Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘Hello?’

Silence.

Checked the screen: ‘NUMBER WITHHELD’.

‘Hello?’

Callum squelched on through the flickering light, towards the checkouts. ‘Hello? Willow, is this you?’ More silence. ‘It’s OK, Willow, you can talk to me. Is someone threatening your mum?’

And the line went dead.

Might be an idea to pop round there tomorrow and make sure her mum hadn’t accidentally developed any more bruises.

But first: cycle home through the bucketing rain. Dry off. Painkillers. Wine. Tuna casserole. More wine. Bed.

A decent end to an incredibly crappy day.

And about sodding time...

The bike’s lights flickered back from thick dark puddles. Their reflections swept across the dark canopy of leaves overhead, like tiny spotlights. Caught the drips of rain that worked their way through the canopy and made them shine, before disappearing again.

Camburn Woods lurked in the darkness either side of the path. A huge animal, breathing and rustling in the downpour. Waiting. The council still hadn’t fixed the streetlights in here: most were topped with broken plastic globes and covered in spray-painted swearing. But the occasional one still glowed a pale gold, casting small pools of light to be swallowed by the forest.

A jogger puffed and plodded into view. A miserable-faced middle-aged man in lycra, lots of wobble as he exercised his way towards a heart-attack. Didn’t even nod as Callum cycled past. Too busy sweating.

Probably wasn’t the only one out there, sweating and panting in the woods.

Always a lovely thought.

Callum stood in the saddle, legs pumping as the path climbed up over a narrow railway bridge. Freewheeled down the other side. About fifty feet further on, the old familiar footpath led off to the left. Soon be home and...

He coasted to a stop.

Looked back over his shoulder.

The bike’s back light cast a blood-red glow that barely touched the forest gloom.

Could’ve sworn he’d heard something.

A broken streetlight stood sentinel where the footpath snaked off into the undergrowth, leaving the whole area wrapped in darkness.

Callum pulled the bike around, twisting the handlebars, sending the front lights sweeping across the path, the trees, the bushes. ‘Hello?’

Nothing. Just the staccato drip-drip-drip of rain on the canopy floor. The muffled grumble of traffic on the dual carriageway a quarter mile away. The dark-brown bitter-sweet tang of decaying leaves.

No one there.

So why were all the hairs standing up on his arms?

Yeah...

Maybe cutting through the woods wasn’t the best of ideas at this time of night.

He turned the bike and pedalled . Onto the footpath, branches flashing past — caught for a moment in the front light before disappearing behind him. Heart thumping in his chest like a bear in a cage. On, through the gloom, and then BANG, he was out of Brothers Grimm territory and back in the real world.

Oh the glorious joys of tarmac and concrete.

Callum skidded to a halt on the pavement beneath a working streetlight. Sat there in the rain. Panting. Staring back towards the maw of Camburn Woods.

No sign of anything following him.

And breathe.

Of course there wasn’t anything following him.

Stupid.

He ran a hand through his wet hair.

Come on. Home.

The windows on Flanders Road glowed like welcoming beacons. Even if it was mostly rabbit-hutch houses and rabbit-hutch flats. Could see his and Elaine’s one from here. Well, the side of it anyway. Top floor, third flat on the left, this side of the street. The light was on in the bathroom. Where he was going to take a long hot shower, thank you very much.

He cycled up the pavement and onto the road, lined with bottom-of-the-range hatchbacks and battered estate cars. Let himself into the communal lobby and chained his bike to the rack beneath the stairs. Picked up three small stacks of mail from the windowsill by the back door, and squelched his way up the concrete stairs.

Urgh.

Socks were like sponges, water oozing out of his lace holes with every step.

Callum took his jacket and rucksack off on the third-floor landing, gave them a shake to get rid of the water. Mrs Gillespie’s cats had been at Toby’s pot plants again — kicking soil in a fan-shape across the concrete in exchange for a little brown ‘present’. No wonder his spider plants looked half dead as they sprawled their way up and around the far corner of the landing.

Well, if he didn’t want them piddled and crapped in, he shouldn’t leave them outside, should he?

Callum poked Toby’s mail through the letterbox, then did the same for Mr and Mrs Robson. And, at long last, unlocked the door to his own sodding flat. Light caught the little brass plaque they’d screwed to the wood above the letterbox: ‘CALLUM, ELAINE, AND PEANUT ~ THE MACGREGOR-PIRIE CLAN!’ He slumped inside and thumped the door shut behind him. Sagged in place, and dripped on the laminate flooring for a moment.

Puffed out a breath. Worked his way out of his shoes and left soggy footprints all the way to the bathroom.

Raised his voice. ‘Elaine?’ Dumped his wet jacket in the corner and stripped off his shirt. ‘We have got to get ourselves a car. It’s like trying to cycle through a swimming pool out there.’

Trousers, socks, and pants in a damp little pile. Then he cranked on the shower and stepped inside as soon as steam curled up from behind the curtain. Ahhhhh... Blissful heat.

Should probably keep his bitten ear out of the water, but the taped-on wadding was already drenched from the rain. So too late now.

A clunk as the bathroom door opened. ‘Callum?’

‘I know it’s not top of our priority list, but a car would make life a lot easier when Peanut comes. Nothing fancy. You remember Billy Jackson? Bet he could get us a wee second-hand hatchback on the cheap.’

The curtain clattered back a couple of inches on its metal hoops and Elaine peered in at him as he soaked up the warmth. ‘Where have you...’ Her eyes widened. ‘What happened to your head?’

‘Want to get in with me? Be like old times, all soapy and slippery?’

‘Callum, your face is all scratched and you’ve got a bandage on your ear!’

‘Come on, when was the last time we took a shower together?’

‘Get out of there, now!’ She jabbed a finger towards the bathroom door, mouth curled down at the edges. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

‘Who?’

‘DCI Powel.’

Callum screwed his face shut and thumped his forehead off the tiles.

Wonderful.

Poncy Powel sat on the sofa — in Callum’s spot, thank you very much — in his fancypants suit, top two shirt buttons undone, no tie. A mug in one hand. Look at me. Look how at home I am, slumming it with the common man.

Callum loomed in the middle of the room, with a bathsheet wrapped around his middle. Dripping onto the rug. ‘What do you want?’

A sigh, then Powel pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Constable MacGregor... Callum, I’m here to give you a bit of friendly advice.’

‘Aye, right.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He put his mug on the coffee table. Stood. ‘But don’t say I didn’t try.’

Callum didn’t move.

Another sigh. ‘I don’t like you. I don’t think you’re a good police officer. I don’t trust you.’

‘If this is more crap about me taking a bribe to get Big Johnny Simpson off a murder charge, you can—’

‘I understand you arrested Ainsley Dugdale yesterday.’

He bared his teeth. ‘So?’

‘I got a tip-off this afternoon from a nasty piece of work who breaks people’s legs when they don’t pay their loan shark. Dugdale’s going round shooting his mouth off about how he’s going to end you.’