Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

She gives him another hug, soft and warm, then holds him at arm’s-length and nods. ‘How about we get you a nice sweetie, then we go looking for your daddy? I can shut up the shop for ten minutes. Would you like that?’

He pulls on his ‘Brave Wee Boy’ face. ‘You are a angel.’

‘How about... sherbet lemons?’ She stands and clatters a handful of yellow pebbly things out into a tiny paper bag, then passes it to him. ‘I know you’re not supposed to take sweeties from strangers, but trust me: they’re good.’

He takes one and puts it in his mouth — all nippy and sour and sweet at the same time. ‘Thank you.’

She holds his hand and walks him out of the shop. ‘Now, let’s see if we can’t find your daddy.’

Of course they will. Otherwise the plan won’t work.

The pretty lady has a nice voice, like the people on the radio, smiling and swinging his hand in hers as they walk down the narrow street. ‘And all the tiny mouses sing, “What use have we of golden rings? / All we want is bits of cheese, and socks to warm our feet and knees, / And pies and biscuits by the tonne, and lemon drops for everyone.”’

There aren’t any shops down here, but she doesn’t seem to mind the smell of the bins.

‘But Santa frowned and asked again, “Mice, have you seen the silly hen?” / “Oh, no, Santa we have no want of shoes to fit an elephant, / Or zebra shorts, or lion hats, or spats to fit a pussy cat.”’

She does a little skippy step every time something rhymes.

There’s one parked car on the road, the boot standing open, a man pacing back and forth beside it, wringing his hands. He’s the only other person here.

Justin points and breaks free of the nice lady. Runs across to him. ‘Daddy!’

Father spins around, eyes wide, then beams and kneels on the cobblestones, sweeps him into a hug. ‘Justin! Oh where have you been? I was worried sick!’

‘The nice lady helped me, Daddy.’

He lets Justin go and stands. Holds his hand out to the lady. ‘Bless you!’

She goes pink in the cheeks. ‘Nah, it was nothing. He’s a lovely wee lad.’

‘Ever since his mother left us...’ A sigh. ‘ Bless you.’

She shakes his hand. ‘My pleasure. It’s not every day you—’

The fist is fast and only makes a noise when it slams into the side of her head. Then the nice lady’s legs buckle and she slumps. But before she’s even halfway down, Father sweeps her up in his arms and bundles her into the boot. Wraps her wrists and ankles in silvery sticky tape. Puts another strip of it over her mouth. Slams his fist into her face twice more. Then closes the boot.

Justin stands perfectly still, hands behind his back. No trembling. No crying. No anything.

Father grins at him. ‘Who wants chips for tea?’

Brookmyre Crescent hissed in the rain. Drops bounced off the glistening tarmac, gathered in the gutters, spreading out in a tiny lake that lapped around the tyres of a new-ish Toyota. Their pool car sent a mini tidal wave sploshing against its hubcaps.

Callum unfastened his seatbelt as they drifted to a halt outside number 16, with its collection of naff garden ornaments. ‘You still want to be the one that tells them their son’s dead?’

‘Why, you think I’m not up to it?’ Franklin hauled on the handbrake. ‘Think I’m going to—’

‘Fine. Whatever.’ He shook his head. Winced as a thousand tiny ants dug their pincers into what was left of his ear. ‘You know, sometimes, just occasionally, maybe you could try not treating everything I say as some sort of insult to your gender, ethnicity, professionalism, or dress sense.’

She stared down at herself. ‘What’s wrong with my dress sense?’

‘Try a mirror.’ A cheap shot, but hey-ho. He grabbed a high-viz jacket from the back seat and clambered out into the rain, hauling it on as he hurried up the lock-block driveway to the door. Turned up his collar and rang the bell.

Rain drummed on his shoulders, hammered at the pampas grass growing around that hideous wishing well and even more hideous gnomes.

Franklin locked the car and jogged her way through the downpour. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my suit!’

‘Keep telling yourself that.’

A light came on inside the hall, filtering out through the fanlight above the door.

‘Why don’t you stick your—’

The door swung open and Lurch from the Adams Family blinked down at them. He’d swapped the butler’s outfit for a brown cardigan and mustard-coloured corduroys, but the huge hands and pale slab of a face were a dead giveaway. But his voice wasn’t a deep ringing bass, it was a sharp-edged tenor, clipped and precise. ‘Can I help you?’

Callum produced his warrant card. ‘Mr Harrington? Can we come in please?’

The only sound was the sibilant hiss of the rain on the drowning world.

Franklin pulled her card out as well. ‘It’s about Ben.’

Lurch rolled his eyes, then turned and lumbered back down the hall. ‘You’d better come in then. Make sure you wipe your feet.’ He led the way into a living room lined with bookshelves. No TV, just a fancy stereo surrounded by stacks of vinyl. Leather armchairs that looked worn and soft.

He took up position in the middle of the room, straightened up to his full height, put his hands behind his back. ‘If this is about drugs, I can promise you I don’t want to know. I told him he was on his own if he ever did anything so stupid again.’

Franklin put a hand on the nearest armchair. ‘Maybe you should sit down, Mr Harrington? I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news...’

‘How’s he holding up?’ Callum fished the teabags out of the mugs and dumped them in the sink.

‘Not well.’ Franklin puffed out a breath and settled back against the worktop. Ran a hand across her face. ‘Doesn’t help they had a massive falling out last time they spoke. And now his son’s dead and there’s nothing he can do to fix it.’

The kitchen was nearly as big as Callum’s whole flat, all marble and oak with a huge fridge freezer and a glass-fronted fridge just for white wine. A set of French doors led out onto a patio with wicker furniture dripping in the rain, and a set of steps leading down into a tidy garden with thick borders besmirched by more sodding gnomes. And beyond the fence: that view. Even in the pouring rain it was spectacular. Oldcastle, laid out beneath the heavy lid of grey, slivers of copper and gold caressing the Victorian cobbled streets of Castle Hill as the last gasp of daylight forced its way through the gloom. A slash of Kings River shining like a sharpened knife.

Much better than looking out on a railway line, a manky cluster of allotments, and some tenements.

How the other half lived.

Callum put the milk back in the oversized fridge. ‘I called Mother, she’s sorting out a Family Liaison Officer. And, according to McAdams, Brett Millar tried to bite off a nurse’s fingers, so they’ve chucked him into a secure psychiatric ward. Straitjacket, padded walls, and twenty-four-hour surveillance.’

‘That’s the trouble with druggies, once they get the taste for human flesh...’ The smile faded. ‘Sorry.’

‘Should think so too.’ He put the mugs on a tray along with a packet of gingersnaps dug out of the cupboard above the kettle. Nodded at the door. ‘Go on then.’

He followed her through into the book-lined lounge.

Mr Harrington was crumpled in one of the armchairs, his huge frame shrunken into itself, massive hands wrapped around his knees. Nose and cheeks red, as if he’d been standing out in the rain.

Callum put the tray on the floor and handed him a mug. ‘Milk, two sugars.’

A sniff and a nod.