Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Halfway across the river, Franklin sighed. ‘OK, now can we go do this sodding murder board?’

‘And that , is that.’ Callum pinned the last photo to the corkboard and stepped back, hands on his hips.

Not a bad job, even if he said so himself.

The murder board took up a whole wall of the Divisional Investigative Support Team office. One whiteboard cut up into sections with that thin magnetic tape stuff, all headings spelled correctly, details on the corkboards to either side of Glen Carmichael and his fellow graduate property developers. Ben Harrington with his massive moustache, Brett Millar and his Clangers tattoo. Photos, potted bios, previous brushes with the law, list of known friends and associates. Schedule for the flat from the auctioneer’s website along with PNC details for the previous owner.

He checked his watch. ‘Done with five minutes to spare.’

Franklin stayed where she was, perched on the edge of her brand-new desk. ‘Is that it ?’ A sniff. ‘I always thought a murder board would be more... I don’t know. Like on the TV.’

‘TV people wouldn’t know a murder board from a Christmas list.’

The door banged open and in stormed Watt, floppy fringe plastered to his forehead, mouth scrunched up into a twisted pouting sneer, wee pubey beard bristling as he hurled his soggy jacket into the corner. He graced Callum with a glare, then shifted it over to Franklin. ‘Who’s this?’

She stiffened her back. Drew herself up to full height.

But the door thumped open again before she could lay into him and Dotty wheeled herself into the office. ‘Oh don’t be such a princess , John. I said I was sorry.’

Might as well do the introductions.

Callum hooked a thumb at Franklin. ‘Watt, Dotty, this is our new recruit: Detective Constable Franklin, from E Division. Punched a superintendent, right in the car park.’

Watt wiped his hands down his face and flicked the drips at Dotty. ‘I’m bloody drenched !’

‘It was an accident .’

‘No it sodding wasn’t! You aimed for that puddle on purpose.’

‘Franklin: the soggy tit with the beard is Detective Constable Watt. He clyped on his last team at G Division, so the high heedjins had him transferred to Oldcastle. And we are graced with his presence, because none of the other teams will work with the grumpy little git.’

‘I didn’t know you were standing there.’

‘This is because I wouldn’t get you chocolate, isn’t it?’ Watt grabbed his mug from his desk. ‘Get your own damn chocolate!’

‘The young lady in the wheelchair is Detective Sergeant Dorothy Hodgkin. She’s here because some wee radge fancied a high-speed pursuit in a stolen Beamer. Dotty lost her leg above the knee in the crash. Her wheelchair’s called “Keith”: don’t ask.’

‘I will .’ Dotty bared her teeth at Watt. ‘And you know what? I was sorry, but I’m not now. You’re a sour-faced, childish, chippy, miserable scumbag, John. No wonder nobody likes you.’

Callum shrugged. ‘As you can see, we’re all one big happy family.’

‘Oh, ha-ha.’ Watt turned his scowl back on Callum. ‘I bet he’s not told you why he’s here, Franklin, has he? He—’

‘Everyone thinks he took a bribe to cock-up a crime scene. I know.’ Franklin folded her arms. ‘So is everyone on this team a reject? What about McAdams and Malcolmson?’

Dotty wriggled her way out of her jacket. ‘DS McAdams has terminal bowel cancer. They so want to send him off on the sick, but he won’t go. And DI Malcolmson is just recovering from a massive heart attack.’ Dotty held her arms up, flashing victory signs like Richard Nixon. ‘Welcome to the Misfit Mob! Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.’ She wheeled herself across the manky carpet tiles to Franklin and stuck out a hand with a fingerless leather glove on it. ‘Dorothy. Dot or Dotty to my friends.’

After a wee pause, Franklin shook it. ‘Rosalind.’

‘Rose for short?’

‘No.’

‘Oh...’ Dotty wheeled herself back to her desk. ‘Ah well.’

Callum swept his hand around the room. ‘And that’s us. All the other departments think we’re useless, the bosses give us boring or horrible cases, and this is the first exciting enquiry we’ve had since, well, ever . But if you—’

‘Knockity, knock.’ The door swung open and in waltzed McAdams, a stack of four pizza boxes balanced in one hand. ‘Behold, little ones, Mother and I have returned. Lo, I bring succour .’ A grin. ‘Well, one ham-and-pineapple, one meat feast, a four seasons, and a pepperoni, but it’s the thought that counts.’ He dumped the boxes on the nearest desk. ‘I trust you’ve all been beavering away, advancing the plot and revealing character through action rather than exposition...’ A frown. ‘Constable MacGregor, why are you still here? Go home.’

Callum pointed at the whiteboard with all its lines and data. ‘But you said—’

‘Detective Constable Franklin!’ McAdams patted her on the back. ‘Excellent job on the murder board. Very thorough.’

Her cheeks darkened slightly. ‘But I didn’t—’

‘Nonsense. Credit where it’s due.’ He picked a sheet of paper from the nearest desk, crumpled it up and hurled it at Watt.

It bounced off his floppy fringe. ‘Hoy!’

‘What did I tell you about signing off at the end of a shift? I just checked the logs and apparently you’re still on duty from yesterday.’

Watt cleared his throat. ‘I was busy.’

‘I don’t care if you’re King Busy, ruler of all the Busy Bee people in Busy Buzzy Bee Land: sign out ! I’m not authorising any overtime till you get that through your pointy wee head.’

‘But. Sarge—’

‘No.’ McAdams glanced at Callum. ‘Thought I told you to go home, Constable. You’ve got a full day tomorrow: all those museums to phone.’

‘Oh you are kidding me! I was the one who—’

‘To each man his task, according to his merits. Some more than others.’ A wink. ‘ You , for example, can leave the murder investigation to the professionals.’

Callum bit his bottom lip. Arms trembling. Hands curled into fists.

‘ Good night , Constable.’

He took a step forward.

McAdams grinned.

And there it was: he wanted a punch on the nose. With Franklin, Watt, and Dotty as witnesses, McAdams could go to Professional Standards and get him suspended at the very least. It wouldn’t look very good at his review tomorrow either.

Deep breath. Callum forced his hands to open. ‘Fine.’ Grabbed his coat. ‘But I’m taking one of these with me.’ He helped himself to a pizza box, warm against his fingertips, and marched out of the door.

‘Elaine? Hello?’ Callum balanced the pizza in one hand, propped his bike against the wall, and clunked the front door shut. Slipped out of his soggy jacket and kicked off his wet shoes. Left soggy-sock footprints on the laminate flooring through into the kitchen. ‘God what a day. Utterly soaked.’

The sounds of some sort of cookery programme oozed out through the closed living room door.

At least the backpack was waterproof. Callum unloaded it onto the kitchen table, raised his voice so she’d hear him in the lounge. ‘DID YOU HEAR? THEY SAY IT’S GOING TO BE THE WETTEST SEPTEMBER ON RECORD.’

No reply.

‘ELAINE?’

Nothing.

He stuck the Tupperware box for his sandwiches in the sink. Took today’s note and put it up on the fridge with all the others she’d sneaked in with his lunches over the last month — little inspirational quotes, terrible puns, and the occasional dirty joke. Most came with a drawing. Today’s was a rotund badger with teeny legs, taking a bite out of a pig, above the legend, ‘I LOVE YOU MORE THAN DESMOND THE BADGER LOVES BACON’. Which was nice to know.