts of Oldcastle. Can see most of the city from up here, lurking beneath a blue-grey lid of heavy cloud tinged with gold and purples.

John zips up his jacket and reaches back between the seats for the umbrella. Scrambles out and opens it with one fluid movement. Pop.

Those two years of contemporary dance were not wasted.

Rain drums on the umbrella skin.

Might as well check the conjoined cottages first.

No sign of a path beaten through the weeds to the front door, but the road hooked around the back of the buildings. Probably garages and things there.

He hops the broken gate and pushes his way through the soggy horrible nettles, holding his elbows up and out to keep both hands away from the stinging leaves. The front door isn’t locked, just tied shut with orange string — the kind farmers wrap around bales of hay. He unties it, pushes on the wasp-stripped wood, and steps inside.