Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘Glycerol.’

‘I’m surprised no one thought of it sooner. It’s the obvious solution and a lot less expensive than extracting DNA from the tooth pulp cavity and sending it off for analysis.’

Well, it was worth a try.

‘No...’ Twiddle, twiddle, twiddle. ‘I think they knew their attacker, they invited him into their flat and he brought the magic mushrooms with him, they sit around drinking lager and self-medicating till they pass out and after that Paddington can restrain them easily.’

‘’Scuse me.’ Cecelia squeezed past and into the bathroom, carrying a large square metal case.

‘OK, so we get the hands steeping in glycerol, what then?’

‘Then you run the prints. And you get a toxicologist to look at the tissue samples. A decent one, not some wet-behind-the-ears undergrad on work placement. I can probably give you some names if you like.’ On the little screen, Professor Huntly fluttered his eyelashes. ‘Failing that, I’m available at very reasonable rates. ID the drugs and the herbs and you’ve got somewhere to start looking — he had to get them from somewhere.’

‘So the question becomes where did Paddington meet them, did they have a favourite pub or club, we need to get someone visiting the local bars and ask if Glen, Ben, and Brett were seen there with someone else, because he’s going to have his own favourite haunts, areas where he likes to hunt, and if we can get an ID from the other two victims we might find a common denominator, don’t you think?’ She pulled down her facemask. ‘Do you think we could leave here, because the smell is beginning to make me feel a bit sick.’

‘Wimp.’

‘Goodbye, Bernard.’ She hung up and put her phone away. ‘My arm was getting sore anyway.’

Callum lowered his facemask. ‘You know we can just wait for Brett Millar to come down from his trip and ask him what happened.’

‘We can, but what if he doesn’t know what happened because he can’t remember, or maybe the drugs he’s been on have caused permanent brain damage, can you imagine what being force-fed magic mushrooms for days would be like, what it would do to your sense of perception?’ Dr McDonald struggled her way out of her gloves. ‘We have to work on the assumption that he’s not going to be any help, that way if he does remember anything about the man who attacked them it’s a bonus.’

Yeah, she had a point.

‘OK. Well, what if they didn’t meet the guy in a pub? He could work for the bank, if they’re financing the refurbishment. Or a local estate agent, if they’re looking for a valuation?’

‘That’s certainly worth exploring.’

And the list of people needing interviewed just ballooned to about three times its previous size. Mother would love that.

He took out his notepad. ‘So, come on then, you’ve seen around the flat: who are we looking for? How do we spot him when we see him, assuming Brett Millar doesn’t just wake up all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow and give us a name and address?’

More hair twiddling. ‘He was able to blend in to Glen Carmichael’s social circle, that means he could be a bit hipstery. Think beard, lumberjack shirts, skinny jeans, no socks, ironic tattoos, 1930s haircut, but not necessarily in that order. He’s big enough to manipulate the unconscious bodies of three large young men and we’re on the top floor, that’s a lot of stairs to carry someone down to get them in your van. So he’s strong. Capable. Not easily flustered.’

Through in the living room, Franklin was getting louder — the words impossible to make out, but the tone of voice was clear as a scream: not sodding happy.

‘Assume he waits till the middle of the night to transport Glen and Brett, he still risks being seen by one of the other residents, or someone on the street. So he’s confident too. He’s got a story for every eventuality.’ Alice tilted her head up and to the side, frowning at the plasterboard ceiling. ‘He’s had a lot of practice. And I’m not just talking about the mummy in the tip and the one in the car — these aren’t his first victims. He’s been doing this for a long, long time.’

Once Upon A Time

The tattoo ripples like a flag across Father’s back as he digs. Faded blue-grey lines and shapes. A little bird. A skull. A big pointy knife.

His spade bites into the black earth, spits out lumps onto a growing pile.

It’s getting deep, the hole.

Deep enough that only Father’s top half sticks out of it. Sweat all sparkly on his dirty skin. Not a big man, but powerful, like a bulldog. Not the one on the TV ads selling insurance, though, more like the ones Father’s friends make fight in wooden pits in barns in the middle of nowhere.

All bulging muscles and dark blood.

Warm sunlight makes the garden shine, green and yellow and red.

And on the fence hang a dozen jackdaws, their bodies all stiff and dead.

But no one’s digging them a hole.

‘Come on, champ, out you go.’ Father holds the car door open. He’s wearing his dog collar again, all white and crisp against his freshly shaved neck.

Justin jumps down onto the sticky black tarmac.

The whole street smells like coal and treacle as the sun batters down like a fist. It sparks off the parked cars, so bright it’s painful.

He makes sure not to get any tar on his new shoes. Father has been very clear on what’ll happen if he does.

‘Now, slugger, you know what to do.’

A nod. Then he bites his bottom lip and looks both ways — up and down the street — before skipping across the road. Like he’s a little baby, instead of a grown-up six-year-old.

Normally it would earn him a beating, but not this time. This time it’s what Father wants and if today goes well, Father will be happy and if Father’s happy Justin’s happy. So he skips.

The shops are boring, full of stuff no one could ever want: like pots and pans and carpets and things for cleaning dishwashers. But right at the end, by the bus stop, there’s a sweetie shop.

It does other stuff, like boring newspapers and magazines, but the wall behind the counter is the best thing ever — rows and rows of old-fashioned plastic jars full of brightly coloured sweets with funny names like ‘DIRTY TATTIES’, ‘POKEY FINGERS’, and ‘SOOR PLOOMS’.

The air tastes of excitement.

And perfume. Which is sort of like soap, only stronger and a bit chokey, and Father doesn’t like it.

The smell’s coming from a lady with yellow hair, standing with her elbows resting on the counter. She smiles down at him with shiny white teeth. ‘Hello, little man, how can we help you today then?’

She’s pretty. Yellow hair, heart-shaped face, little nose, sticky-out boobies. The kind Father always picks.

Justin blinks up at her. ‘Ooh, are you a angel ?’ As if he doesn’t know that angels aren’t real. They’re all madey up by liars, like Father says.

‘Well, aren’t you the wee charmer?’

‘My mummy was pretty like you, but she had to go live with Jesus in the Heaven.’ He sticks his bottom lip out and makes it wobble, like he’s about to burst into tears.

‘Oh, sweetheart!’ The lady’s face goes all wrinkly between the eyebrows and she hurries around the counter to hug him.

It’s lovely and warm and she doesn’t really smell soapy and chokey. She smells like sunshine.

‘Where’s your daddy?’

‘I...’ Sniff. ‘I don’t know. He went into a shop, but there was a doggy and I went to look at the doggy, and I can’t remember which shop...’ Justin works the sniffles into a tiny sob. Nothing too wet and snottery. Father didn’t raise him to be a whiny little bitch.