Stuart MacBride: A Dark So Deadly

‘They’re getting away!’

‘We’re not going chasing after little kiddies, Constable. I have much more important things to do than clean up your disasters.’

‘That’s it. Stop the car.’ Callum straightened up and bared his teeth. ‘Come on: let’s go. You and me. I battered the crap out of Dugdale, I can do the same for you.’

‘Oh don’t be such a baby.’

‘I’m not kidding: stop — the — car.’

‘Really, DC MacGregor? You don’t think you’re in enough trouble as it is? How’s it going to look if you assault a senior officer who’s dying of cancer? Think it through.’ The car jolted and bumped, then swung around to the left, heading down towards Montrose Road. ‘And any time our workplace badinage gets too much for you, feel free to pop into Mother’s office with your resignation. Do us all a favour.’ He slowed for the junction. ‘Until then, try to behave like an actual police officer.’

Callum’s hands curled into fists, so tight the knuckles ached. ‘I swear to God —’

‘Now put your seatbelt on and try not to say anything stupid for the next fifteen minutes. I’ll not have you spoiling my remarkably good mood.’ He poked the radio and insipid pop music dribbled out of the speakers. ‘You see, Constable Useless, sometimes life gives you lemons, and sometimes it gives you vodka. Today is a vodka day.’

The jingly blandness piffled to a halt and a smoke-gravelled woman’s voice came through. ‘Hmmm, not sure about that one myself. You’re listening to Midmorning Madness on Castlewave FM with me, Annette Peterson, and today my extra-special guest is author and broadcaster, Emma Travis-Wilkes.’

McAdams put a hand over his heart, as if he was about to pledge allegiance. ‘Today is a caviar day.’

‘Glad to be here, Annette.’

‘A champagne and strawberries day.’

‘Now, a little bird tells me you’re writing a book about your dad, Emma. Of course he created Russell the Magic Rabbit , Ichabod Smith, and Imelda’s Miraculous Dustbin , but he’s probably best known for the children’s classic, Open the Coffins .’

‘A chocolate and nipple clamps—’

‘All right! I get it: everything’s just sodding great .’ Callum shifted in his seat, setting his testicles aching again. ‘One of us got thwacked in the balls, here.’

‘That’s right. He’s given joy to so many people, and now that he’s... well, Alzheimer’s is a cruel mistress. But it’s been a real privilege to swim in the pool of his life again.’

‘Pfff...’ McAdams curled his top lip. ‘Listen to this pretentious twaddle. Just because she’s got a famous dad, she gets to plug her book on the radio. What about my book? Where’s my interview?’

‘And it’s lovely to see these memories light up his face, it’s like he’s right back there again.’

‘Cliché. And, by the way, unless his face is actually glowing like a lightbulb, that’s physical hyperbole, you hack.’

Callum glowered across the car. ‘We should never have chipped in for that creative writing class.’

McAdams grinned back at him. ‘My heart: creative. My soul, it soars with the words. Divinity: mine.’

‘Wonderful stuff. Now, let’s have a bit of decent music, shall we? Here’s one of the acts appearing at Tartantula this weekend: Catnip Jane, and “Once Upon a Time in Dundee”.’

A banjo and cello launched into a sinister waltz, over a weird thumping rhythm as McAdams pulled out of the junction, heading left instead of right.

Silly old sod.

Callum sighed. ‘You’re going the wrong way.’ He pointed across the swollen grey river, past the docks and the industrial units, towards the thick granite blade of Castle Hill. ‘Division Headquarters is that direction. We need to get Dugdale booked in and seen to.’

‘Meh, he’ll keep.’ That skeletal grin had widened. ‘It’s a vodka day, remember? We, my useless little friend, have finally got our hands on a murder!’

The first drop of rain sparkled against the windscreen, caught in a golden shaft of sunlight as McAdams’ huge four-by-four slid past the last few houses on the edge of Kingsmeath. A second drop joined it. Then a third. Then a whole heap of them.

McAdams stuck the wipers on, setting them moaning and groaning their way across the glass, smearing the rain into grubby arcs. He pinned his mobile phone between his shoulder and ear, freeing his hand to change gears. Accelerating up the hill. ‘Yeah... Yeah, Dugdale was there... No... Not a word of a lie, Mother: the new boy actually caught him. That’s right: his anonymous tip-off paid off.’ He cast a glance across the car at Callum. ‘I know, I know... Ha! That’s what I said.’

Callum folded his arms and pushed back into his seat. Stared out of the window at the dull green fields and their dull-grey sheep. The ache in his groin wasn’t a full-on testicular migraine any more, it’d settled to more of a dull throbbing — each pulse marking time with the groaning windscreen wipers. ‘Oh you’re both so hilarious.’

‘What did we say about you keeping your mouth shut?’ Back to the phone. ‘No, not you, Mother: Constable Useless here... Yeah, yeah. Exactly: an actual murder. How long has it been?’

Probably never see his wallet again.

McAdams put his foot down, overtaking a sputtering Mini. ‘You on your way?... Uh-huh... Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either. Since when does the great Detective Chief Inspector Poncy Powel hand over a murder investigation to the likes of us?... Exactly.’

More fields. More sheep.

OK, so it was just a scruffy, tatty lump of leather and the lining was falling apart, but it had sentimental value.

Bloody kids.

‘Did he?... No!... No!’ Laughter. ‘And did you?... Sodding hell... Yeah, he’ll love that.’

Bloody Dugdale too.

He was just visible in the rear-view mirror, lying there with his mouth hanging open, face crusted with blood and bogies. Well, if Dugdale died in custody there was no way Callum was taking the rap for it. If anything happened it was McAdams’ fault.

Accepting blame for Elaine’s cock-up was one thing, but McAdams? He could sod right off.

‘Uh-huh. We’re about... five minutes away? Maybe less?... Still can’t believe it: a real murder! How long’s it been?... Right. Yup. OK. See you there.’ He poked a button on his phone’s screen then slid the thing back in his pocket, big smile plastered across his skeletal face.

‘Am I allowed to ask where we’re going?’

‘No.’

Git.

McAdams took one hand off the wheel and pointed through the windscreen. ‘We go where life rots. Where man’s discarded dreams die. We go... to The Tip .’ Fingers twitching with each syllable.

A large white sign loomed at the side of the road: ‘OLDCASTLE MUNICIPAL RECYCLING AND WASTE PROCESSING FACILITY’. Someone had scrawled ‘TWINNED WITH CUMBERNAULD!’ across the bottom in green graffiti.

The Shogun slowed for the turning, leaving the well-ordered tarmac for a wide gravel road acned with potholes and lined with whin bushes. Their jagged dark-green spears rattled in the rain.

It was getting heavier, bouncing off the rutted track as McAdams navigated his shiny new car between the water-filled craters and up to a cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.

He buzzed down the window and smiled at the lanky drip guarding the line. ‘Two cheeseburgers, a Coke, and a chocolate milkshake please.’

A sigh and a sniff. Then Officer Drip wiped her nose on the sleeve of her high-viz jacket, sending water dribbling from the brim of her peaked cap. ‘Do you honestly think it’s the first time I’ve heard that today?’