Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

It rang for a bit, then McAdams was on the line, his voice muffled — almost drowned out by the grumbling engine. ‘Are you missing me already? That’s sweet.’

‘I just bumped into a friend of yours.’

‘Did you now?’

‘A Dr Fitzpatrick.’

The only noise from the other end was the engine.

‘You still there?’

‘No.’

‘She says you’ve not been going to your chemotherapy sessions.’

‘Well, that is interesting. Hold on, I’ll have to text that information to you... Yes.’

‘What the hell are you going on about?’

‘No, don’t worry about it. Not a problem... OK, bye.’ He hung up.

Callum stared at his phone. Dr Fitzpatrick wasn’t the only one raiding the medicine cupboard.

He dialled McAdams again, but it went straight through to voicemail: ‘You’ve reached Detective Sergeant Andrew McAdams. I’m sorry I can’t take your call at the moment, but—’

Callum killed the call.

Five seconds later his phone buzzed and dinged an incoming text.

What U playing at? Can’t talk

in front of Mother!!!

Shes gt enough 2 worry abt

already!

He leaned back against the bus shelter and poked out a reply:

The doctor said you’ve not been

going to chemo. You told us you

were.

Ding , buzzzzz.

I’ll call U when we get bk to

DHQ. Dnt B a dick about this!

Oh, so Callum was being a dick, was he?

You’re the dick! Why aren’t you

taking your chemo treatment? Do

you WANT to die?

Ding , buzzzzz.

Yes.

Oh.

The Mondeo was where Callum had left it, double-parked across a pair of matching four-by-fours. He unlocked the door and slid in behind the wheel.

So McAdams was skipping his chemo and didn’t want Mother to know about it. Fair enough. It was his life. What was left of it.

Callum rested his forearms on top of the steering wheel. Rain bounced off the car’s bonnet, clattered on its roof, made a small river in the gutter, overflowed into a spreading loch in the car park.

Suspended.

Of no use.

Abandoned.

Well, sod the lot of them. Ditch the car back at Divisional Headquarters and hit the Bart instead. Pick up his bike from Hedgehog. Maybe have a pint or three. Or four.

After all, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do.

Not now they’d chucked him off the case.

Something upbeat and poppy was playing as he walked into the room. The Dumbarton Arms was virtually empty, just a pair of youngsters trying to climb inside each other in one of the booths at the back. All hands and tongues.

Callum shook the rain from his hair and stepped up to the bar. ‘Hedgehog.’

The barman froze in the middle of loading a case of Bacardi Breezers into the fridge. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Is that any way to greet a valued customer?’

He straightened up and turned. Tucked his hingin-mince hair behind his ears and faked a smile. ‘Detective Constable MacGregor, how delightful of you to grace us with your patronage once more. I trust things are on a more cheerful footing with your good self?’

‘Pint of Trade Winds and a packet of pickled onion, thanks.’

‘Only I don’t think I could realistically survive another night of suicidal music playing on an endless loop.’ He pointed at the couple in the corner. ‘And it would ruin our young lovers’ esprit d’amour . Please?’

Callum hauled himself up onto a barstool. ‘Thanks for taking care of my bike.’

‘Does this mean we’ll be permitted to enjoy a Radiohead-slash-REM-free night?’

‘Promise.’

All the breath flopped out of Hedgehog. Followed by a smile. ‘In that case, dear Detective Constable, this first libation, and its accompanying comestibles, comes to you courtesy of the Dumbarton Arms in fulsome gratitude.’ He pulled the pint and set the glass down in front of Callum. ‘And while we’re talking of fulsome gratitude, will we be settling our bar tab from Thursday at some point today?’

‘Ah...’ He dug out his fiver and his small handful of change. Set the lot down between them.

‘Five pounds, eighty-three pence. And a button?’

‘They suspended me without pay, Hedgehog. You’re looking at all the cash I’ve got in the world right now.’

A long, gravelly sigh. Then Hedgehog pushed the small pile of cash back towards Callum. ‘In that case, shall we come to an accord? I propose the Dumbarton Arms retain possession of your bicycle until sufficient funds are at your disposal to make the appropriate remuneration. How does that sound?’

Irene Brown pawned her teddy bear and kids’ toys to pay for food and rent. And here he was pawning his bike to pay for an alcoholic bender.

Proud moment, Callum. Really proud.

‘Thanks, Hedgehog.’ He took a sip of his pint, then swore as his mobile dinged and buzzed.

Incoming text message.

No prizes for guessing who that would be from: bloody Haiku Boy.

Callum pulled the phone out and stuck it on the bar top, next to his crisps. But it wasn’t McAdams, it was ex-sergeant Bob Shannon.

Callum, I’ve got some good news:

the OAPs finally came up with a

name!

Where are you? I’ll come get you.

He popped open his bag of pickled onion and crunched through a couple. Then wiped his fingers clean on his trousers and replied:

Too late. Gareth Pike gave me the

ID this afternoon. I’ve already

been round — denies everything.

There was barely time for another mouthful of beer before his mobile burst into life. Shannon again. ‘Bob.’

‘Callum. You went round to see him? What happened? Did he cop to it?’

‘Did he hell.’ Another couple of crisps vanished in a hail of crunching. ‘Said he wasn’t there, he didn’t attack my parents, he didn’t abduct my brother. And if I want to talk to him again I’d better have a warrant with me.’

‘Pfff... What about the night your mother’s head was dumped in the woods?’

‘Oh he’s got an alibi for that. Hundreds of them: all over Twitter and Facebook.’

‘What?’

‘He was on tour with his band. There’s loads of pictures online of him up on stage in Brussels.’

One of the heavy petters surfaced for air, then shuffled his way to the bar, grinning. ‘Yeah, can I get a Glenmorangie and a bottle of the strawberry-and-lime cider?’ He turned and waved at the bearded friend he’d left behind at the table.

‘Bob, you still there?’

‘Sorry. Did you say he was on stage in Brussels ? Brussels, like the one in Belgium?’

Callum took another scoof of beer. ‘Have you been hitting the Malbec again, Bob?’

‘No. Just surprised, I suppose. Didn’t think he’d be able to perform any more. Given his condition.’

‘You’re kidding, right? He’s been all over the radio, TV, and papers for about a week, banging on about his grand-finale career-comeback gig tonight. In Montgomery Park?’

‘Erm... Callum, who are you talking about?’

‘The man who abducted my family: Leo McVey.’

‘Yeah. No. That’s not the name I’ve got.’

Shannon pointed through the windshield. ‘That’s us there.’

The house sat on its own, on the outskirts of Auchterowan, just visible through the trees bordering the property. Not quite a Georgian mansion, more a bungalow with delusions of grandeur. All the lights were on, its windows glowing, casting a warm golden glow out into the front garden. A winding gravel drive, threading its way between rhododendron bushes to the front door and double garage.