Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Franklin looked up from her phone. ‘Oh, Callum...’ She reached across the car and squeezed his leg. ‘Man up and grow a pair.’ Then went back to texting.

‘That’s the last time I open up to you.’

‘Good. Do us both a favour.’

He took a right at the lights. A couple of small tower blocks poked up from the surrounding houses. Gathered in a square.

Franklin put her phone down. Frowned out at the scenery. ‘I thought Strummuir was that way?’

‘It is. We’re just taking a tiny detour. Ten, fifteen minutes tops.’

‘Oh God, not this again. Why did I let you drive?’

He headed straight for the tower blocks. ‘I’m suspended, remember? I needed someone with me who can still arrest people.’

‘You never change, do you?’

The rows of brick tenements gave way to a semidetached council estate, centred on the quartet of tower blocks. And right in the middle of the blocks: some yellowing grass, a little play park, and a shopping centre that looked as if the apocalypse had come early and stayed for tea.

‘Ainsley Tyler Dugdale, forty-one, last known whereabouts: the Silver Lady strip club on Calder Road. Home address: fifteen B, Bowmore Avenue, Kingsmeath. Divisional have been looking for him since yesterday.’

‘So what are we doing here?’

Callum pointed through the windscreen. ‘That.’

A small, old-fashioned-looking pub sat at the corner of the shopping centre. Whitewashed walls and a neon ‘T’ in the window. Its name was painted in a wide strip of hoarding that ran the length of the building, ‘THE PEAR TREE’.

‘Dugdale’s favourite boozer. And if we’re lucky, the devious little sack of crap himself.’

‘We’re supposed to be finding Monaghan’s partner!’

Callum parked outside. ‘Dugdale battered a police officer and left him to die in the woods. Doesn’t matter if Poncy Powel deserved a kicking or not, he’s still one of our own.’ And besides, if they did Dugdale for the assault, Professional Standards would sod off and bother someone else for a change.

She sat there, face clenched. ‘Five minutes.’

‘Fifteen, tops.’ Callum climbed out into the rain, locked the car when Franklin joined him, then hurried across the car park and in through the Pear Tree’s front door.

Warmth wrapped its arms around him. The smell of beer, peanuts, and Far Eastern spices. It was as old-fashioned on the inside as it was on the out: bare wooden floor; little round tables; chairs, benches, and stools upholstered in red vinyl; hunting prints and landscapes on the walls; and above a crackling fireplace, an oil painting of a tree with a single golden pear nestled within its dark leaves.

About a dozen customers, most of them in their sixties, were gathered around the fire, playing dominos, eating curry, and drinking half-pints.

Callum wandered over to the bar.

The large lady behind it gave him a dimple-cheeked smile. ‘What can I get you, love?’

‘Looking for a friend of mine: Ainsley Dugdale. He been in?’

Her eyes flicked left for a tiny beat, towards a wooden door with ‘GENTS’ on it. ‘Dugdale?’ A frown. ‘Dugdale, Dugdale... No, doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.’

‘Big guy, bald, boxer’s nose. This is his regular.’

‘Can’t say I’ve ever seen him in here. Maybe you’re thinking of another pub? Try the Hare and Goblin on Wisdom Road.’ The smile got a bit more strained.

‘Right.’ A nod. ‘I’ll just nip to the bogs before I go.’

And the smile disappeared altogether. ‘Toilets are for customers only.’

‘Fine. I’ll take a can of coke. To go.’

‘You’re barred.’

‘Nice try.’ He turned and waved a hand at Franklin. ‘Shall we?’ He marched over and shoved the door to the gents open. Stepped inside.

Black and white tiles on the floor, the grout yellowed and greying. More white tiles on the wall, chipped and broken by the line of three sinks on the left. The sour sharp piddley smell reaching out from the urinals on the far wall. A pair of cubicles on the right.

Humming came from one of them: an old Donna Summer disco tune, from the sound of it.

Then some rattling and a grunt or two.

The sound of a zip being done up.

A toilet flushing.

And the door opened.

Dugdale had kitted himself out in jeans and a black hoodie — hood up, earbuds in, the white cables disappearing into the pocket at the front. His nose, chin and cheeks were a mass of purple and blue bruises, fading away to green and yellow. Willow Brown had obviously given him a serious kicking while he was lying unconscious on the pavement with a face full of pepper spray. But he still hummed along as he swaggered across to the sinks, throwing in a little hop-skip in time to the music.

Franklin nudged Callum. ‘Well?’

‘Let him wash his hands first. Be more hygienic.’

Another skip-hop-skip and Dugdale turned on the taps, swaying his hips and nodding his head.

Callum let him get as far as lathering up, before stepping right behind him. Reached out and tapped him on the shoulder.

A tiny high-pitched squeal broke through the humming and Dugdale spun around, eyes wide, mouth open. Then he saw Callum. Swore. And lunged.

Both soapy hands smashed into Callum’s chest, sending him careering back, crashing into a cubicle door. Arms flailing, feet skittering on the tiled floor, trying to stay upright.

Dugdale was off — barrelling into Franklin.

She bounced off the toilet wall and went sprawling while Dugdale disappeared back into the pub.

Callum hammered after him, jumping over her as she struggled to her hands and knees. Out.

The OAPs were on their feet. One of them grabbed a bottle of Beck’s by the neck and smashed its bottom against the fireplace — turning it into a glass dagger.

Dugdale battered out through the front door and Callum followed. Ducking as knives, forks, and dominos were hurled in his direction. Into the rain.

‘COME BACK HERE!’

But Dugdale was off, arms and legs pumping, head down.

Well, he was out of luck this time. Callum yanked out the car keys and plipped the Mondeo’s locks. Jumped in behind the wheel. Cranked the engine and whacked her into reverse, setting the tyres screeching on the wet tarmac. ‘Come on, come on, come on...’

Dugdale was fast, but not fast enough.

Any second now...

He jinked to the right, skidding onto a section of grass, leaping down the bank and onto a path.

Callum hauled the wheel hard over, hauled on the handbrake, and the car spun on its axis, facing the right way as it lurched over the edge and thumped down the grass and onto the path. Slithering and fishtailing as the tyres fought for purchase.

Dugdale risked a glance over his shoulder and his eyes widened again. Head back down.

Closer.

Closer.

Callum tightened his grip on the steering wheel. ‘You’re mine , sunshine!’

There was no way Dugdale could have heard, but he wheeched to the left — leaping over the waist-high chain-link fence that bordered the playground. Dodging the empty swings. Making for the other side.

Callum slammed on the Mondeo’s brakes and the back end slid, caught the chain-link and yanked the whole car to a sudden stop hard enough to set off the airbags. The white balloon punched into Callum’s face, forcing his head back, filling the car with the eye-scratching reek of spent fireworks. Leaving the air tasting of rotten eggs.

He coughed and spluttered his way out of the car. Stood in the rain and watched the tiny figure of Dugdale disappear into the distance — vanishing between two houses. And gone.

‘SODDING HELL!’

He limped around to the back of the car.

Most of the rear wing was gone, torn off and dangling on the end of a metal fencepost. What was left was gouged and tattered.