Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Watt looked him up and down. Then stepped back. ‘Big Johnny Simpson walked, because of you.’

‘IT WAS A SODDING MISTAKE, OK?’ He thrust his arms out. ‘Have you never cocked anything up in your life? Are you so buggering perfect?’

The bleep-bleep-bleep of a vehicle reversing cut through the gulls’ lament.

Behind Watt, the Kings River was a twisted swathe of pewter, dull grey in the rain. Cars on the other side had their headlights on. And up above the sky was the colour of ash.

‘Well?’

A shrug. ‘You expect me to believe that you didn’t take any money from Big Johnny Simpson?’

Callum turned his back. ‘Go screw yourself.’

The cobbles were slippery, so he picked his way across them to the big steel door, grabbed the cold metal handle and hauled it back far enough to let out the deep smoky tang of burning wood. Stepped into the gloom.

‘Hello?’

The room was easily big enough to park a couple of buses in. Racks along the walls, pallets of boxes in the middle, what looked like a large walk-in cold room on one side with another one beside it. Puddles dotted the damp concrete floor.

‘ANYONE IN?’

He worked his way through the boxes to a small office with a grubby window overlooking the warehouse. A thickset woman was behind the desk, wearing a hairnet, heavy-duty white plastic apron, and a bright red fleece. She waved at him and pointed to the phone in her other hand.

Fair enough.

The door rumbled shut, then Watt appeared at his elbow. ‘You’re a bit touchy, aren’t you?’

Callum kept his eyes on the woman. ‘You can talk. All you’ve done since you got here is moan.’

No reply.

Then Watt puffed out a breath. ‘I did the right thing, and I got shafted for it. Half my team were on the take and when I went to Professional Standards do you know what happened? Suddenly I was the bad guy.’ He folded his arms, tight. ‘How is that fair?’

‘Yeah, that’s pretty crappy.’

‘Oh, crappy doesn’t even begin to cover it.’

The woman in the office threw back her head and laughed, setting quite a lot of things wobbling.

Watt shifted his feet. ‘And just in case you’re thinking this is some sort of bonding moment, it isn’t. I’m telling you what happened to make it perfectly clear: I don’t like bent cops. I hate them.’

‘How many times do I have to say this? Eh? How can I make it any clearer? I — didn’t — take — any—’

‘Aye?’ The office door opened and she peered out at them through a pair of black-rimmed glasses. ‘Can I help you?’

Watt pulled his warrant card and thrust it under her nose for a second. ‘Detective Constable Watt. I’m here to examine your premises.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh aye?’

‘And I’ll need a list of your employees.’

‘Will you now?’

He checked his watch. ‘Soon as you like. We’ve got seven other smokehouses to visit today, so...?’

She folded her arms, making the fleece bulge. There was a lot of muscle in there — probably all that humping heavy boxes of fish about. ‘So what?’

Watt leaned in close. ‘So: chop, chop.’

Great.

Because that was how you got the public on your side.

‘Actually,’ Callum produced his own warrant card, nice and gentle, ‘what my colleague meant to say was, we really need your help. Any chance you can show us around and answer a few questions?’

Watt stiffened. ‘Thank you, Constable, but I’m dealing with this.’

‘Please forgive him. He’s been in a bad mood ever since he got back from the doctor. They can’t do anything about his frighteningly small penis, and it’s upset him a bit.’

‘What?’ Watt wheeled around, mouth pinched, eyes bugged, face darkening.

The woman in the plastic pinny burst out laughing. Then slapped Callum on the back, hard enough to send him staggering. ‘“Frighteningly small penis.” Aye, he looks the type.’

‘Hey!’

‘Come on, I’ll show you around. You too, Wee Willy Winky.’

Watt hurled himself into the passenger seat and slammed the car door.

A bunch of seagulls had taken it upon themselves to respray the windscreen and bonnet with grey and white spatters. All streaked in the rain.

Callum got in behind the wheel. Started her up and set the wipers going, turning the glass opaque. ‘Who’s next on the list?’

And explosion in five, four, three, two—

Watt thumped his hand down on the dashboard. ‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE PLAYING AT?’

A pull of the squooshers sent two streams of blue foamy liquid into the smears, thinning them. ‘Are we having a grump?’

‘How dare you tell that woman I have a small penis!’

‘Well, you were acting like a massive dick, so I thought I’d even things out a bit.’ The windscreen was almost clear, so Callum pulled back onto the road. Going slow as the wipers made gaps in the seagulls’ art.

‘You can sodding well—’

‘Know what? I don’t think people won’t work with you because you clyped on your old team — I think they won’t work with you because you’re crap at the job.’

‘You completely undermined me back there—’

‘She wasn’t going to tell you anything, Watt. You spoke to her like she needed scraping off your shoe, how was that going to help? You’re rubbish at talking to people.’

‘I AM SODDING NOT!’

‘Marching in there like the King of Dickland. Look at me, I’m so important!’

‘I’m going to report you.’ Watt thumped back in his seat. ‘Soon as we get back to DHQ, I’m putting in a formal complaint.’

‘You can’t treat people like that and expect them to help you, you idiot.’

They’d barely gone a hundred yards before the next smokehouse appeared in the row of ancient buildings. ‘OLDCASTLE SMOKED SEAFOOD SPECIALITIES ~ FABULOUS FISH AT ITS FINEST’ boasted a slick plastic hoarding above a stainless-steel set of double doors.

‘I’m a police officer.’

Callum parked outside the front. ‘I’m sorry, OK? I’m sorry I told her about your minute genitalia, but if you keep on acting like that people are going to assume it’s microscopic anyway. At least this way we got a list of every staff member and their rota for the last month.’

The smokehouse had a separate glazed door for enquiries and what looked like a wee factory shop inside.

He undid his seatbelt. ‘Are you coming, or are you staying here to sulk?’

Watt scowled at him. ‘God, I hate you.’

‘Course you do. That’s because you’re jealous of my jumbo-sized penis.’ Callum climbed out, grinned at the rain-dulled river, then turned and hurried in through the glazed door.

After a beat, Watt slammed his car door and thumped after him.

Thick greasy coils of smoke filled the room, curling behind them as they stepped inside.

‘And this is where the magic happens.’ Mr Smug swept a hand upwards. His white coat almost gleamed in the gloom and so did the white porkpie hat.

Callum stood in the middle of the room and stared straight up.

Rows and rows of fish hung, head-down, above — each one suspended by the tail from stainless-steel poles turned yellow by the smoke. Had to be about a thousand of them in here, vanishing up into the smoky heights.

Three smokehouses in and Watt was still grumping. As if it was Callum’s fault he’d been born with the kind of genital appendage that could only be seen with an electron microscope. Wasn’t his fault that Watt looked like a tit — one hairnet flattening his floppy fringe, another covering his wispy pube-like beard.