Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘Don’t be daft, the IT Lab won’t even start looking at it for weeks. Dorothy’s right: pub o’clock. It’s about time Rosalind here did some team bonding.’ Mother stuck her hands in her pockets and sauntered out of the office. ‘And it’s karaoke night down the Bart, how more team bonding can you get?’

Franklin watched the door close behind her. Then groaned. ‘I am not singing karaoke.’

Callum crept his way between the empty tables, balancing two pints of Stella, a half of Guinness, a pint of Old Jock, a gin-and-tonic, and a packet of dry-roasted on a wee tray.

The Dumbarton Arms wasn’t exactly bustling at nine o’clock on a Wednesday night, which was probably why they’d turned the PA system up to a near-deafening roar. The only other patrons were an auld mannie and his Labrador, and a pair of students — young men that were more spots than skin. All of them blinking up at the little stage where a shiny-faced Franklin and Dotty were belting out an old Meatloaf standard about shagging in a car.

Doing a decent job of it too.

Callum lowered the tray onto the table and slipped back into the booth. Passed McAdams and Mother their drinks. Then gave Mother her change.

McAdams took a sip of Guinness. Raised his voice over the musical onslaught. ‘I’d count that if I was you.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a misery guts, Andy. Callum has been in the wars and deserves a bit of sympathy.’

‘Thank you.’ Callum helped himself to one of the Stellas.

She nodded at the stage. ‘Rosalind’s settling in nicely, isn’t she?’

Up there, Franklin was getting to the bit about sleeping on it.

Mother glanced at him. ‘She says you probably saved her life, earlier. Could’ve died, running into traffic like that, but you stopped her.’

A shrug, then a gulp of cold lager. ‘We need to find out what’s on that flash drive.’

‘ Really , Constable MacGregor?’ McAdams let his mouth hang open. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, you must be some sort of genius!’

‘Andy, what did I tell you?’

McAdams chewed on his face for a moment. Then, ‘Sorry, Mother.’

‘Better. The problem, Callum, is that there’s a backlog of stuff waiting to be processed by the Forensic IT people. A huge backlog. You can probably see it from space.’

A nod from McAdams. ‘I took a laptop off a dealer six months ago and they haven’t even powered it up yet.’

‘Yes, but this is a serial killer investigation. Surely we can bump it up the priority list.’

Mother grimaced. ‘Easier said than done. I’ve got no favours left in the IT Lab. How about you, Andy?’

‘Do you think I’d wait six months for a laptop if I had?’

Callum scooted forward in his seat as Franklin and Dotty got to the finale. ‘How about we call a press conference and tell the world we can’t catch this guy, because Police Scotland won’t give us the forensic resources?’

Mother and McAdams shared a look, then burst out laughing.

The last triumphant chord battered through the bar. Everyone clapped. Franklin and Dotty took a bow. Then the two spotty students scrambled for the stage as Oldcastle’s finest made their way back to the table, grinning.

Dotty wheeled herself in next to McAdams. ‘Phew, I’m roasted, is that mine?’ She grabbed the pint of Old Jock and gulped at it.

Mother beamed at her and Franklin. ‘That was lovely .’

Up on stage, the young men launched into ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’.

‘You see, my dear Constable MacGregor, if it was that easy everyone would do it.’ McAdams took a deep draught of Guinness, getting himself a little white moustache. ‘Police Scotland do not give a toss about being showed up at press conferences. All that’ll happen is they’ll send some bigwigs up from Tulliallan to take over the case, kick us off it, then kick us . Hard. Probably in the genitals.’

Mother patted him on the shoulder. ‘He’s right.’

‘I know it might feel like your career’s halfway down the chunty right now, but they’ll pelt it with used toilet paper and flush like madmen.’

Oh.

‘Well...’ Callum had a good long hard look at his pint. ‘Can we put pressure on the Chief Superintendent instead? He’s not going to want an unsolved serial...’ Sodding hell. ‘It’ll be the same with him, won’t it?’

‘And the penny finally drops!’ McAdams gave him a slow round of applause.

‘Not telling you again.’ Mother slapped the sarcastic git’s hands. ‘Callum, Andy and I had to fight like wounded badgers so they’d let us keep this case. Any excuse and it’s gone.’

The whole team slumped a bit at that.

Up on the stage, the boys danced and warbled their way towards the end of ‘Dancing Queen’.

Dotty gulped down the last of her beer. Stuck the empty back on the table with a diaphragm-rattler of a belch. ‘So sod them. We find another way!’

Franklin, Mother, and McAdams just shrugged.

‘Come on, are we the Misfit Mob, or aren’t we?’

McAdams sniffed. ‘Suppose.’

‘I can’t hear you, soldier!’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Ma’am, yes ma’am.’

‘Could you be more enthusiastic, Andy? I’ve done jobbies with more life in them than that.’

‘Enthusiasm brings me out in a rash.’ McAdams downed his Guinness. ‘It probably doesn’t matter, anyway. Unless Brett Millar is our killer, whatever’s on the flash drive has nothing to do with Imhotep.’ He stood. ‘Same again?’

‘But it might .’ Franklin was barely halfway down her pint. ‘Anything that helps has to be a good thing.’

‘Ah, the naive enthusiasm of youth.’ He grabbed the empties and lumbered off towards the bar.

‘Dancing Queen’ finished with a lot of fist bumping and whooping.

Franklin rubbed her hands together. ‘Who’s up for a bit of Grease ? Callum? I’ll even let you sing the man’s part.’

‘Yeah... No . Can’t.’ He threw his Stella down his throat. ‘I’ve got a pregnant girlfriend to get back to, and Nutella and pickles to buy.’ He pulled on his coat. ‘You kids have fun, though.’

‘Dotty?’

‘Oh hell yes.’ And the pair of them wheeched and wheeled themselves off to the stage.

Mother ripped her way into the peanuts. ‘Andy’s not a bad man, Callum.’

‘Does a good impersonation of one.’

There he was, standing at the bar, knocking back a sneaky whisky while the barman pulled the pints.

‘They’ve got him on another round of chemotherapy. Being... colourful is how he copes.’

Great. Callum puffed out a breath. ‘I’m sorry he’s dying. But now and then, it might be nice if he was “colourful” at someone else for a while, because I’m tired of being everyone’s kicking post.’

Callum squelched around the supermarket aisles, wheeling a trolley and dripping on the polished floor. Pickled dill cucumbers: check. Nutella: check. Tesco own-brand high-strength paracetamol — not on the official shopping list, but his ear ached like a visit from The Claw, so: check. Bottle of shiraz — definitely not on the official shopping list, but what the hell: check. Multipack of Wotsits: also check, because what was life if you couldn’t push the boat out now and then?

One of the fluorescent lights flickered down the end of the cold-meats-and-ready-meals aisle, making the packaging glisten and buzz like something out of a horror film. Up above, the corrugated metal roof pinged and thrummed in the rain.

Be nice to pick up a curry meal-deal for two, but there was tuna casserole waiting at home. Maybe that could be a Friday treat, and sod the budget.

His phone blurted into life.