Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Most of the rooms bustled with uniform and plainclothes officers, making phone calls and writing things on whiteboards, tapping away at keyboards that didn’t look as if they’d fallen off the ark.

The second door from the end was ajar, its brass plaque polished to a high sheen: ‘DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR REECE POWEL ~ MIT’.

Callum went to knock, then stopped — knuckles half an inch from the wood — as Powel’s voice growled out from inside:

‘No, Anita, I don’t... Because I don’t , that’s why... No, you listen to me for a change: marriage counselling didn’t work, the second honeymoon didn’t work, salsa classes didn’t work. I’ve had enough. Enough of your sniping and your complaining and your nasty little comments. I’ve had enough of you poisoning my own children against me.’

Yeah. Probably shouldn’t be eavesdropping on this. Still.

‘You know what? Cry all you like. It’s over, Anita... No: it’s over, because I deserve better than this. I deserve better than you .’

He had a quick check the corridor was still empty.

‘Of course I am, why do you think I packed a bag? I’ll be round for the rest of my things in a couple of days, and if you even think of touching anything, I’ll do you for destruction of private property. Are we clear?... You better believe I will — they’ll march you out of there in handcuffs.... I don’t care: my lawyer will be in touch... No, you know what, Anita? You go screw yourself. Christ knows I never want to again.’

Then a clattering thump.

Presumably that would be Mr Telephone Handset being forcibly reconciled with Mrs Base Unit.

OK.

Count to five, and knock.

Silence.

Callum pushed the door open. ‘Guv?’

Powel was behind his desk, face a threatening cloud of red and fury, glaring at the desk phone. Hands curled into fists either side of it, as if weighing up the pros and cons of smashing it into tiny little bits.

It was a pretty nice office, with a view out across the rooftops and up the hill towards the castle. The spire of St Jasper’s, in the middle distance, jabbing at the low clouds. Big wooden desk, a pot plant fern thing, filing cabinets bereft of dents and scratches, framed certificates and news clippings on the walls, a whiteboard broken up into rows and columns full of neat little letters. A small couch, two chairs, and a coffee table. Very swanky.

‘Guv?’ Callum held up the tie. ‘I think you left this at our house.’

He pulled his face up and round, clenched like his fists. His cheeks darkened even more. ‘Constable MacGregor.’

‘Elaine thought it was mine.’ Callum laid the tie on the desk.

‘I see.’ He uncoiled a hand and picked the thing up. Slipped it into his pocket. Looked somewhere else. ‘And how much of that did you hear?’

Innocent face. ‘How much of what, Guv? I just walked up and saw your door was open. Took a chance on you being in.’

‘Right. Yes.’

‘Can I ask a favour? Not for me, for Elaine.’

Powel took a deep breath. Hissed it out. Then sat back in his seat. ‘I’m listening.’

‘We’ve been getting silent phone calls. And someone might have followed me home last night. After what you said about Dugdale, I thought, just in case, if we could put a grade one flag on the flat?’ A shrug. ‘Probably nothing, but if Dugdale does try anything and I’m not there...’

‘Yes. Of course.’ Still not making eye contact. ‘How is—’

A knock on the door and one of Powel’s minions stuck his head in. All short-back-and-sides, baggy eyes, and sunken cheeks. An Aberdonian accent you could stun a sheep with at fifty paces. ‘Sorry, Boss, but we’ve got a nine-nine-niner. Some wee wifie’s turned up a heid in a shoppin’ baggie.’

Powel stared at him. ‘A head, in a carrier bag ?’

‘Aye, hacked off at the neck and dumped in Holburn Forest aff nae far frae een o’ the car parks. Div yis want ta gan oot and see it in situ?’

‘God almighty...’ He curled forward until his forehead rested on his desk organiser, talking into the interlocking biro doodles. ‘Get a pool car, I’ll be down in a minute. And get the pathologist as well. And the SEB. And a PolSA. And DS Blake. And about a dozen search-trained officers to do a fingertip.’

‘Aye, Boss.’ DC Teuchter pulled a face at Callum, then ducked back out into the corridor and shut the door behind him.

Powel didn’t move. ‘It never just rains, does it? No, it has to sodding bucket down.’ He looked as if someone had driven over him, then reversed a couple of times to make sure he was never getting up again.

Maybe Elaine was right? Maybe Powel was doing his best?

Callum cleared his throat. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Never better.’ A sigh. Then he sat up in his seat. Made a note on a Post-it and stuck it to his monitor. ‘OK: grade one flag on your flat in case Dugdale goes after Elaine. Anything else?’

‘Actually...’ OK, so it wasn’t very ethical to take advantage of the man when he’d just split up from his wife, but nothing ventured: ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any pull with the IT Lab, do you?’

Mother blinked at him. ‘You’re kidding...’

‘I’m not.’ Callum grinned. ‘Probably a once in a lifetime thing, but if we go right now we might get it done before he changes his mind.’

She stared at him, then the Lego man flash drive in its evidence bag, then back to him again. ‘Quick as you like.’ Her chair juddered back on squeaky wheels and she was off, out of her office and marching down the corridor, pulling out her phone and fiddling with the screen. ‘Andy, it’s Mother. Callum’s got Powel to—... No, of course I’m not checking up on you. But while I’ve got you, how’s it going?... Oh, OK... No, no we’re fine. You stay where you are, that’s much more important. Listen to the nice doctors... Yes... Yes I will... OK, bye.’

They pushed through the double doors to the stairwell. Waited for the lift to creak and grind its way down from the top floor. When the doors dinged open, they revealed a filing cabinet and a stack of file boxes abandoned in the middle of the lift. Like it was a cupboard.

Mother squeezed inside anyway. ‘Room up top for a small one.’

Urgh... He forced his way in, pressed hard up against the filing cabinet.

She thumbed the button for the sub-basement. ‘Does it hurt?’ Pointing as the doors groaned shut and the lift juddered into life. ‘The ear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Brett Millar does seem to like biting things, doesn’t he?’ She dug a little paper bag from her pocket. ‘Have a jelly baby, it’ll make you feel better.’

It probably wouldn’t, but Callum took one anyway.

They stood and chewed in silence, squeezed in like beans in a tin.

Yeah, this was comfortable.

Now Mother’s breath smelled of strawberries. ‘I think it would be nice if we got a card for Andy. Wish him well with his chemotherapy. Maybe get him a cake or something?’

Because that would make all the difference.

Mother popped another jelly baby, humming a happy tune as she munched.

For God’s sake, how long did it take a lift to get to the sub-basement?

Callum shuffled his feet.

Stared at the numbers changing on the display above the doors.

Ding .

He was first out, popping into the dull grey corridor like a cork from a bottle.

Mother marched out through the double doors and into the warren of corridors and rooms that lurked deep below O Division Headquarters.

He followed her through the maze to a black door with a plastic plaque with ‘FORENSIC IT LAB’ on it.