Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Franklin flashed her warrant card. ‘Where’s Leo McVey?’

That got them a fixed death grin. ‘Mr McVey’s in the Absinthe zone.’ She pointed at a small tunnel through the yurt wall. ‘He’s communing.’

‘Good for him.’ Callum marched over and through the tunnel, coming out in a separate domed expanse. Only this one was lined in pale green, with beanbags instead of leather sofas.

About two dozen people were gathered around a coffee table covered in mugs and glasses — some on the floor, some on the beanbags, others leaning back against the yurt walls. All of them beaming at an old man, as if he were the second coming.

Leo McVey looked just like he had on Breakfast News , Friday morning: tasselled jeans, cowboy boots, dark-blue shirt, leather buckles on his wrists. He leaned forwards. ‘So there we are: Mick, David, Noddy, Lemmy, Ozzy, Alice, and me in the hot tub, and the only one with any clothes on is Mick.’ He winked at them. ‘That’s Jagger, not Hucknall. And I have to admit I’d done quite a lot of acid at this point, so when Mick says—’

‘Leo McVey, Police.’ Callum held up his warrant card. ‘We need to talk.’

McVey’s smile grew. ‘Not quite, but you’re close, officer...?’

‘MacGregor. Now, let’s—’

‘Hey, cop!’ One of the acolytes stood, right shoulder forward, the other drooped, leather jacket hanging open to show off a shaved chest and a fox tattoo sticking out of the waistband of his underpants where they stuck out of the waistband of his baggy jeans. A golden dollar sign dangled around his neck on a shiny chain. Elaborate moustache and goatee decorating his chin. Both hands circled gangsta signs, pumping himself up with every word: ‘You better stop, cos this man rocks, / And you pair of cocks better hit the bookshops, / And learn some respect, cos you incorrect, / I checked, and he ain’t no goddamned suspect.’

A very large black man in a blue tracksuit nodded. An American accent so thick you’d need a chainsaw to cut it. ‘Word.’

Franklin put one hand in her pocket — the one she usually produced her collapsible baton from, like a very violent magic trick. ‘I’m going to need you to sit down, sir.’

Gangsta Boy gave her a good hard leer. ‘Damn, bitch, you be fine !’

‘Word.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘What did you just call me?’

He limp-swaggered closer. ‘Bitch, you know I like my women like I like my coffee: strong, sweet, and black.’

‘Heh, heh, heh. Word.’

‘I’ll give you strong, you pasty—’

‘Ladies, gentlemen: chill, yeah?’ McVey stood, both hands out as if he was about to bless them all. ‘Donny, it’s OK. I got nothing to hide from these nice police officers. I’ve not packed a stash since the noughties.’

But Donny just stood there, with his hairless chest puffed out. ‘You sure, Leo, cos I can open up a can of righteous deliverance on these sons-a-bitches. Say the word and they gone .’

Another nod from the massive sidekick. ‘Word.’

‘You’re very kind, but I’ll be fine.’ McVey smiled. ‘Now, officers, any chance we can get this over with? I’m on in twenty minutes, and my bladder’s not as young as it used to be.’ He threw his apostles a peace sign. ‘Chill here, guys. When I get back we’re going to rock this city’s socks off!’

They gave him a round of applause and some whoops.

Then Keen took McVey by the elbow and led him out into the main yurt, nearly bent double under the weight of his own obsequiousness. ‘I’m sorry about this, Mr McVey. They assure me it won’t take more than a couple of minutes. We’ll get you out on that stage bang on time, don’t you worry. You’re going to be magnificent.’

‘It’s cool.’ McVey wandered over to the hospitality table and helped himself to a bottle of beer from the fridge. Cracked it open. Then pointed at a door, hidden away in an alcove. ‘Shall we?’

Callum followed him onto a section of decking set out with deckchairs and tables, beneath an awning covered in sponsors’ logos.

McVey took a swig and settled his elbows on the railing. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ Toasting the view with his bottle.

From here, the park sloped away towards the main stage — a big tessellated hemisphere surrounded by lights and speakers, flanked by a pair of screens three storeys high. Some sort of folk band were on the stage, leaping about and trying to get the crowd to join in.

There were thousands and thousands and thousands of them. All jammed together, waving flags, waving their mobile phones, waving their arms, apparently not minding the fact it’d been bucketing with rain for about a week and they were up to their welly-tops in sticky black mud.

Callum looked over his shoulder.

Franklin lurked nearby, her notebook out and pen at the ready. No sign of Mr Keen or his clipboard.

‘So, who was Captain Bare Chest, back there?’

‘Donny? He’s great, isn’t he?’ McVey laughed and shook his head. ‘Looks like he’s barely into his twenties: turned thirty last year. Suppose healthy living and Botox will do that for a man. Well, that and a face-lift, a nose job, and three hours a day with a personal trainer.’ Another swig of beer. ‘But you didn’t come here to talk about Donny Sick Dawg McRoberts.’

AKA: Donald Newman. Willow’s dad. The man driving the black Mercedes. The ‘man’ who broke a little girl’s arm. The man who beat his ex-girlfriend and stole her sodding teddy bear.

The man in serious need of a stiff bloody kicking.

But not quite yet.

Callum reached into his jacket and pulled out his father’s wallet. Flipped it open. ‘Twenty-six years ago, there was a family of four, just back from a fortnight in Lossiemouth.’

‘And?’

‘There’s a lay-by on the Aberdeen road, just outside Blackwall hill.’

‘Still listening, still not understanding.’

‘They were attacked, Mr McVey. Mother, father, and a five-year-old boy were abducted. Never seen again.’

He shook his head. Took another swig of beer. ‘Life can be pretty horrible, can’t it?’

‘Where were you on Wednesday evening, Thursday morning?’

‘This week, or twenty-six years ago?’ A shrug. ‘Because if it was this week, I was in Brussels with the band. We’ve not toured in about fifteen years, got the feeling we’d be a bit rusty, so off we lurched to the continent to get our swagger back.’ He counted them off on his fingers: ‘Hamburg, Friday. Berlin, Saturday. Dusseldorf, Sunday. Amsterdam, Monday. Rotterdam, Tuesday. Brussels, Wednesday. Cologne, Thursday. And back to Dear Old Blighty on Friday, cos I was on Breakfast News .’

‘And you can prove this, can you?’

McVey laughed. Shook his head. ‘Take a look online. There’s got to be ten thousand photos of us all over the whatchamacallit: social media. Honestly, nobody actually watches a gig these days — they just stand there filming it on their mobile phones. In my day it was autographs, now everyone wants a selfie.’

‘And what about the sixth of April, twenty-six years ago?’

This time he drained his beer. ‘Spent most of that decade off my tits on various mind-expanding chemicals. How am I supposed to remember one day?’

‘Because you were seen, Mr McVey. At the lay-by. You were seen assaulting the husband and wife with an iron bar. You were seen gagging them and tying them up with duct tape. You were seen loading them into the back of your Range Rover. You were seen abducting the young boy.’

‘Doesn’t sound like me.’

‘You were seen .’

‘Nah.’ McVey pitched his empty bottle, overhand, into a recycling bin eight feet away. ‘Ten points.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Because I wasn’t there. I didn’t attack anyone. And this conversation is like Glam Rock: ridiculous and over.’