Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘Thanks, Gabrielle. Now, who fancies a bit of the Bay City Rollers?’

‘No chance.’ Callum switched the radio off again.

‘Oooh.’ The little man in the greasy grey overalls sucked a breath in through his teeth. Wiped his hands on a rag. ‘You’ve totally buggered that one, haven’t you?’ He ducked down again and peered into the rear wheel arch, making the hunch between his shoulders stick out even further, showing off the bald patch at the back of his head. ‘What did you hit, an elephant?’

‘How much, Billy?’

Two cars sat on ramps over matching inspection pits. Shelves and drawers lined the walls, along with a couple of risqué calendars, a portrait of the Queen, a stack of alloy wheels, and a welding kit. A small office off in the corner. The garage’s roll-up door was open, letting in the never-ending hiss of rain. It didn’t dent the overwhelming smell of old motor oil and diesel though.

Billy stood and sucked his teeth again. ‘Your rear wing needs replacing, and the suspension’s wrecked, and you’re gonna need a new tyre, and the airbags are gone, and the exhaust’s loose, and—’

‘Bare minimum, on the cheap: how much?’

‘Then I’ve got to order the parts in from Ford, and you know what—’

‘No.’ Callum held up his hands. ‘No dealership parts. We need to salvage everything from the nearest scrap yard. On the cheap, remember?’

‘Pffff...’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Depends what I can get my hands on.’

Callum stared at him. ‘How long have we known each other, Billy?’

‘Oh come on, I’m trying to make a living here!’

‘Did I, or did I not save your backside when you set fire to Mr Crimon’s car?’

‘I’ve got an ex-wife, two kids, and a cat to support!’

‘He caught you, remember? With your jeans all clarted in petrol.’

‘That was twenty-two years ago. Just because we grew up in a home, doesn’t mean—’

‘He was going to kill you, Billy. Literally. Crimon was going to hold you under the bathwater till you drowned .’

‘It’s not—’

‘Who hit him with that crowbar? Because it wasn’t the Tooth Fairy.’

‘Gaaaaagh...’ Billy stared at the roof. Slumped. Rubbed at his hunch. ‘All right, all right. Much cheapness.’

‘Thanks, and much quickness too, I need it back before anyone notices what’s happened.’

‘I’ll make some phone calls.’ He produced a battered mobile phone and wandered off, poking away at the screen.

And all Callum had to do now was figure out how to pay for it. Because, somehow, it was doubtful Billy would accept — quick check in the pockets — three pounds, twenty-one pence, and a button for fixing the battered Mondeo.

Couldn’t even offer his bike in part exchange, not with the Dumbarton Arms still holding on to it as collateral. And the way his luck was running, buying three scratchcards and hoping for a windfall wasn’t going to work either.

So Callum settled back against the workbench to wait. A couple of red-top tabloids sat next to a mug of coffee with ‘WORLD’S WORST HUSBAND!’ on the side. The front page of both was dominated by a photo of Emma Travis-Wilkes and her father at some sort of black-tie event. The pair of them smiling for the camera — him clutching a chunk of Perspex with a sponsor’s logo on it and something trapped inside. ‘BOOKED FOR HER FATHER’S MURDER’ was one headline. ‘THE MOST HATED WOMAN IN BRITAIN?’ on the other.

Going by the crowds outside Division Headquarters that morning, she certainly had to be in the running.

There was a small story sharing the front page with Britain’s most hated woman: a sidebar with a photo of Alastair with his shaved chest, baseball cap on backwards, and the tattooed cartoon fox poking out the waistband of his pants.

‘MY LIVING HELL WITH RAP STAR DRUG FIEND’

Looked as if Irene Brown had sold her story to the papers.

Continued on page four.

Good for her. With any luck she’d got a whole heap of cash for it.

He flipped through to page four.

They’d given her a two-page spread with more photos of Alastair, AKA: Donald Newman (31), AKA: Donny ‘$ickDawg’ McRoberts rapping away on stage. But right across the top was a big picture of Irene Brown (23), sitting in her living room, surrounded by her adoring children. Willow (7) and Benny (6) were striking rapper poses, arms crossed in ridiculous fashion with hands throwing gang signs out the ends. Pouting like ducks. Their little sister, Pinky (4), was dressed up in a long white dress with her hair done up in side buns like Princess Leia, sucking her thumb and clutching a lightsabre — not your standard Disney princess, but it still counted. The baby, Elsa (5 months) sprawled in Mum’s lap, all pink arms and legs.

Irene hadn’t put any make-up on for the photographer, letting the split lip and bruised cheeks shine through instead.

The article was in full-on tabloid sensationalist mode. The sex: rough. The drinking: constant. The drugs: hard. The violence: all the time. Living in grinding poverty while ‘$ick Dawg’ was off drinking champagne, travelling first class, and not paying a penny in child support. And right at the end, they’d asked her why she’d finally found the courage to confront the aggressive drug addict who’d fathered three of her kids.

Callum raised an eyebrow.

Apparently it was all down to him . There it was, in print:

“Detective Constable Callum MacGregor was the first person to be kind to me in years. I’d lost faith in the police, because no one ever cares about people like me,” said Irene, holding back the tears. “But he did. And I owe it to him to stand up and tell the truth about what Donny did to us.”

Dear Lord...

Something went pop deep inside his chest, spreading warmth across his lungs and down his spine.

Wow.

He closed the paper. Smiled. He’d actually made a difference.

Then frowned. Opened it back up and stared at the photo of the Family Brown again.

Donald Newman was really Alastair MacGregor, so that meant Pinky, Benny, and Willow were Callum’s nephew and nieces. He had a family.

A grin spread across his face.

He actually had a family again.

OK, so Willow was a little monster, Benny was different , and Pinky was...

Pinky — dressed up as Princess Leia.

Darth Wolverine — standing there with all his tattoos.

The happy warm feeling seeped away.

Callum dug out his phone and called Franklin. ‘Yeah, hi. Just wanted to know how you were getting on.’

‘Believe it or not, we’re coping without you. But only just.’ It shouldn’t have been possible, but the sound of Franklin rolling her eyes came down the line loud and clear.

‘Sarcasm. Lovely.’

‘Go watch a film, or read a book or something. Some of us have work to do.’

He wandered over to the roll-up door, standing on the threshold, just out of reach of the rain. Looking out on a manky grey alley in manky grey Kingsmeath. ‘Listen, I was thinking about Darth Wolverine. Has anyone—’

‘Darth what?’

‘Watt came up with it: it’s a tattoo thing. Finn Noble, runs Strummuir Smokehouse.’

‘Is this going to take long? Only I’ve got eight more people to interview before the building shuts at five.’

‘He’s probably the trendiest hipster there, right?’

‘Callum, can we not—’

‘He’s had access to the smokehouse all along. He’s the one who decides which ex-cons get to work there. He runs the courses — smoking and charcuterie and all that — so he knows the names and addresses of everyone who attends. He’s in charge. He can come and go as he pleases.’