Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘You think he’s Imhotep?’

‘You didn’t see him when Monaghan went into the river: shouting the odds, swearing. He even took a swing at Watt. Bit extreme for someone who just employs the guy, isn’t it?’

‘Well...’

‘And Noble said they never hire anyone who’s a sex offender. Tod Monaghan had form for indecent assault, and he raped that bloke who wouldn’t press charges. How is that not a sex offender?’

‘If the victim wouldn’t press charges, maybe Darth Windolene didn’t know about it? They probably don’t put soft intelligence on file when they send people for work placement.’

‘But they’d put the indecent assault in, wouldn’t they?’

‘Hrmmm...’

Outside, a couple staggered past — the pair of them in ripped jeans and baggy T-shirts. Soaked to the bone, laughing, and sharing a half-bottle of vodka.

‘Think about it. He teaches people how to smoke things. He’s more hipstery than Ben Harrington, Brett Millar, and Glen Carmichael put together. He’d fit right in, just like Dr McDonald said Imhotep would.’

‘Callum—’

‘He teaches a foraging class too. That means mushrooms. How much do you want to bet he can get his hands on all the psilocybin he wants?’

The laughing couple dissolved into the distance, consumed by the downpour.

Callum turned his back on the rain. ‘Come on, Finn Noble’s got to be worth a closer look. You said the only person without a criminal record there was the woman who did the chips. What was Noble in for?’

Nothing from the other end.

‘You still there?’

‘I’m looking at my notes.’

‘Just ask him where he was when Watt was attacked. See if he’s—’

‘Thank you, Constable. I might just be a lowly woman, but I do actually know how a police investigation works.’

Callum closed his eyes. ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry.’

‘Should think so too.’ A sigh. ‘He’s gone out for lunch, but Dotty interviewed him this morning. I’ll check with her, see what he said.’

‘Great. And call me back?’

‘You’re a pain in the backside, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Yup.’

‘Right, you’re in luck.’ Billy stuck his head out of the little office. ‘Frazer McFee and Son have a diarrhoea-brown Mondeo estate in stock — engine’s completely seized, but everything else is salvageable. And they’ll let you have the bits you need for three hundred.’

‘Pounds?’

‘No, Jelly Tots. Of course pounds. Cash, so no VAT, and... What?’

Callum fiddled with a spanner. ‘I’m a bit, strapped.’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ He disappeared back into the office. ‘They’ll give us a ten percent discount if we dismantle the thing ourselves. And you’ll owe me , understand!’

Callum followed him into a gloryhole of paperwork, files, and random bits of machinery. ‘How long?’

Billy filled a little kettle from a little sink and stuck it on to boil. ‘If I abandon everything else? Lunchtime tomorrow.’

That would be doable, wouldn’t it? He’d just have to keep his head down till then and hope Mother didn’t ask for her Mondeo back. ‘Thanks, Billy, you’re a star.’

‘Just don’t tell anyone.’ Billy shook his head. Sighed. ‘I’m a fool to myself.’ Then delved into the filing cabinet. ‘You want a Pot Noodle? Got chicken-and-mushroom, or Bombay Bad Boy.’

Easy. ‘Chicken. Why would anyone—’ His phone went off and Callum swore. Pulled it out and checked the screen: McAdams. ‘Sorry, got to take this.’ He walked back out into the workshop while Billy peeled the foil lids off the pots. ‘Is Watt OK?’

A small pause. ‘He had a stroke. How would he be OK?’

‘When Mother called she sounded... I don’t know. Anyway, if it’s not Watt, what do you want?’

‘I’m dying.’

This again.

‘I know.’ Callum settled back against the workbench and flicked through the other paper. Sex scandal. Sex scandal. ‘MY DRUG BINGE HORROR’ by some nonentity from a reality TV show.

‘We need to talk.’

Murder. Sex scandal. ‘“I’M PROUD OF MY CELLULITE!” SAYS CURVY CORRIE BABE’.

‘So talk.’ Cellulite-Pride Week seemed to be nothing more than an excuse to print pictures of celebrities in their bikinis. Germaine Greer would be so proud.

A cough rattled down the phone, followed by another one. And another — hacking on and on.

The next page was an editorial about what a genius R.M. Bloody Travis was, and how everyone would miss his magical imagination.

McAdams’ coughing gave way to wheezing gasps.

Callum scrunched the page up in his fist, spat on it, then lobbed it at the bin. Missed.

A wheezy voice sounded in his ear again. ‘Callum? You still there?’

‘No.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Kingsmeath, visiting an old friend.’

Another cough rattled out of the earpiece. Followed by some panting. ‘Urgh... My house. And bring some milk — full fat. No point wasting life on that semi-skimmed rubbish.’

‘McAdams, I’m not traipsing all the way across—’

‘We — need — to — talk. In person. Now.’

Wonderful.

He didn’t bother hiding the sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Callum hung up and went back to the office, where the smell of rehydrating soya product filled the gaps between the oily diesel fug. ‘Have you got a car I can borrow? Something’s come up. Sorry.’

Billy pulled two forks from his desk drawer and stuck one in each pot. ‘I need the truck to go get your Mondeo bits, but I’ve got something that might help. It’s not fancy but it’ll get you there.’

‘Anything’s good.’

That got him a very disturbing grin.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ The grin got bigger.

Yeah... why wasn’t that reassuring?

BILLY JACKSON MOTOR SERVICES ~ MOTS WHILE YOU WAIT didn’t stretch to a courtesy car. Instead, Callum wobbled along the side streets, both knees clamped together, buttocks clenched, holding on to the scooter’s handlebars as if they were the only thing keeping him from a humiliating and messy death. The crash helmet rattled about on his head, about a size and a half too big, but it was the only one that would go over the gauze padding covering his ear and the back of his head.

This was clearly Billy’s way of getting his own back on Callum for abandoning him to dismantle the scrapyard Mondeo on his own. Not to mention the matter of paying for the parts and repairs with an IOU. But still...

Spray made twin arcs either side of the front wheel, there was nothing to keep the rain off, it was freezing cold, and the engine sounded like an angry wasp attacking a PA system.

Sodding DS Sodding McAdams.

Why couldn’t he just discuss whatever it was on the phone like a normal person?

Because that would be too easy, that’s why. Because then Callum wouldn’t have to drive a horrible little scooter through the pouring sodding rain.

A four-by-four passed by, going in the opposite direction, sending up a wall of water that crashed across Callum’s arms and chest.

‘Aaaaargh!’

That did it — cancer or not, McAdams had to die.

‘What took you so long?’

Callum stood on the doorstep, arms outstretched, legs apart, dripping. Plastic bag dangling from his good hand. ‘I’m going to kill you.’

‘You look like you swam here.’

‘I swear to God, if you don’t get out of the way and let me into the dry, I’m seriously going to murder you right here.’

A slow smile spread across McAdams’ skeletal features. Then he stepped back and gave Callum a low bow, sweeping one hand out to indicate the corridor.