Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

And two minutes later, Donald ‘$ick Dawg’ Newman swaggered in. They’d let him keep his own jeans and trainers, but confiscated his belt, shoelaces, and leather jacket. Someone had lent him a scruffy Oldcastle Police polo shirt to cover his naked chest. He slouched into the chair opposite Callum, one hand tucked into the waistband of his trousers, stubble blueing the gaps around his high-maintenance facial hair. ‘Sup, Bruv?’

But it wasn’t Mr Slick who shambled in after him and closed the door, it was Captain Scruffy. He grunted his way down into the last free chair. Rummaged through his pockets and came out with a packet of nicotine gum. Popped a couple. Chewing through a broad Glaswegian accent. ‘Right, gentlemen, youse is all aware of the ground rules, and that? No sneaky recording the conversation. Everything said in here is, like, mega off the record, man.’

This was the very expensive lawyer Superintendent Ness was so worried about?

Took all sorts.

Callum stared across the table. Not saying anything.

Newman grinned at him. ‘You look like crap, Bruv.’

He clenched his good hand into a fist. ‘I’m not your “Bruv”.’

‘Chill, man, we just talkin’, is all.’ He spread his hands on the tabletop. ‘You been to see Irene, yeah? And the kids?’

‘You assaulted her. You broke Willow’s arm. She was four .’

‘Yeah, well, I been through some tough times in my life. Grew up in care. Got into trouble. And it was the drugs, yeah? They made me do things I’m not proud of, Bruv.’ A wee shrug. ‘And you caught me, like, bang to rights, innit? Gonna plead guilty and throw myself onna mercy of the courts. Do my time. Get my life in order.’

Captain Scruffy gave a little snort. ‘Trust us, Donny, no way you’re goin’ down. When I get through with the Sheriff, they’re gonnae give you a medal for being an upstanding citizen.’

‘I’m gonna make amends, Bruv. Gonna make it up to Irene: give that bitch a huge cheque, like an apology for what I did and all that child support I never paid. Bitch can get herself a nice house in Blackwall Hill or something.’

Callum picked at a set of carved initials in the Formica. ‘You actually think that’ll make it all better?’

‘Yeah, I was a dick. Like I said: drugs.’

‘And don’t call her a bitch.’

There was a pause and Newman tilted his head to the side, one eyebrow raised. ‘You still ain’t got it, has you, Bruv?’

Outside, in the custody suite, someone coughed like they were trying to expel a lung.

Franklin shifted against the wall.

Captain Scruffy chewed.

Newman sat forward. ‘Got into a fight when I was twenty — bit of a barney over who owed who for a load of skunk went missing — sons of bitches broke my nose and cheek and jaw. Had to get plastic surgery to fix it, Bruv. And I thinks to myself, while I is here, might as well get me some more handsome, yeah?’

‘There a point to this?’

‘You really don’t recognise me, do you? Bruv .’

‘I told you to stop calling me that, I’m not your...’

Oh yeah, me and Leo: we go back years, innit? See when I was growing up in a home? He visited me, like every week... Man’s a star, right? Been like a dad to me.

It couldn’t be, could it?

No.

There would be a family resemblance, or something, wouldn’t there?

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.

Newman lifted the waistband of his borrowed polo shirt, showing off his shaved washboard stomach with its tattoo of a cartoon fox. Not identical to the one on his T-shirt all those years ago, but close enough.

Sodding hell...

Callum licked his lips. ‘Alastair?’

‘There we go.’

‘I thought you were dead...’

‘Nah, Bruv, I’s a superstar and that. Right, Mr McQueen?’

‘Oh aye. That you are indeed, Donny.’

Callum stared. ‘But... what happened?’

‘Tried to get in touch a few years back. You know? Googled you, like, a million times. Thought maybe you were a midfielder for Celtic, but he looks nothing like us, yeah?’ The fake London patois was slipping. ‘So I hired myself a private detective. And now here we are.’

‘No: what happened to you ? After that day. When you all got abducted.’

Newman... Alastair folded his arms. Looked away. ‘Too soon, Bruv. Too soon.’

‘Look, you were there. You’re a witness. You saw what Leo McVey did — we can put the bastard behind bars!’

Alastair sucked a breath through his teeth. ‘Man’s been like a dad to me.’

‘Only because he helped R.M. Bloody Travis murder our real dad. And our mum!’

‘Nah, he’s—’

‘He helped , Alastair. They’d be alive today and I wouldn’t have grown up in sodding care homes. Neither would you. We would’ve been a family!’

Alastair slumped back in the chair again. Frowned at him. ‘You want to do Leo for killing Mum and Dad?’

‘Of course I sodding do.’

The only sound in the small room was Captain Scruffy’s wheezy breath.

And then Alastair shrugged. ‘I’m-a think about it, yeah?’ The patois was back. ‘You asking me to snitch on the man brought me up. That’s cold, Holmes. I’m-a speak to my legal representative now.’

Captain Scruffy took the nicotine gum from his mouth and stuck it to the underside of the table. ‘And that concludes our business here this morning.’ He nodded at Callum. ‘We’ll be in touch, pal.’

Callum marched past the custody desk and pushed through the door into the custody suite.

Franklin was right behind him. ‘Your brother’s alive; why have you got a face like a badger’s backside? Isn’t this a good thing?’

‘I’ll just be a minute.’ Grinding it out between his teeth. ‘Five tops.’

She groaned as he shoved through to the female cells: a twin line of blue-painted metal doors. ‘Please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing!’

‘Of course I sodding am.’ He pointed at the hatch mounted on the door of each cell. ‘Help me look. She’s in here somewhere.’

‘Callum, you’re a witness. Worse: you’re a victim . She tried to kill you. You can’t just rock up and have a cosy wee chat with Emma Travis-Wilkes, the Procurator Fiscal will do her nut. Wilkes’s lawyer will have a field day!’

‘Five minutes tops.’

‘Oh for God’s sake...’

He slid down the hatches and peered into each cell, working his way along one side until there she was. Emma Travis-Wilkes.

She was sitting on the blue plastic mattress with her back against the wall, legs folded into the lotus position, forearms resting on her knees. A calm smile on her face, even with all the bruises.

Nice to see someone was enjoying themselves.

Callum thumped on the door. ‘Hello, Emma. Remember me?’

‘How’s your head?’ She turned the smile up a bit. ‘I’m sorry I had to hit you.’

‘This lawyer of yours, Flynn. He’s not from around here, is he? His suit’s worth more than I make in a year.’

‘My publishers organised everything. I phoned my publicist, said, “I’ve just killed my father,” and the next thing you know: ta-daaaa.’ She unhooked her legs and stood. ‘I wanted to thank you for arresting me. For... stopping me.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, that was a real pleasure.’

Emma padded across the concrete floor on her bare feet. Placed a hand against the door. ‘Do you know what it’s like to live in the shadow of a famous parent?... No. Of course you don’t. Sorry.’ She shrugged. ‘Believe me, you were lucky. Living with someone like my father, looking after him and his bloody legacy. Did you know, just last week they were talking about putting him on a stamp? On a stamp . How is anyone supposed to compete with that?’