Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Callum drew a red line through property number fifteen: a two-up-two-down on a housing estate in Blackwall Hill. Checked his watch. ‘Five to go.’

Franklin started the engine again, and pulled away from the kerb. ‘I know there’s no point just sitting about till we hear back, but this is such a waste of time.’

‘We’ve been over this.’

‘Where’s next?’

‘Gordon Crescent, Kingsmeath. Back down to the junction then right at the roundabout.’

The car’s windscreen wipers grunted and moaned.

Callum’s phone joined in the general noise. ‘Hello?’

‘Ah, yes, is Winston Smith addressing Detective Constable MacGregor?’

Because today hadn’t contained enough weirdos. ‘He is. And does Winston have something for DC MacGregor?’

‘Indeed he does.’

Rows of squat little houses slid by the Mondeo’s windows, all slumped beneath the rain.

‘Would he care to tell DC MacGregor what it is?’

‘Winston told you he would be triumphant, and triumphant he is. His software identified one thousand three hundred and fifteen possible three-character number-plate suffixes that would provide a reasonable match to the car on your footage. He then ran that through the DVLA’s dataset via a method he’d rather not discuss right now, and narrowed it down to cars that conformed to the manufacturer and make shown on your footage.’

The Mondeo climbed the hill, over the railway bridge and down the other side. Slowing as Franklin took them left at the roundabout.

‘And will Winston be getting to the point sometime soon?’

‘This cut the number of hits to a mere two hundred and ninety across the UK. He then took those and hammered the ANPR system to see if any had been spotted in the vicinity, and lo his genius was rewarded.’

From here the entirety of Blackwall Hill stretched away down to the river, the garish goings on in Montgomery Park standing out like a grenade in a kid’s sandpit. Especially that massive inflatable spider.

‘Callum’s dying of old age, here, Winston.’

‘Those last three characters are the letters D.W.G. and form the climax of a personalised number plate, currently appearing on a black Mercedes registered to Bob’s Speed Trap Records Limited and insured for the use of one Donald Newman.’

So Newman hadn’t died or gone away, he’d gone legit. Or at least as close as passed for it in the music industry.

‘OK. Thanks.’

‘You don’t seem to grasp the celebrity status of the gentleman in question, DC MacGregor. Donald Newman’s stage name is Donny McRoberts, AKA: Sick Dawg. The rap sensation and creator of such modern top-ten classics as “Rock, Paper, Shotgun” and “I’m-a Spit on Yo Grave, Irene”.’

‘You’re sure it’s him?’

‘Winston does not make mistakes. And he has that very vehicle on camera entering Kingsmeath via the Blackburgh Roundabout not thirty minutes earlier.’ A sniff. ‘Now, he takes it your business here is concluded, Detective Constable. And that you will be providing him with a cost centre to write his time against?’

‘Thanks, Winston. I’ll get back to you.’ Callum hung up before there were any complaints. Then checked his watch again.

So Donald Newman was Donny ‘Sick Dawg’ McRoberts.

Maybe Willow’s brother had been right about the helicopter, tiger, and ‘loads of bitches’.

Well, Donald was in for a very nasty shock as soon as Callum caught up with him.

Which probably wouldn’t be any time soon.

No way they could abandon the search for Ashlee Gossard to go rattle Newman’s teeth for him. No matter how much he deserved it.

Franklin took a right at the traffic lights and onto the dual carriageway, heading for Kingsmeath.

But he really sodding deserved it.

The house is dry and dusty inside, littered with ancient manky furniture riddled with little holes. And the drifts of tiny black ‘Tic Tacs’ all over the floor explain why. There’s mould on the walls by the empty windows, ancient flock wallpaper curled and stained dysentery-brown.

John picks his way through to a bedroom — complete with rusty bedstead and sagging mattress. A wardrobe full of old lady clothes and more mouse droppings.

The bathroom is clean, but dusty. The kitchen cupboards still have tins in them, but they’re bloated and furry with dark brown flakes.

As if someone just walked out years ago and never returned.

The kitchen window is dirt-greyed, almost opaque. John huffs a breath on the glass and clears a patch with the side of his hand, revealing an overgrown garden and a collapsed shed. Looks as if next door’s is much the same, only there’s a greenhouse full of dead brown stalks in there too.

Past the garden is an old bothy — stone walls, corrugated iron roof — and an ancient wooden barn surrounded by chunks of farm machinery slowly disappearing under thistles and brambles.

OK, so finish up in here, check the other two cottages and then—

‘What the sodding hell did you think you were doing?’

John freezes. Licks his lips. Forces a smile and turns. ‘Sarge. What are you doing here?’

DS McAdams is standing in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, face creased into a pale glower. ‘Oh don’t look so surprised: I knew exactly what you were up to, soon as you ditched Dotty.’

Oh crap.

John’s mouth clicks shut.

‘Have you any idea how much trouble you’re in right now?’

‘I was just—’

‘I know exactly what you were “just”, Detective Constable Watt.’ His head falls back and he stares at the ceiling. ‘Why me?’

‘It wasn’t my fault, Sarge, DS Hodgkin threw me out of the car.’

‘Why do I even bother?’

‘You know what she’s like: incompetent and chippy.’

‘I’m dying of bloody cancer, here. I should be lying on a white sandy beach, drinking margaritas, not standing in a manky wrecked house in the middle of nowhere SHOUTING AT YOU!’

John retreats a couple of steps, pulling on his best righteous-indignation face. ‘I was only trying to find Ashlee Gossard before something happened to her.’

McAdams’ shoulders droop and he runs a hand across his wrinkled eyes. ‘You want to know how I found you? You left the USB stick with your spreadsheet on it in the incident-room computer. I went digging.’

‘Dotty threw me out the car! It’s not my fault she’s hormonal and mental.’

‘I always knew you were a devious wee shite, Watt. And you’re not the only one who understands Bayesian statistics: I saw what you did to the spreadsheet.’ He pulls out a sheet of paper. ‘Fiddling the ordering so all the highest-probability properties were last to be printed out. So you could take them for yourself.’

John sticks his chest out. ‘I’m trying to save a little girl’s life here.’

‘YOU COULDN’T GIVE A TOSS ABOUT ASHLEE GOSSARD!’ A deep breath and McAdams presses a hand against his stomach. ‘God damn it, Watt. If you wanted to save her you would have prioritised those addresses and we’d have sent a team to each one first . You don’t care if she lives or dies, you just care if you can grab all the credit and glory for yourself.’

The only sound is the rain pattering in the long grass, like a thousand little feet. Running away.

McAdams sighs. ‘I’m not surprised. I wish I was, but I’m not. Disappointed , but not surprised.’

Heat rushes up John’s face. He looks down at the faded lino at his feet. The worst thing isn’t being caught, the worst thing is that McAdams is right. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

‘Watt, this isn’t Hollywood, or some cheesy detective novel, you can’t just go running around on your own expecting to solve the case. You’ve got to be a team player. You’ve got to work with your team, not piss them off so much they ditch you and drive off on their own.’