Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Yeah, Mother was going to kill him.

Franklin climbed out of the car, stared at the passenger-side wing then ducked her head back inside. ‘You’re right, Mother’s going to kill you.’

Behind her, Strummuir Smokehouse slumped in the rain, a long curl of white snaking up towards the heavy grey clouds.

Scraps of white dangled from the middle of the steering wheel and the dashboard above the glove compartment. Callum gripped one and yanked it free. Dropped it into the footwell. ‘Because today wasn’t bad enough, was it? No. Course it sodding wasn’t.’

‘Maybe you could get a garage to fix her up before Mother finds out? Weld on a new panel. Fit replacement airbags...?’

He let his head fall back against the rest. ‘If anything happens, if you find out who Monaghan’s killing partner was, let me know, OK?’

‘We’ll do our best.’ Then Franklin turned and headed in through the smokehouse doors, leaving Callum alone with the rain.

There was a figure in the office above the main entrance, partially silhouetted in the floor-to-ceiling windows, on the phone. Stupid 1930s haircut, both arms covered in tattoos — Star Wars down one side, X-Men down the other. Skinny jeans. Finn Noble, the smokehouse manager. What was it Watt had named him, Darth Wolverine? He raised his other hand and waved at Callum. Then turned and disappeared back into the room.

Idiot.

Oh, he looked all trendy now, but give it five years when the fashion had moved on to something less lumberjacky. What was he going to do with all those tattoos then?

Callum shook his head, turned the wheel, and steered the crippled Mondeo back towards town. A strange ticking clunk came from the back end now, the engine sounding a lot louder and more gravelly than it had.

He clicked on the radio to drown the noise out, getting a bland poppy number for his troubles.

‘Ooh baby, you know I need you; And I want you; And I’ll be true...’

Maybe Franklin was right — get the car to a mechanic and hope they could hide the damage before anyone else found out. Assuming no one had caught the accident on their mobile phone and uploaded it to YouTube already.

‘Together, we can be free, / We can make love, / Have a baby...’

‘Good luck with that.’

There was Billy Jackson’s garage in Kingsmeath. He might do it for cheap with bits from the scrap yard. As long as he matched the colour, who’d know? And it wasn’t as if Billy didn’t owe him a shed-load of favours.

‘Oh girl, you and me, / Living life, / Raising a family...’

Blah, blah, blah.

Sodding Dugdale.

The song chuntered on as the Mondeo clicked, rattled, and growled its way across town.

‘Face it, Callum, it’s not your day today.’ A little laugh broke free. ‘Day? It’s not my week. Month. Year. Hell, it’s not my sodding life .’

One final close-harmony dose of blandness and the song died.

‘There we go, Mr Bones and “Babylove” from their most excellent live set at Tartantula last weekend. Stick with us, we’ve got loads more where that came from on the Lunchtime Sea of Sound with me, Chris Pilot! But first it’s quarter past one and here’s Gabrielle with the news and weather.’

‘Thanks, Chris. Tributes continue to pour in for R.M. Travis as news of his death spreads around the world—’

‘Dirty murdering bastard.’ Callum stuck two fingers up at the radio.

‘—lead singer of ninety’s rock band Wolfrabbit.’

A man’s voice: ‘Yeah, it’s a total nightmare. I mean, he meant everything to us when we were growing up. I know people chuck about the word “genius” like it means nothing nowadays, but he was a genuine hundred percent genius. There’s no other word for him.’

‘How about “serial-killing dick-hat”?’

Technically four words, but it was the thought that counted.

A woman: ‘It’s completely devastating. How could anyone take R.M. Travis from the world? It’s insane. I can’t believe it.’

Maybe the garage could fix the radio too, so it wouldn’t pour crap out into the car?

Another man: ‘R.M. Travis was a not inconsiderable landmark on the British literary landscape. They worship him all over the world, he’s practically a religion.’

And the newsreader was back. ‘Staying close to home, Donny McRoberts, more commonly known as “Sick Dawg” appeared in court this morning on charges of possession of class A drugs, making death threats to police officers, and sexual assault. His lawyers issued a statement outside the Sheriff Court.’

Callum turned it up.

Captain Scruffy’s broad Glasgow burr filled the car: ‘My client deeply regrets that the pressures of work have led him down the path of substance abuse and is determined to get clean.’ Though the accent was still there, he’d dropped all the Weegieisms. ‘He wants to be a positive role model for his millions of fans, and understands he has a lot of work to do to regain their trust.’

Not to mention all the violence against women and breaking his daughter’s arm.

Callum slumped in the seat.

All these years wanting a family, wishing he still had a brother... Why did Alastair have to grow up such an arsehole?

‘We’re asking the court to take into account Donald’s very difficult childhood. And I’m afraid I can’t say anything else about that at this time, but we will be making a further statement when we can.’

‘McRoberts was released on bail to his record company who say he will be honouring all tour dates on his schedule. Local news now and police are appealing for witnesses—’

Difficult childhood.

Suppose that was a bit of an understatement. Growing up in care was bad enough, but God knew what kind of horrors Alastair would have seen the day they were abducted. Did Leo McVey and R.M. Travis make him watch while they killed and dismembered Mum and Dad? Did they do things to him?

The plastic steering wheel creaked in Callum’s good hand. Knuckles swollen and pale.

How long did they keep him for, before dumping him on social services as Donald Newman? Then McVey, visiting him in the care home, year after year...

Poor little sod.

Maybe it wasn’t surprising Alastair had turned out the way he had?

‘—missing four-year-old was last seen outside the Templer’s Vale Shopping Centre in Logansferry. If anyone has any information—’

Callum’s phone went off and he dragged it out. Pinned it between his shoulder and ear so he could turn the radio down. ‘Hello?’

Mother, sounding as if she’d just been run over. ‘The doctors have been on the phone.’

That couldn’t be good. ‘Ashlee’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘It’s John, Callum. A blood clot broke free and... he’s had a stroke. They’re trying to see how much of him they can save...’

Oh no.

‘Is there anything we can do?’

‘I’m just letting the team know.’

‘Right. Yes. Look, if there was ever a good place to have a stroke it’s in the Intensive Care Unit of a big hospital, isn’t it? He’s going to be OK.’

There was a sniff and a shuddering breath. Then a cough. ‘Of course he is. You take care of yourself, Callum. I’ll give you a call if I hear anything else.’

‘Thanks.’ He waited till she’d hung up to put his phone away.

‘—finally looks like we’re going to see an end to this weather. There’s high pressure moving in from the Atlantic and that means clear and dry conditions from Wednesday onwards. Best of the sunshine will be on Saturday and Sunday, so bail out your barbecues and get ready for a good weekend.’