Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘Oh definitely.’ She sat back, swivelling her chair from side to side. ‘You here about the freezers, or the lab results from the Gossard house? Because if it’s the lab results, that’s very much not my fault. I took the samples, I labelled them properly , so whoever arsed it up did it at the laboratory.’

‘Officially, I’m just here as a witness, but unofficially: freezers.’

She picked a sheet of paper from the top of her printer. ‘We won’t know for certain until the anatomy gurus get here from Dundee, but I’d say you’re looking at between six and twelve individuals spread among the eight freezers. That’s assuming everything else is what the labels say it is. And that’s not...’ She pointed at his jacket as singing erupted from somewhere deep in his pocket. ‘Are you going to answer that?’

‘Sorry.’ He pulled out his phone. ‘Hello?’

A woman’s voice that sounded as if it could crush walnuts just by shouting at them. ‘Constable MacGregor? Sergeant Price: custody suite. I have a note here that you’re to see a Mr Donald Newman this morning before he goes before the Sheriff?’

‘I can’t. I’ve been suspended. I’m not on active duty.’ He glanced at Cecelia. ‘I’m not even in the building.’

‘Nice try. I’ll expect you here before ten.’

Oh for God’s sake. ‘But—’

‘Don’t make me come looking for you.’ Then she hung up.

Wonderful.

Cecelia passed over the sheet from her printer. ‘Take a look: going by the freezer-bag labels our human remains date from thirty-one years ago through to about twenty ten. The handwriting gets a bit shaky at the end. A lot of the stuff’s been frozen, thawed, and frozen again, going by the state of it. Do you know they had bolognese sauce in there going back to the seventies?’ She shuddered. ‘And I thought my mum was bad for hoarding leftovers. The seventies !’

‘Lovely.’ He scanned the list of items recovered. Maybe one of the hands belonged to his father, or his mother? Or maybe the eyes? Or one of the hearts? ‘Any sign of... children’s remains. Like a five-year-old boy?’

Alastair.

The bumhead.

In his cartoon-fox T-shirt.

Cecelia shook her head. ‘But then I’m only going by the bits that are instantly recognisable. Who knows with the other stuff?’

‘Thanks.’

‘Now go away, I’m working.’

He backed out of the room.

‘And stop sneaking up on people!’

Callum wandered back along the corridor and through into the stairwell, frowning down at the list. A dozen victims over a space of thirty-one years. Not the most prolific killer Oldcastle had ever seen — not even in the same league as someone like Jeff Ashdale — but still...

And the experts from Dundee might ID even more. So—

He jerked to a halt.

Sod.

Detective Superintendent Ness was standing right in front of him, jaw set, shoulders back. ‘DC MacGregor.’

‘Super.’

Her face barely moved as she spoke. ‘I thought I suspended you yesterday.’

‘Yes, Super. It... I’m here as a witness? The Travis-Wilkes’ case is—’

‘Tell me, Constable, why is there a very expensive lawyer sitting in my custody suite threatening to sue Police Scotland if you don’t speak to his client?’

Oh sodding hell. So Donny ‘$ick Dawg’ Newman had called in reinforcements.

‘I can’t speak to him, Super: you suspended me. It’s not my—’

‘Hello?’ Franklin’s voice echoed through the stairwell. ‘Callum?’ She came thundering down the stairs, two at a time. Nodded at Ness. ‘Super.’ Then back to him. ‘Sorry, thanks for waiting.’

‘I...?’

She turned her perfect white smile on the superintendent. ‘We’ve been going over his statement from last night. I had to nip off to the toilet. Emergency situation. Anyway,’ she took hold of Callum’s arm, ‘let’s get you that lift home.’ Another nod. ‘Super.’

‘Oh no you don’t.’ Ness held up a hand. ‘Constable MacGregor isn’t going anywhere until he’s seen this Mr Newman and his solicitor. And I want you there for corroboration.’

Franklin’s smile slipped. ‘Super?’

‘You will make sure nothing happens, are we clear, Constable? If I’ve got to spend the next six months tied up in court, you’re going to find yourself doing every crummy crappy horrible job I can find.’ A big bright smile. ‘Off you go then.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Franklin led him away downstairs. Out through the doors at the bottom. Slumped back against the bare breezeblock wall. ‘Oh God... Why did you have to drag me into this?’

‘How is this my fault?’

‘I don’t know, do I? Maybe you antagonised Newman with your “everyone grew up in care” speech? Or maybe you just rub everyone up the wrong way.’ She straightened up and poked him in the chest. ‘I stood up for you with Ness, and you better not mess this up for me, Callum. You go in there and you be nice to this dick and you say “three bags full” if you have to. Understand?’

Lovely.

‘Thanks. Thanks a heap.’ He pushed through the double doors and into the custody area.

Peace reigned inside, just the ping and click of the central heating to spoil the silence. Last night’s stick insect had been replaced by someone who would’ve looked more at home on the rugby pitch, or a boxing ring. That would be Sergeant Price. She had her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, a pair of half-moon glasses perched on the end of her nose as she passed a form across the custody desk to Mr Slick — Emma Travis-Wilkes’ lawyer.

So Mr Slick had got himself another celebrity client. That was quite the portfolio he was building: a murdering liar, and a misogynist scumbag druggie. All he needed was a kiddy-fiddling TV presenter from the 1970s to complete the set.

Slick took a fountain pen from his inside pocket and signed. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

She pointed off to a row of easy-to-hose-down plastic seats. ‘Make yourself at home and I’ll give you a shout, soon as Ms Travis-Wilkes is ready.’

The room’s only other occupant was a chunky middle-aged man in a rumpled suit. Head a combination of Yorkshire Terrier meets pickled egg. Bags under his eyes, stubble on his chins, fingers stained turmeric-yellow from too many cigarettes. He was slouched across a couple of seats, as if he’d forgotten to bring his bones with him.

Mr Slick walked over to the plastic seating, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and dusted a chair as far away from Captain Scruffy as possible, before lowering his tailored backside into it. Sat there with his briefcase on his lap. Still as a garden gnome.

Callum slumped up to the counter. ‘I came, OK?’

Sergeant Price flashed him a smile. ‘Constable MacGregor, is it? Good. Right. Mr Newman’s solicitor has laid out some ground rules for your meeting: no recording, no harassing his client, and everything said is to be considered off the record.’

‘He can make all the rules he wants: I don’t want to meet his client. His client can go—’

‘Poop in his hat. Yes, I do read the night logs.’ She pointed at a plain veneer door. ‘You can use the solicitors’ briefing room. Fifteen minutes.’ Sergeant Price stared at him with all the warmth of an iceberg. ‘Do we have a problem, Constable?’ And there was that walnut-crushing tone again.

‘No, Sarge.’

A deep breath. A sigh. Then Callum wandered over to the room and pulled open the door. Not even bothering to look at Mr Slick. ‘Come on then, let’s get this over with.’

The consultation room had three chairs, a frosted window high up by the ceiling, and a Formica table covered in other people’s initials and swearwords. Callum collapsed into the chair beneath the window. Franklin was next, leaning back against the wall, arms folded.