Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘Of course he was. I saw him here, remember? Honestly, nobody pays any sodding attention.’ McAdams pushed through into the house. ‘He’d finished searching the cottages, I think. Or just about.’

The hallway smelled of long-dead mice, tainted with the sharp musky odour of fresh rodent urine, and the thick cloying tickle of dust. Other than them and Watt, it looked as if no one had been in here for years.

Callum slid his torch beam through the open door and into a living room. ‘This is a complete waste of time. Why would he still be here?’

‘Well, I don’t know, do I?’ McAdams limped past, playing his torch across the peeling wallpaper. ‘It was all I could think of to do. He’s not at home, he’s not at the station, Dotty’s not seen him since she turfed him out of her car. He’s got to be somewhere .’

The bedroom floor sagged towards the corner, where a hole as big as an armchair was rotted through the floorboards. A pair of dark shiny eyes glittered in the torchlight, then disappeared.

‘If you’re that worried, send out a lookout request. Get the media department issuing statements and posters. Mobilise the nightshift.’

‘It’s probably nothing. You know what Watt’s like — law unto himself, that one. Thinks he’s too good to check in with anyone or clock off at the end of the day.’ McAdams disappeared down the corridor. ‘Nothing in the bathroom.’

The other bedroom was empty too. And the kitchen.

Callum’s torch picked out manky worktops and kitchen units, little trails of footprints scrawled through the dust and mouse droppings. It sparkled back from the window above the sink. He opened the back door and ran it around the garden. ‘There’s outbuildings. A bothy and a big shed-barn thing.’

‘I don’t understand him, Callum, I honestly don’t. You? You’re a simple soul — a bran-flakes-and-marmalade kind of guy. But Watt?’

‘Screw you. I’m plenty complicated.’ He stepped back out into the rain.

‘I thought I’d finally got through to him. “Don’t be a dick,” I said. “You need to work as a team,” I said. “Oh yes,” he says, “I promise I’ll be a good boy from now on!”’ McAdams spat into the wet grass. ‘Dick.’

The bothy was a squat blocky thing with a rusty corrugated roof. Something had been at the mortar, eating it away, exposing the rocks that made up the walls. It smelled even more of mouse than the house had.

McAdams followed him from room to room. ‘See when I get my hands on Watt? I’m going to throttle the life out of him. You’re going to have to alibi me. Kid-on he was already dead when we found him.’

An ancient kitchen with a lumpy range that was like a solid heap of decaying metal, floral wallpaper smeared with mildew. The ceiling had collapsed, exposing the roof beams, leaving chunks of plaster all over the floor.

‘No, I won’t throttle him. I’ll tie him to the back of the car and make him run all the way back to Divisional Headquarters. Maybe drag him for a couple of miles too. That’ll teach him to do what he’s bloody well told.’

A line of swallow or house-martin nests lined the join between ceiling and wall in the next room. Stacks of old tiles and the rotting remains of kitchen units — probably dumped here when they did up one of the cottages decades ago.

McAdams wheezed. Leaned against the horrible wallpaper. Let his head hang.

Callum checked the last room — about the same size as the kitchen, only without the charm. Someone had drawn crude pornographic figures on the walls in crumbling chalk. And there was no way half of it was physically possible.

But no sign of Watt.

Back in the hall, McAdams hadn’t moved.

‘Right: soon as we’ve checked the barn, I’m dropping you off at the hospital.’

‘I don’t want to go to the hospital.’

‘Tough. You think Mother’s upset about Watt going AWOL? How do you think she’ll feel if I let you snuff it out here?’

‘I’m not going to the sodding hospital!’

‘Keep telling yourself that.’ Callum marched back out into the rain. Another trampled path led through the grass and weeds to the barn. So Watt had searched it too.

He took the path anyway, right up to the barn door. Flicked the catch open, pushed the door, and stepped inside.

Stopped.

Everything stank of wood smoke.

‘McAdams?’ Deep breath. ‘MCADAMS! IN HERE!’

The room was split into two bits — one set out with a wooden frame above a pile of ash and burnt logs. The other was a little room, built of rough-hewn wood. Just like the smokehouse they’d found at Creel Lane.

A pile of old wooden fish boxes sat in front of it, still fresh enough to ooze the acidic tang of old seafood.

‘MCADAMS!’ Callum struggled his good hand into a blue nitrile glove and crept over to the sealed-off section. The door was slightly ajar. He eased it all the way with his foot. Then lurched back a couple of steps, covering his mouth and nose with his fibreglass cast.

The billowing, unmistakable, greasy stench of death collapsed out of the room.

Behind him the barn door thumped.

‘Callum?’

‘Over here.’ He took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold.

A rusty metal tank gleamed in the torchlight. There must’ve been water in it, because it sent reflections sparkling across the wooden roof. He swung the beam right...

OK, that explained the smell.

A woman’s body was slumped on the floor by the wall, held upright by the chain around her neck. Callum set the beam on her dark, swollen face. Abby Gossard. Definitely dead.

‘Bastard...’

McAdams appeared in the doorway. ‘I found Watt’s car parked out back. What’s... Oh Christ, is that smell what I think it is?’

‘We’ve found Ashlee’s mother.’ He ran his torch across the floor around the tank, then back towards Abby Gossard... There was another body, lying against the wall, part hidden by a tarpaulin.

Please don’t be Ashlee. Please don’t be Ashlee.

Callum inched closer, picked up the edge of the tarp and folded it back.

It wasn’t Ashlee.

If anything it was worse.

Detective Constable Watt lay on his side, one knee drawn up, head lying on his arm. Something black had dried in a thin line from his nose to his cheek. Another line down the side of his neck from his ear. His skin was so pale it fluoresced in the torch beam.

‘Watt, you silly sod.’

McAdams cleared his throat. ‘Is he...?’

Callum knelt beside Watt, laid the torch on the dirt floor, and pressed two fingers in under his jaw.

‘Well?’

A tiny quiver pressed against Callum’s fingertips. Then another. Faint, but definitely there.

‘Call an ambulance! Call it now !’

Mother barged through the double doors, scattering a couple of paramedics in her wake. ‘How is he?’

‘Watt’s in surgery.’ Callum hitched a thumb over his shoulder at McAdams — slumped in a plastic waiting chair with his elbows on his knees and head in his hands. ‘This one, on the other hand, probably should be.’

McAdams didn’t even move at that.

She puffed out a huge breath. ‘He’s going to live, though, right? Watt’s going to make it?’

‘We don’t know yet. Someone tried to cave his head in with an adjustable spanner. Nearly succeeded, too.’

‘Gah...’ She sank into the chair next to McAdams, put a hand between his shoulders and rubbed. ‘Are you OK, Andy?’

‘No.’

‘Callum, get a doctor. Tell them—’

‘Oh don’t be so melodramatic.’ McAdams creaked himself up till his back was straight again. His eyes were red and puffy, shiny in the overhead light. ‘I was there, Mother.’ He stared down at his hands. ‘I was there at Thaw Cottages and I left him.’