Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

True.

‘Worth a try though.’ Callum turned the keys, setting the blowers roaring. ‘How did Dotty and Franklin get on?’

‘What am I, your secretary? Finish up with the smokehouses, then the pair of you get back to the shop and start chasing up wood suppliers.’

‘But—’

‘That’s what you get for interrupting my poem.’

And he was gone.

Mr Suit held out his hand for the printouts. ‘Thank you, Janice. Tell Ted I’d like to see him in the boardroom in ten minutes please.’

‘Yes, Mr Telford.’ She pivoted on her heels and clacked out of the room, no-nonsense bob swinging in time with her footsteps.

He scanned the paperwork then slid it across the desk to Callum. ‘We have a strict vetting policy and rigorous health-and-safety training for all our staff. All references are followed up. Random drug tests. Etcetera, etcetera.’ He made circular motions with his hand — like the Queen waving out of a carriage window — showing off two signet rings and a gold bracelet with his name engraved on it: ‘NORMAN’.

The view from his office window wasn’t really grand enough to justify the floor-to-ceiling glass. It looked out on the factory complex, in all its stainless steel glory. A ballet of forklifts and containers, hoppers of salt and preservatives, a row of industrial units with their processions of raw and smoked fish. And beyond that, a set of grey warehouse buildings with the ScotiaBrand Tasty Chickens logo on them: a smiling rooster making a thumbs-up with his wing, a mini pastoral scene in the circle behind him. Steam coiled up from the slaughterhouse.

‘If you turn to the back, Detective Constable, you’ll find Appendix B lists everyone we’ve had to let go over the last six months.’

Callum scanned the names, then passed the list to Watt. ‘Any absenteeism?’

‘Oh no.’ Mr Suit shook his head. ‘We disapprove of that kind of thing. My workforce is highly motivated and dedicated to the task of delivering the most cost-efficient smoked fish and fish-derived products to market.’

Sounded lovely.

‘Quick question for you: where do you get your wood from, for smoking?’

‘For our luxury undyed range? I’ll have to check with procurement.’

Callum forced a smile. ‘Thank you, that’ll be a great help.’

He pressed a button on the desk phone. ‘Janice? Get me Charlie.’

Callum nodded. ‘Take your time.’

Seagulls screamed on the roof opposite, fighting over something grey and slimy.

Mr Short-And-Limpy curled his top lip, staring down at the printout.

It wasn’t a big yard, certainly not compared to Buchan’s Catch. Barely room for a stack of empty fish boxes; a couple of Calor gas bottles; a big yellow plastic container heaped with reeking bones, heads, and guts; and a garden shed with a set of folding chairs, a wee card table and an overflowing ashtray. The door wide open to let the cigarette smoke out.

Rain danced on the shed roof, making it rattle like a drum.

Barely room for the four of them in here, but it was better than standing out there in the rain.

Mr Short-And-Limpy shrugged. ‘No idea.’ He passed the sheet of paper to Mr Ageing Hippy. ‘What do you think, Chris? Recognise any of them?’

‘Hmmm...’ A frown. Mr Ageing Hippy took the fag out of his gob and shook his head, setting the dreadlocks swinging. ‘Nope, sorry.’

‘Well, thanks anyway.’ Callum took the printout back. Folded it so the picture of Brett Millar, Benjamin Harrington, and Glen Carmichael didn’t get creased. And slipped it into his pocket. ‘It’s OK, you finish your break: we’ll see ourselves out.’

Watt followed him down a dank corridor, past a billowing cloud of bitter wood smoke, and out into the rain again. ‘You know this is a five-minute walk from the flat they were doing up on Customs Street, don’t you?’

‘Yup.’ He ducked his head and hurried across the road to the pool car. Plipped open the locks and scrambled inside.

Bleak granite buildings loomed on either side of Admiralty Place. Ancient warehouses with boarded-up windows, five-storey terraces with rust-streaked fronts, the slow whirl of evil seagulls.

A thump and Watt was in the passenger side. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence?’

‘Could be. Maybe.’ He pulled out his Tupperware box and popped the lid. Today’s note was just a message, no picture, no puns: ‘I KNOW THINGS HAVE BEEN DIFFICULT, BUT NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS I LOVE YOU EVEN MORE THAN NUTELLA AND PICKLES.’ He slipped it into his jacket before Watt saw it.

‘Oh come off it — there’s a smokehouse right here, and up there Ben Harrington’s lying in a bath full of brine, waiting his turn to be kippered. And... Can you not do that please?’

‘I’m starving, OK?’ Callum stared down at the sandwich — cut on the diagonal as if he were royalty — a bag of Asda’s own-brand salt and vinegar, and a ‘fun-sized’ Snickers bar. ‘It’s well after two, and we’ve not stopped for lunch yet.’ He pulled out one triangular half of the dubious sandwich and sniffed it. There was a faint whiff of mushrooms and a sort of savoury cheesiness.

Watt humphed.

‘What?’

He looked out of the window. ‘Left mine back at DHQ.’

Ha, ha, ha. Tough.

Callum caught sight of himself in the rear-view mirror.

Don’t be a dick.

Ah well...

He held the half-sandwich out. ‘Here.’

An articulated lorry grumbled past, hauling a pair of shipping containers.

Watt didn’t move.

‘I’ll take it back if you don’t want it.’

‘Thanks.’ Watt accepted the triangle and took a bite. Chewed. Frowned. ‘Erm, what is it?’

Callum popped open the crisps, poured them into the Tupperware and stuck it on the dashboard in easy reach of them both. ‘The thing is, if they’re the ones smoking the bodies, why did they leave him to rot in the bath?’

‘I mean, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it, it’s just... unusual.’

‘Why wouldn’t you just pop up there one night, after dark, and bring him back for smoking?’

‘No, but really: what’s in this?’

‘Why just leave him there?’ Callum had a bite of his own half. Wasn’t too bad. Maybe Elaine had a point after all? ‘Leftover tuna casserole, cheese, and hot sauce.’

‘Oh.’ More chewing. ‘I quite like it. Spicy.’ He helped himself to some crisps. Crunched. ‘You heard Dr McDonald: Imhotep is a perfectionist. Ben Harrington wasn’t properly prepared, so he swells up in the bath as the bacteria get to work. His stomach bursts and he’s not good enough to preserve. So Imhotep leaves him where he is.’

‘Maybe. Worth checking, anyway.’

Fog gathered on the car windows, turning them opaque.

Callum finished his half. Sooked his fingers clean. ‘When I was wee, we used to go on caravan holidays. Mum and dad were mad on them — bundle the family into the car and go live in some field, sleeping in what was basically a large aluminium shed. Eight or nine times a year, every chance they got.’

That got a noncommittal grunt from Watt, as he polished off the last of the crisps.

‘Nairn, Banff, Sandend, Findochty — that kind of thing. But the favourite was Lossiemouth. Every year, regular as the swallows, the MacGregors would pack up the Travel Scrabble and migrate to their spiritual home, hauling a caravan.’