Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

She closed her eyes and took a big breath. ‘God, I’m finally free . I can write again. My own words. Ooooooh... No more adult nappies, no more spoon-feeding him on bad days, no more watching him crumble like a sandcastle as the tides of time rush in.’

‘But you didn’t kill my mum and dad, did you? It was him.’

‘What does it matter? He’s dead, isn’t he? He can’t do...’ A frown. ‘His legacy is more important than a few dead bodies. Oh, not to you — I get that — but to the world. If he was some sort of monster, parents wouldn’t buy his books, would they? Generations of children would miss out on Russell the Magic Rabbit . No one would ever read Open the Coffins again.’

‘So you’re taking the blame to protect his literary estate?’

‘I’ll be free.’

‘How much did they offer you?’

‘I can write again!’

‘Because I’m going to burn your phoney confession to ash. Then I’m going to do the same with your dad’s reputation. And then I’m going after Leo McVey.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You can’t do that.’

Callum inched closer to the hatch and dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. ‘I’ve got an eyewitness. The boy your dad and Leo McVey abducted? My brother. He’s still alive. And we’re lighting the fires.’

‘Hmm...’ Emma blinked at him a couple of times, then smiled. ‘My lawyer’s very, very good. He says if I plead guilty they’ll sentence me to treatment at a secure psychiatric facility, where I can get the help I so desperately need. And after two, maybe three years, when they finally declare me cured and fit to return to society, I’ll find a very supportive friend in my publisher.’ The smile was as sharp as it was cold. ‘Because that’s the kind of caring socially responsible international corporation they are.’

‘Let me guess — it’s the same company that publish your father’s books.’

‘They’ve been extremely kind to me.’

‘Oh grow up. They didn’t parachute a fancy-pants solicitor in to look after your best interests, they sent him here to look after theirs . How much is your dad’s literary estate worth every year: a million? Two? Probably more, now he’s dead.’

Franklin grabbed Callum’s arm. ‘Come on, that’s enough.’

‘And your publishers don’t want anyone to find out he was a serial-killing tosspot because it’ll spoil their sales figures.’

A sharp woman’s voice boomed out behind them. ‘Can I help you?’

Callum turned and there was Sergeant Price, all puffed up, shoulders back. Looking every inch the prop forward.

Franklin stepped in front of her. ‘We’re looking for Emma Travis-Wilkes.’

‘In this station we check with the custody sergeant before we talk to suspects.’

‘Right. OK. Thanks. Good pointer.’ Franklin took hold of Callum’s arm again. ‘We’ll just be on our way.’

‘That’s probably a good idea.’

She dragged Callum down the corridor and out into the custody suite. Then through the doors and into the bare-breezeblock corridor. Shoved him up against the wall. ‘Are you insane ?’

‘Her solicitor’s manipulating her to—’

‘If Wilkes tells him about your visit, he — will — have — you — fired. Is that what you want?’ Franklin let go. ‘Because if it is, you’re on your own.’

Callum stared at her. The flared nostrils. The wide eyes. The bared teeth.

‘Fine.’ He pushed past her, out through the double doors and into the rain. Turned. ‘Emma Travis didn’t kill my mum and dad, OK? She didn’t abduct Alastair. It was her dad and Leo Bloody McVey.’

‘For God’s sake!’ Franklin jabbed a hand back towards the cell block. ‘Even if Donny “Sick Dawg” Newman is telling the truth, even if he is your brother, he was five when it happened. Five years old. Do you have any idea how easy it’ll be to rip his testimony into tiny frilly little pieces?’

‘That’s not—’

‘And Wilkes admitted it. She killed her own father! She killed Bob Shannon. She nearly killed you! Who’s the jury going to believe?’

He closed the gap. ‘You didn’t see her. She shot Bob and she was in pieces. Sobbing. Horrified. Does that sound like someone who’s murdered and dismembered a dozen people? Who’s been killing since she was sixteen years old?’ He marched away a couple of paces, then back again. ‘Because that’s when the first chunks of human being went into a freezer-bag at Casa Del Travis: thirty-one years ago. And apparently she’s been getting away with it ever since. But shooting a retired copper in a Norwich City T-shirt makes her break down in tears? You believe that?’

Franklin stared up into the downpour for a moment. ‘It doesn’t matter, OK? It’ll all come out at the trial. Newman can—’

‘There won’t even be a trial! She pleads guilty this morning, and that’s it. No jury. No witnesses. No trial. Emma Travis-Wilkes goes off to a rubber room for two years while her father and Leo McVey GET AWAY WITH BUTCHERING MY PARENTS!’

The rain hissed against the bland featureless back of Division Headquarters. Bounced off the patchwork tarmac of the rear podium car park. Drummed on the roofs of the parked patrol cars, pool cars, and assorted private vehicles. Soaked through Callum’s hair and trickled down the back of his neck. Leached into his jacket.

He screwed his eyes shut. Bit his lip. Took a deep breath. ‘Sorry. I don’t... This is all a bit... It’s a shock, OK?’

Franklin’s hand was warm on his arm. Her voice: soft. ‘Maybe you should take a couple of days off?’

‘Yeah. Maybe.’ After all, it wasn’t as if he was already suspended or anything. He turned. ‘They killed my mum and dad, they took my brother, and they’re going to get away with it.’

‘Raymond Montgomery Travis is dead.’

‘That’s not the point. He shouldn’t get to stay a “beloved children’s author” — he’s a serial-killing dick-monkey. People should be spitting on his grave.’ Callum wiped his hands across his face and flicked the water out into the soggy morning. ‘They’re going to put the bastard on a stamp . How is that...’ Wait a minute.

‘Callum?’

Parked cars circled the gap behind the buildings, the space in between broken up into individual bays. A familiar red Mitsubishi Shogun sat in the far corner, and there was someone slumped in the driver’s seat.

‘Callum, are you all right?’

He jogged across the car park, splashing through the puddles.

McAdams was a crumpled heap, head thrown back, hands loose in his lap, mouth hanging open. Skin pale as mist. Not moving.

Oh Christ. He was dead, wasn’t he.

Callum tried the door. It clunked open.

A sour smell oozed out of the car, layered with the scents of wood smoke and menthol.

‘McAdams? Sarge?’ He reached in and shook McAdams’ shoulder. ‘Hello?’

‘Nnnghmppph...’ McAdams blinked. Shuddered. Then let loose a deep rattling cough. ‘Whrm I?’

‘You’re going to hospital.’

‘No. No hospital.’ Another cough and he sagged back in his seat. ‘I’ll be fine.’

Franklin clunked open the passenger door and slid into the seat. ‘You look like you already died.’

That got her a smile. ‘I love you too, Rosalind.’

‘Callum’s right, you need to go to hospital.’

He didn’t move. ‘It’s very sweet of you both, but I’m not going to the sodding hospital. Are we clear on that? No — hospital. Je ne vais pas aller → l’hôpital .’

‘But you’re—’

‘Dying. I know. And I’m not going to do it in a starchy bed surrounded by strangers and machines that go ping .’