Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘Andy, it’s not your fault, it—’

‘I gave him a bollocking, I gave him a pep talk, and then I got back in my car and I drove away.’

She cupped his neck with a hand. ‘You couldn’t have known.’

‘If I’d stayed and searched the buildings with him, it might never have happened.’

‘Shh...’ Mother leaned in and kissed McAdams on the forehead.

Callum pulled up another plastic chair and sank into it. ‘I’ve called the SEB, the Procurator Fiscal, and Hairy Harry. SEB got there before the ambulance, everyone else is on their way.’

McAdams scrubbed a hand across his sunken eyes. ‘Sorry.’

‘Boss, we’ve got a problem: whoever tried to kill Watt, it definitely wasn’t Tod Monaghan. Not unless he’s stitched himself back together after the post mortem and broken out of the mortuary. He was working with someone.’

She stared at the ceiling tiles. ‘That’s all we need.’

‘And whoever it is still has Ashlee Gossard.’

‘Even better.’

‘So, what if Paul Jeffries didn’t die twenty odd years ago?’ Callum scooted his chair closer. ‘What if the male remains, in the shallow grave, were another victim? Not someone to sexually abuse, but someone to take the blame. What if Jeffries faked his own death and he’s still out there?’

‘Callum, Callum, Callum.’ McAdams shook his head. ‘Do you have any idea how many shades of stupid that is?’ He held up a hand before Mother could do more than open her mouth. ‘And I mean that with the greatest respect. One: if you’re faking your own death like that, you need someone to actually find the body, otherwise what’s the point? Two: Jeffries would be in his seventies by now, remember? And three: he was a sex offender with a thing for abducting and raping women. Why on Satan’s shiny earth would he suddenly change to abducting young men to starve, brine, smoke, and turn into mummies? Think it through.’

Yeah. It was a bit of a stretch.

Callum shrugged as heat bloomed in his cheeks and ears. ‘Just playing Devil’s advocate.’

‘Of course you were.’ McAdams sighed, then stood. ‘The brass aren’t going to like this, not after the triumphant press conference and all the drinks. We’re going to need a scapegoat, a statement, and another public appeal.’

‘Urgh.’ Now it was Mother’s turn to curl up into a ball in her seat. ‘They’re going to blame me for this, aren’t they?’

‘Tell them it was my fault.’ McAdams patted her on the shoulder. ‘It was , after all. I should never have left Watt on his own.’

Callum checked his watch. ‘If we hurry, we’ve still got time to get something on the Ten O’clock News. We can probably make the first editions too.’

She looked up at him. ‘What are we going to appeal for ? We have no idea who Monaghan’s partner was. We have no idea what they look like. We have exactly sod-all clue what we’re doing.’

McAdams pulled his bony shoulders back. ‘We’ll think of something. We always do.’ A sniff. ‘Well, usually, anyway.’

Mother rolled her eyes. ‘It’s official: we’re doomed...’

Callum picked at the dirty lining of his cast. ‘There’s got to be something we can do. What about Brett Millar? He’s still off his face on prescription meds right over there, isn’t he?’ He nodded at the windows lining one side of the corridor. Across a darkened courtyard, the merciless Victorian bulk of the secure psychiatric ward was just visible through the rain. ‘We get a warrant and we force them to pump him full of something to bring him back down to earth. Then we sweat him till he tells us what the hell happened in that flat!’

‘Andy?’

‘They wouldn’t give us a warrant yesterday, or the day before.’

Mother gave them a pained smile and a nod. ‘Let’s give it one more go, then.’

‘Good.’ Callum pulled out his phone. ‘I’ll call the—’

‘Actually...’ She looked away. ‘Maybe you should leave it to us.’

‘But—’

‘Callum, you can’t go ordering warrants if you’re suspended from duty. I’m amazed you managed to get the SEB, pathologist, and PF to go visit Thaw Cottages. The Sheriff’s not going to be that understanding.’

‘Oh.’ His shoulders slumped.

‘I appreciate the thought, though.’ She stood, rubbed at the small of her back. ‘Right, Andy, let’s get cracking. And see if you can drum up a uniform to stand guard at John’s hospital bed. I don’t want anything else happening to him.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

She smiled at Callum. ‘Go home. Read a book. We’ll let you know if anything happens.’

He stood there, grinding his teeth as they walked away.

Mother and McAdams disappeared through the doors and that was it: abandoned again.

Lovely.

All because of DCI Reece Sodding Powel.

And Ainsley Dugdale, of course.

Callum ran his good hand across his face, straightened up and marched out. Through the double doors, down the corridor past waiting rooms and treatment cubicles and shuffling old people...

A large woman in a flowery blouse and pencil skirt emerged from a door up ahead. Stethoscope around her neck, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She stepped into the middle of the corridor, hands on her hips, then marched away from him, shoving through the doors. ‘Mr McAdams?’

Callum hurried after her, through into the reception area: lined with posters about healthy eating and venereal diseases; packed with miserable-looking people in various stages of despair, waiting their turn.

‘Mr McAdams?’ She was still going, stout little legs pumping, trainers squeaking on the pale grey floor.

Callum caught up to her as she pushed out of the main doors and into the night. She stopped there, under the hospital canopy, hands on her hips again. Staring out into the rain. ‘MR MCADAMS!’

But there was no sign of him, or Mother.

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Some people just...’ She clicked her mouth shut. Looked Callum up and down. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I work with DS McAdams.’

‘Gah...’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Then can you do me a favour and ask him... no: tell him, force him to call my office and set up an appointment. He’s not impressing anyone with this he-man routine.’

‘OK. And you are?’

She dug into the pocket on her blouse and produced an NHS Oldcastle card. ‘Dr Fitzpatrick. And I’m not kidding about: he needs to call me and make a frigging appointment. Cancer isn’t something that just goes away on its own.’

Callum frowned down at the card. ‘Is this about his chemotherapy?’

‘It would be, if he’d actually turn up to his clinical appointments.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Please, just talk to him, OK? He won’t answer any of my calls, or texts. We need to get him in and we need to get his treatment started. He’s going to die otherwise. And I’m not talking in some obscure theoretical sense: he — will — literally — die.’

But...

‘I mean it: he’ll die.’

‘Yes. Of course. I’ll talk to him.’

‘Thank you.’ She spun around on a squeaky heel and pulled out her mobile phone, poking at the screen as she thumped back into the hospital. ‘Angie: I need a CT scan for Mrs Stoltzman...’

Either she was helping herself to the contents of the medicine cupboard, or something very wrong was going on.

Callum hurried out into the car park, but the thing was huge, stretching all the way from here to the maternity hospital, broken into various chunks along the way. No way of telling where Mother would have parked her manky Fiat Panda.

So he ducked into a bus shelter and scrolled through the contacts on his phone. Clicked on the one marked ‘DS CRAP POETRY’.