Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘Are you going to eat that Snickers?’

‘Yes.’ Callum unwrapped it. Sighed. Then cracked it in two. ‘Go on then.’ Popped his own half in his mouth. ‘Every time we went to Lossiemouth we’d charge up and down the beach, go rockpooling, collect seashells. And we always spent at least one day in Elgin. Dad would go see some friends — which was code for the pub — and Mum took Alastair and me to the museum. They’ve got a Peruvian mummy there.’ He frowned. ‘All naked and curled up with hands against its chest, and its knees against its hands, and its head bent forward... Used to think it was the most fascinating thing in the world. A real live dead body.’

Watt let out a long contented breath and settled back in his seat. ‘I wonder if it’s worth checking with the planning department to see if anyone’s put in an application to build a new smokehouse?’

‘Then one day they had a display all about the guy who donated it to the museum. Turned out that in the area where it came from, the mummies weren’t just dead people: they were elevated to the position of gods. That freaked me out. Stood there staring at it for ages.’

‘And we should crosscheck all the staff lists, see if anyone’s been doing the rounds. I’ll get them rattled into a spreadsheet and we can sort them by name, or company, or start and end date. Should be pretty straightforward.’

‘It wasn’t a dead body, it was a god. I was standing there looking at a genuine, one hundred percent, real live Peruvian god . And I couldn’t help wondering: what would happen if it woke up?’

Watt coughed. Grimaced. Leaned towards Callum, keeping his voice low. ‘Is it just me, or are you getting fed up breathing in smoke?’

‘Yup.’

Their guide waved at them to join him in the smokeroom. ‘This is the best bit.’ Mr Trendy had to be in his forties, far too old to be dressing up in skin-tight jeans and Converse trainers. Star Wars characters posed on his right arm, various X-Men on his left, all of them tattooed in bright LOOK AT ME!!! colours. A tweed waistcoat and a T-shirt with a badger on it completed the ensemble. At least he’d hidden his stupid auld-mannie haircut under the obligatory food-hygiene white hat.

Callum stepped through the big wooden doors and onto the concrete floor. Heat radiated off the pile of wood in the middle of the room, sending up tiny orange sparks and a constant barrage of pungent wood smoke. ‘Yes. Very good.’

Mr Trendy pointed upwards. ‘We don’t churn out “product” like the industrial big boys, but hey, who wants to eat chemically dyed fish, stuffed full of preservatives and additives? Not me!’

Racks of hanging fish reached up into the smoky gloom above them, then the sun must have come out, because that grey mass turned a brilliant white, silhouetting the herrings and haddocks and God knew what else.

‘We don’t even use stainless steel — all our poles are beech, sustainably harvested from The Swinney.’ He held his arms out, as if he’d just won a marathon. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

‘Yes. Very good.’

Mr Trendy led the way back onto the processing floor. ‘We think natural materials are very important. And it’s not just tradition for tradition’s sake: the fish tastes better this way. That’s why our smokehouse is built from local larch and granite.’

Two men in jeans and T-shirts were layering and salting fish — in wooden boxes, not plastic, of course — listening to some sort of terrible accordion-and-banjo music on a non-traditional and non-sustainable iPod docking station. A walkway ran around the room, about twelve foot up, and a group of cagouled tourists leaned on the handrail, taking selfies with the action in the background. Thrilling.

‘And we do a roaring trade in preserving courses for gourmets, gourmands, and the epicurious. But it’s not just smoking: it’s cheese making, charcuterie, pickling. We’re building some wood-fired ovens for a bakery course, if you’re interested? Or I run a foraging class, that’s always popular — we don’t have many hedgerows, but there’s mush-rooms, nuts, berries, sorrel, wild garlic?’

Watt dug the printout of Glen Carmichael, Brett Millar, and Ben Harrington from his pocket and held it out. ‘Do you recognise any of these men?’

‘Hmm...’ Some heavy duty frowning. ‘I think, maybe this one? On the end with the ink? Sure I’ve seen him somewhere.’

‘What about your staff?’

‘I don’t know if they’d recognise them, I can ask though?’

Watt gave him a smile. ‘Please.’

Mr Trendy marched off with the printout.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Watt lowered his voice again. ‘What do you reckon?’

‘Definitely has that hipster thing going on. Dr McDonald said he’d be able to blend in with Glen, Ben, and Brett. He’s definitely got access to a smokehouse. And he recognised Brett Millar.’

A nod. ‘I think Darth Wolverine just became Suspect Number One.’

‘Darth Wolverine?’

‘You know, because of the tattoos? Star Wars, X-Men ?’

‘Oh.’ Callum shrugged. ‘I was calling him Mr Trendy.’

Someone else in jeans and T-shirt lumbered in, pushing a hand truck stacked up with more wooden boxes. Short and compact, with a close-cropped haircut and the kind of faded-blue tattoos on his upper arms and wrists that screamed ‘I’ve been in prison!’ Mr Trendy waved him over.

Watt shook his head. ‘Darth Wolverine’s got more of a ring to it.’

‘So: we do some digging.’ Callum got out his mobile and called Control. ‘I need a PNC check on one Finn Noble, mid-forties, don’t have an address.’

‘Give us a minute...’

Mr Hand Truck took off his glasses and frowned at the photo. Then up at Mr Trendy. Who pointed over at Callum and Watt.

Then a frown. A nod. And Mr Hand Truck was off, tipping his boxes, sending ice and gutted fish splashing across the flagstone floor as he darted back out through the door he’d come in.

Watt thumped Callum on the arm. ‘We’ve got a runner!’ He sprinted across the room as the tourists swung their mobile phones round, grinning and filming.

‘Sodding hell.’ It was nearly impossible to get up any speed on the ice-slicked floor, but Callum did his best, hammering after Watt — past Mr Trendy and his staring minions, skidding around a slew of broken boxes, and thumping through the door.

Down a short corridor.

BANG — out through the door at the far end and into a rainy courtyard with a walk-in fridge off to one side and a stack of wooden pallets in the corner.

Mr Hand Truck made straight for them, arms and legs going, head down, with Watt in hot pursuit.

A leap, and the wee tattooed bloke scrambled up the pile of pallets like a monkey. He didn’t pause at the top, just hurled himself over the top of the courtyard wall.

Watt clambered up after him.

Come on, up we go...

Callum leapt, grabbed a handhold of splintered wood and hauled himself up the wobbly pile. Sprawled over the lip and onto the top one. The whole stack rocked when he stood up. Yeah, no way this was safe. He lunged for the wall, feet scrabbling at the whitewashed stone as the whole mound of pallets clattered to the flagstones.

Aaaargh...

One leg up and over. Then the other one and he was lying on top of the wall. A short section of roof sloped down towards the swollen river, the slates slick with rain. No sign of Watt or Mr Hand Truck.

Deep breath.