Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘He killed himself?’

‘There’s more. He left a suicide note.’

The tumble dryer bleeped then fell silent.

Callum opened the door and hauled out his suit — all hot and crackling with static electricity. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? Imhotep. He knew we were closing in and he chickened out before we could nab him.’ The towelling robe went on the worktop and Callum pulled on his pants — all warm and clingy. Grabbed the edge of the washing machine as the world did a quick swirl when he stood up again. ‘Whoa...’ Blink. Sniff. ‘You still there?’

‘We’ve sent a copy of the note to Dr McDonald, but it’s basically claiming credit for the killings, justifying his actions, and complaining that we spoiled everything by capturing his gods before they could save the world.’

‘AKA: nutjob.’ Callum hauled on his trousers, fingers flinching at the hot zip and buttons. Struggled his fibreglass cast down the sleeve of his shirt. ‘I can be there in...’ Callum checked his watch. Then froze. How exactly was he going to turn up on a scooter and not have everyone asking questions about the missing Mondeo? Borrow McAdams’ car? ‘Maybe fifteen minutes?’

‘Don’t be daft, you’re suspended.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘No buts.’

‘Fronting up Finn Noble was my idea! How can you not... Hello?’ Silence. ‘Franklin? Hello?’

She’d hung up on him.

Perfect.

Thanks. Thanks very sodding much.

He buttoned his shirt. Pulled on hot socks. Checked his shoes — perched on top of the boiler. Twenty minutes up there, stuffed with crumpled-up bits of the Daily Record , and they were still sodden through. Callum changed the damp newsprint for dry bits. Grabbed his jacket then headed back through the door to the kitchen.

The contents of his pockets were where he’d left them, sitting on the kitchen table. He loaded up again. Paused. Sniffed the air. ‘Why can I smell smoke?’

McAdams stood in front of the hob, stretching a sheet of clingfilm over a frying pan. ‘That’s the trouble with most people: no idea how to treat a kipper. It’s already cooked, you don’t need to grill or fry it — that just dries the flesh out — you stick it in a deep-sided frying pan, or roasting tin, and you pour hot water over it. Seal it for a couple of minutes and you’re good to go. Jugged kippers.’

‘Finn Noble’s hung himself.’

‘Has he?’ McAdams clattered two plates onto the worktop. ‘Let me guess—’

‘Left a suicide note, admitting everything.’

‘Thank God for that.’ He sagged a little, one hand propping himself up. ‘Get a couple knives and forks. You like kippers, don’t you?’

‘Franklin said everyone at Strummuir had a criminal record. What did Finn Noble do?’

‘Of course you like kippers. Who doesn’t like a proper kipper?’ He tapped at the clingfilmed surface, making the condensation form into little round droplets. ‘It’s the drugs, they mess with your palate. Kippers are one of the few things that still taste right to me. That and the wine. And whisky, of course.’

‘McAdams: what did Finn Noble do?’

‘Hmmm? Oh, him. Yes. He was arrested for indecent exposure twice — decided it was a good idea to get his willy out on Stone Terrace, outside the youth hostel. Possession of a Class A drug on three occasions. And a handful of burglaries. Nothing major, except for the willy waving.’

‘What was the Class A?’

‘You know, I think these are just about done.’ McAdams peeled back the clingfilm and used tongs and a spatula to manoeuvre one out of the water and onto a plate. Held it out to Callum. ‘Why don’t you guess what controlled substance Finn Noble was caught with.’

‘Magic mushrooms.’

‘Give that detective constable a kipper.’ He went back to the pan for the other one. ‘Try a knob of butter on it, melts right into the smoky flesh.’

‘Woops.’ Callum sat at the dining table a bit harder than he’d meant to, making the seat creak. ‘Mother sent you home, didn’t she?’

A shrug. McAdams lowered himself into a chair. Groaned. Then peeled the skin off the top of his kipper. ‘She seems to think I’m taking too much on. Well, what am I supposed to do? Hang around here like Banquo’s ghost? Eat your kipper.’

The skin was thin and papery, the flesh beneath it plump and moist. Smokey and full of horrible little bones. He worked them to the front of his mouth and picked them out. Wiped them off on the edge of his plate. Looked up to find McAdams smiling at him. ‘What?’

‘It’s like a metaphor for life, isn’t it? The flavour is magnificent, but every mouthful comes with a cost. And in the end, all you’re left with is a pile of skin and bones.’ McAdams reached for the butter dish, dug a chunk off with his knife and dolloped it onto his fish. ‘You remember our discussion in the car? You me and Rosalind talking about how no one ever remembers the police officer or the victims, they only remember the serial killer?’

‘People remember Gandhi, he wasn’t a serial killer.’ Callum picked out another mouthful of bones and laid them with their comrades. Like little pale thin soldiers. Took a swig of tea to wash down the saltiness.

‘Gandhi doesn’t count. He’s remembered because he made a difference . What difference are you and I going to make?’

More little soldiers. All lined up on parade.

McAdams put his knife and fork down. Topped up Callum’s mug from the teapot. ‘Normal people don’t change history. Normal people die and get forgotten.’

How many bones were there in a kipper. A thousand? Two? A million?

They caught the light and... sort of glowed . Little bone soldiers.

‘Callum?’ A sip of wine. ‘Do you believe in God? Or gods? Or anything at all?’

Yeah, McAdams needed to cut back on the wine. His voice was getting a bit wobbly and boomy. Like the grown-ups in a Snoopy cartoon. Whah, whah, whah...

Somewhere, off in the distance, a phone rang. And rang. And rang.

‘Don’t worry, the answering machine will get it.’

All those glowing bone soldiers.

Bleeeeeeeeep.

‘Andy? It’s Cecelia. I’m sorry, I don’t know what the hell they’re playing at, but the labs have buggered it up again. I’m putting in a formal complaint.’

Callum blinked. The soldiers left bright orange streaks on the inside of his eyelids.

‘Are you all right?’

He shook his head and the world lurched round by thirty degrees, then slowly drifted back again. Urgh... ‘Think I’m coming down with something.’ Not helped by driving a scooter all the way across town in the sodding rain.

Or had he said that already?

‘The idiots have taken a liking to you: those samples from the Gossard house and the Carmichael flat have come back as a match again . And now they’ve got you driving the abandoned Kia Picanto. You know, the one we found Richard Duffy’s body in the boot of?’

So thirsty.

Must be the kipper.

Have another gulp of tea.

‘I’ve told them: I’m going to make you do these ruddy tests over and over till you get them right . Honestly, it’s like trying to teach a lawnmower about particle physics.’

‘Callum? You don’t look too well.’

His hands made whooshing sounds when he moved them.

‘Can’t feel my tongue...’

‘Anyway, just wanted to say sorry. I know it’s not our cock-up, but still. Give me a call when you get this, OK? Bye.’

‘That’s a shame.’ McAdams stood, wobbling like one of those inflatable men they stuck outside car dealerships.