Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘Yes I do.’ She lumped a couple of slices of white from the bread bin onto the chopping board and slathered them with spread. ‘You want cheese-and-pickle, or egg?’

‘Go back to bed, it’s fine.’

‘Just because I’m stuck here with Peanut, doesn’t mean I’m useless.’

Callum stepped behind her and kissed the back of her neck. ‘No one thinks you’re useless.’

‘You’ll have to have cheese-and-pickle, we’re out of eggs.’

The flat’s phone launched into its semi-classical theme tune again.

She froze.

‘It’s OK, I’ll get it.’ He marched through to the lounge. Grabbed up the phone. ‘Hello?’

Nothing.

Checked the caller display. Same as last night. ‘NUMBER WITHHELD’.

‘Who is this?’

Silence.

Click .

Yeah, that was getting old very quickly.

He turned, and there was Elaine, holding out a little Tupperware box in one hand and a banana in the other. ‘Who was it?’

‘Automated-dialling PPI nonsense again.’

‘There’s a mini Mars Bar in there too. You know.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘To keep your strength up.’

He tucked the box and banana into his backpack. ‘It’s just a boring wee meeting with Professional Standards, it’ll be fine. Promise.’ That sounded confident, didn’t it? Completely unlike the lie it was. He replaced The Monsters Who Came for Dinner in its bookshelf slot, grabbed a tatty paperback at random: The Beginner’s Guide to Shoplifting , and added it to the pack.

‘Callum...’ She put a hand against his chest.

‘What can they do? They’ve got no evidence — they can’t, because I didn’t do anything, did I?’

She gave him a little pained smile. ‘We love you.’

‘I know.’ A kiss on the cheek. ‘Got to go, don’t want to be late for the rubber heelers.’

Callum shifted in his seat.

The waiting room was... disturbingly neutral. Blue carpet, magnolia walls, a row of four soft-ish chairs along one wall, a sideboard-sized filing unit thing on the other — complete with the obligatory pile of well-thumbed, ancient magazines. A water dispenser in the corner. A framed painting of Oldcastle’s skyline rendered in all manner of bright and unnatural colours.

He checked his phone — 07:13.

Oldest interview technique in the business — leave your victim to stew for a while. Let them work themselves into a state of nervous exhaustion worrying about what you knew.

Well, tough: they knew sod-all. Because there was sod-all to know.

The only thing up-to-date on the sideboard was a copy of that morning’s Castle News and Post , the banner headline: ‘BODY FOUND IN CASTLEVIEW FLAT’ above a photo of the craphole Glen Carmichael and his mates were doing up. There was an inset pic of three figures standing outside the main entrance while SOC Smurfs shuffled past in the background. McAdams, Franklin, and right in the middle — staring straight at the camera — his own face. Looking tired and fed up. So they were right: the camera didn’t lie. All three of them got a namecheck, though they’d managed to spell McAdams’ name wrong. Which was nice.

Right underneath the main story, was ‘DRUG DEN UPSTAIRS MADE LIFE A LIVING HELL’, a ‘shocking exclusive with Murder Flat’s downstairs neighbour!’ continued on page six. There was always someone.

Callum dumped the paper and dipped into his rucksack instead, pulling out The Beginner’s Guide to Shoplifting . Settled back to read the first short story. A bit heavy on the adverbs, but other than that, it was OK.

He was just starting the second one when the door through to the office opened and a middle-aged man in uniform poked his head out. His hair had abandoned its post, retreating to a defensive position around both ears, a set of jowls lightly blued with stubble. A pair of evil-scientist glasses, all narrow with silver frames. He smiled. ‘Ah, Callum. Good, good: in you come. Sorry about the wait.’ He held the door open and gestured inside.

‘No, it’s fine.’ Callum stood. Stuffed the book in his backpack. ‘Gave me a chance to catch up with my reading.’

‘Good, good.’ He moved aside, then closed the door behind Callum. ‘I know we should have done this weeks ago, but you know what it’s like. Busy, busy.’

It was a small-ish office, with a desk on one side and a round table in the middle. Some filing cabinets. A coffee machine. A small digital video camera on a tripod.

‘Please, please, take a seat. Coffee? I’m having one anyway...?’

‘Thanks. Just milk.’

‘Perfect.’ He wandered over and started pushing buttons and inserting cartridges. ‘So, Callum, I understand you’re going to be a father in two weeks’ time. How exciting. Most fulfilling thing you can do as a man.’

‘Well—’

‘There you go. One white coffee.’ He sank into the chair next to Callum’s. ‘I can’t abide all this “flat white” nonsense, can you? Oh,’ he stuck his hand out, ‘Chief Inspector Gilmore, we spoke on the phone yesterday, but you can call me Alex.’

OK...

‘Chief Inspector.’

‘Ah, almost forgot.’ He raised himself half out of his seat and pointed a remote control at the camera. A little red light blinked on. ‘There we go. Can’t do these things without a proper record, can we? The Boss would have my guts for garters. And I understand your good lady is in the job too?’

Callum closed his mouth, then opened it again. ‘Well, yes. I mean, she’s on maternity leave, but—’

‘Let me see now...’ He checked a notepad. ‘Ah, here we are: Constable Pirie. Elaine. You know, I had an Aunty Elaine when I was wee. Lovely lady, used to give us Advocaat every Christmas because she thought it wasn’t alcoholic. And I see she’s been seconded to the Scenes Examination Branch?’

What?

Chief Inspector Gilmore held up a hand. ‘Sorry, your Elaine, not my aunt. How’s she getting on? Weird cravings, I’ll bet. My Pauline used to chew the rubber hose from the spin dryer. That dates me, doesn’t it? Amazing our sons didn’t come out with two heads. How’s the coffee?’

Was the man some sort of idiot? How...

Callum sat back in his seat.

No, of course he wasn’t. Didn’t matter what crime novels and TV dramas said, you didn’t get to be a chief inspector without having a considerable amount of grey matter packed between your earholes. The rambling avuncular act was all about putting people at ease and off their game at the same time.

Well that only worked if you didn’t know he was doing it.

Callum took a sip. ‘It’s great. Thanks.’

‘Better than the stuff from the canteen anyway. So, Callum: tell me all about Big Johnny Simpson.’

‘Well...’ He cleared his throat. ‘I want to start by saying I’ve never taken a bribe in my life. Ever.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ Gilmore raised an eyebrow. ‘But...?’

‘No, no buts.’ He picked his rucksack off the floor and upended the contents onto the table. Three burgundy ring-binders, a Tupperware box, and a banana. He retrieved his lunch and pushed the binders towards Gilmore. ‘Bank statements. Well, building society statements, but it’s the same thing. Feel free — go through them with a nit comb. And if you want to contact the Royal Caledonian, I’ll tell them you’ve got free rein to look at any account I’ve got.’

‘I see. That is awfully kind of you.’ Gilmore stacked them into a neat pile on one side. ‘But in the meantime,’ a smile pulled his jowls up at the edges, ‘why don’t you tell me all about Big Johnny Simpson?’

‘Urgh.’ Callum dumped the rucksack on his desk. Collapsed into his seat. Powered up his computer. Grabbed his desk phone and called the control room.