Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Callum tapped the piece of paper. ‘Things have changed a bit, Gareth. We’ve found another witness. You’re nothing but corroboration now.’

‘And I want a south-facing cell.’

‘Nope.’ He put the sheet back in his pocket and stood. ‘Have fun cleaning out those cages. I bet the dogs and cats make one hell of a mess.’

Pike glared up at him.

‘Last chance.’

He bared his teeth. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? After all this time, being the one with the power. No more the scared little boy, cowering in his daddy’s caravan, sobbing like a baby and wetting himself.’

‘Bye, Gareth.’ Callum turned to Franklin. ‘Shall we?’

‘All right! All right.’ Pike balled his chubby hands into two enormous fists. ‘I recognised the man who took your parents and brother. He was... I suppose in some circles he probably still is, famous. He’s certainly in all the papers right now.’

Callum gave a big theatrical sigh. ‘Come on then, Gareth: tell me who you saw and I guarantee you’ll go to prison. No point kicking a man when he’s down. Even a piss-poor excuse for one, like you.’

‘I told you he was a lion, didn’t I? That big blond mane of hair, the strut and swagger. A man used to being worshipped and adored.’

Franklin curled her lip. ‘Stop milking it.’

Pink flooded Pike’s cheeks. ‘His name’s Leo McVey.’

‘No.’ She stared. ‘Wait, the rock star? The Leo McVey? Leo McVey abducted his parents?’

Pike’s eyes widened. ‘I know, isn’t it delicious?’

‘Wow...’ Mother made a hissing noise. ‘Leo McVey? The Leo McVey?’

Callum tightened his grip on the phone. ‘That’s what Pike said. Said he attacked them with a length of metal pipe and forced them into the boot of his Range Rover.’

‘Wow...’

‘Can you stop saying that? It’s not like this is a claim to fame, here.’

Franklin took them over the Dundas Bridge, windscreen wipers on full pelt. The cars coming the other way populated by hunched men and women, their faces soured by rain.

‘I’m sorry, it’s just: Leo McVey. I had all his albums.’

Right at the roundabout, following the river, picking up a bit of speed for a change.

‘Of course, we’ve only got Pike’s word for it.’

‘So what’s your plan, Callum? The Sheriff won’t give you a warrant on the word of one paedophile, and after twenty-six years...’

‘We’re going to go see him.’

‘Leo McVey?’

‘One good thing about this music festival: we know where he’ll be right now.’ Getting ready to ponce about on stage with all his new showbiz mates. ‘Franklin and me are on our way there now.’

‘I see...’ Her voice sagged a bit. ‘Callum, this really isn’t a good idea. You’re too closely connected, you’re upset, you’re—’

‘Pike saw him.’

Silence.

A golf course drifted by on the right, trapped between the road and where the River Wynd emptied into Kings River. The fairway was more or less a lake now, punctuated with bunkers and the occasional flag.

‘Boss?’

A sigh, then: ‘Put me on speaker.’

He did and her voice crackled out into the car.

‘Rosalind? I’m relying on you to keep this under control. You don’t leave Callum alone with Leo McVey. You don’t let him say or do anything stupid. And most importantly, you don’t get me hauled up in front of the PIRC! Agreed?’

Franklin nodded. ‘We’ll tread lightly.’

‘Make sure you do. If there’s one thing the seventies taught us, it’s: celebrities sue. Even when they’re guilty.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

The man at the Portakabin door curled his top lip and stared down at Callum. ‘You’re kiddin’, yeah?’ He had to be at least six-five, with a crewcut, black bomber jacket, black jeans and Doc Martens. ‘HATE’ tattooed on one massive set of knuckles, and ‘MUM’ tattooed between the other.

A line of metal barriers sealed off this chunk of Montgomery Park from the rest of it, covered walkways keeping the important people’s feet out of the shoe-sucking mud and their trendy haircuts out of the rain. Two lines of yurts and tepees were broken up by fancy-looking portable loos and outside-broadcast vans. A marquee with plastic windows was laid out as a fancypants dining room: tablecloths, waiters in black tie, and a real-life chandelier.

But this side of the barricade, the park was a litter-strewn swamp, full of muddy people in ponchos, bouncing up and down to whatever band was currently on stage and belting folk-rock out through the PA system.

And above them all, that massive inflatable tartan tarantula waved its legs in the rain.

None of which seemed to register on the big lump in the bomber jacket. ‘You’re not gettin’ in. Now hop it.’

Callum checked his warrant card, then held it out to Franklin. ‘Does this look like it came free in a box of Rice Krispies?’

She folded her arms, eyeing King Kong up and down. ‘Are you interfering with a murder investigation, sir?’

He stuck out his chest. ‘You’re not on the list: you’re not comin’ in.’

‘I’ll tell you what’s on the—’

‘Hello, can I help you?’ A trendy-looking specimen with sideburns and a quiff sidled up, clipboard under one arm, three or four lanyards dangling around his neck. Call-centre headpiece cramping his haircut.

King Kong jerked a thumb at Callum. ‘This one here thinks he can waltz in, just cos he’s a cop.’

‘I see. Right. Thanks, Charles, I’ll take it from here.’ Mr Clipboard clasped it to his chest. ‘Now, how can I help?’

‘We’re here to see Leo McVey.’

‘Ah... I’m afraid that’s impossible. You see Mr McVey’s on the main stage in just a little under thirty minutes. Twenty-seven minutes thirty-nine seconds, to be precise. And he’s getting ready in the green room.’

‘This won’t take long.’

‘Yes...’ The plastic smile got a bit more stretched. ‘Only he’s the closing headline act of the whole festival, and we’d rather like him to be at his best when he walks out there to entertain twenty-six thousand people. Not to mention everyone listening at home, and anyone who buys the CD or DVD. So you see...?’ A shrug.

‘I didn’t get your name, sir.’

Franklin reached out and took hold of one of the lanyards. ‘Ryan Keen.’

‘I see. Yes. Actually, it’s very much not a good time and—’

‘Have you ever seen the inside of a police cell, Mr Keen?’

He licked his lips. ‘Ah...’

Mr Not So Keen stopped outside the door to an oversized yurt — like a cake made of brightly coloured canvas, topped with a big pointy hat. ‘Now, please tell me you’re A: not going to upset him and B: not going to make him late.’

Franklin put her hand on Keen’s shoulder and eased him to one side. ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’ Then she opened the door and disappeared inside.

Keen fidgeted with his clipboard. ‘I’m going to get fired...’

Callum followed her into the cake.

Inside, the sweet-sweaty scent of incense mingled with orange and apple. Oriental rugs overlapped across the floor, and a row of fairy lights twinkled their way around the outside of the large open space. Leather sofas were artfully arranged, with standard lamps casting little golden pools of illumination in the luxuriant gloom.

A woman in full-on French maid costume stood just inside, with a tray of bubbling champagne flutes.

Clearly, people took a lot better care of musicians than they did police officers.