Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Watt still hadn’t moved.

‘Anytime you like!’

A groan, then he sat up. Puffed out a breath. Crawled to the prow. ‘Did you get him?’

‘Can we talk about this on dry land?’

‘Oh no.’ Watt’s face crumpled.

‘Just get out of the sodding boat. This thing’s heavy !’

A sigh, then he reached for the ladder and worked his way up till he was kneeling in the boat. ‘I couldn’t hold him.’

‘I know.’

‘I tried .’

‘I know.’ Callum shifted himself to one side, leaving enough room on the rung for Watt to struggle his feet into place. ‘Come on. Up you go.’

Watt climbed, dripping water and blood. ‘He wouldn’t stop struggling.’

Callum let go of the rope and followed Watt up onto the jetty. Stood with him in the rain as he folded forwards and stood with his hands on his knees, coughing. Patted his back.

Then flinched as, ‘YOU BASTARDS!’ rang out through the downpour. It was Mr Trendy, marching down the path in his health-and-hygiene white trilby, flanked by the T-shirted guys from the processing floor. He cut a path through the onlookers with their mobile phones. ‘YOU KILLED HIM!’

‘Just calm down, OK?’

‘WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU PLAYING AT?’ Face dark and trembling, hands balled into fists. ‘WHY THE F—’

‘All right, that’s enough!’ Callum held his hand up. ‘Calm — down.’

‘What did he do, eh? Answer me that! WHY DID YOU—’

‘I’m not going to ask you again.’ He hauled out his mobile phone and called Control. ‘I need urgent assistance: we’ve got someone in the water, being swept downstream from Strummuir Smokehouse. Individual is an IC-one male with tattooed arms. Said he can’t swim.’

‘Putting you on hold.’

A tinny rendition of something vaguely classical burbled out of the earpiece, and Callum turned back to Mr Trendy. ‘What’s his name?’

The chest went out. ‘I’m not telling you anything . Tod was just minding his own business and you hounded him to his death!’ A finger poked Callum in the shoulder, hard enough to force him onto his back foot. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’

Callum kept his voice level. ‘I’m going to ask you to back away, sir .’

Another poke. ‘We’ve got a very good team of lawyers and I’m going to make sure they hang you from the nearest tree by your balls.’

Watt straightened up, still breathing hard. Spat out a gobbet of foamy red spit. ‘All right, that’s enough. You have to step back onto the grass, Mr Noble.’

‘Don’t you tell me what to do! This is my smokehouse and you’re a murdering pair of...’ His eyes bugged, then he took a swing — fist whistling through the rainy air towards Watt’s face.

Only it never got there, because Watt blocked it then rammed his open palm into the centre of Mr Trendy’s chest, sending him sprawling onto his back.

Stood over him. ‘And you stay down, or I’m arresting you.’

Callum limped up the stairs and through into the main office, carrying two waxed-paper cups of coffee that steamed and nipped at his fingers. Every step sent jagged teeth biting into his thigh. The chafing didn’t help, but that’s what happened when you wandered about in wet clothes.

One glass wall looked out over the smokehouse car park, then a small line of shortbread-box houses, and out towards a line of trees. All of it buckling under the weight of the rain.

A couple of patrol cars sat blocking off the car park entrance, blue lights flickering. Keeping all the tourists in.

Watt had perched himself on a big leather couch, shivering, a crinkly silver thermal blanket wrapped around his shoulders — giving him the look of a grumpy baked potato. He held a tea towel full of ice cubes against his cheek and jaw. The skin was already darkening there, the first hints of purple blooming around the edges. Working itself into a decent bruise.

Callum handed him one of the cups. ‘Didn’t know if you take sugar or not.’

‘Thanks.’ He took a sip and winced. Reapplied the tea towel. ‘Any news?’

‘They’ve got the Diving and Marine Unit coming down from Aberdeen. Should be here just in time for rush hour.’

‘Urgh.’ Watt sagged back on the couch. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? I couldn’t hold onto him, and now he’s dead.’

‘Wasn’t your fault.’

More blue flickering lights made their way along the road, past the line of houses. It pulled up in front of the car park and one of its siblings reversed to let it, and the car after it, to enter, then closed the gap again.

Callum groaned. The second car was a horribly familiar, brand-new, red Mitsubishi Shogun. McAdams. Lovely. No doubt here to dump an industrial-sized lump of doggerel and sarcasm on their heads.

Watt sniffed. ‘How’s the leg?’

‘Why does every scumbag in Oldcastle try to bite a chunk out of me?’

‘Yeah.’ Another sip of coffee. Another wince. ‘Ow... I called Mother — she’s getting the review organised. Professional Standards and some Chief Inspector from divisional.’

‘Drew blood and everything. Lucky he didn’t sink his teeth in a quarter-inch higher, or I’d be circumcised by now.’

‘Never been involved in a death before.’ Watt shrugged. ‘I’ve seen dead bodies — you know, at crime scenes — and I’ve delivered death messages, but it’s not the same as being responsible.’

‘Don’t be daft: you’re not responsible. He ran. He jumped in. You tried to save him.’

‘Should’ve tried harder...’

There was a knock on the door and Mr Trendy, AKA: Darth Wolverine, AKA Finn Noble shuffled into his own office. ‘Sorry.’ He’d ditched the stupid white hat, revealing a stupid haircut — short at the sides, all quiffed up with hair gel on top. He closed the door. ‘Erm... about earlier, I just wanted to apologise. It was...’ He stared at the toes of his Converse trainers. ‘I got a bit caught up in the moment. I would never try to punch someone. And you’re a police officer, how stupid would that be?’

Watt scowled at him. ‘Very.’

‘Yes. Yes.’ He twisted his fingers into knots. ‘Like I said: I’m very, very sorry.’

Callum took out his notebook. ‘Let’s start with the man we were chasing: name, address, age, shift patterns. Everything you’ve got.’

‘Ah...’ Pink flushed in his ears.

‘And I’ll need the same for everyone who’s worked here over the last two years.’

‘Erm, no. Not without a warrant. I can’t.’

‘What happened to “very, very sorry”?’

‘We operate an outreach programme, OK? A lot of the people who work here have done time. We help them get back into work, teach them a skill, and it’s all rehabilitation, isn’t it? Someone’s working here: they’re making a decent living wage, doing something productive, developing a bit of self-esteem. Not off mugging OAPs and stealing cars.’

‘And what was Tod in prison for, Mr Noble?’

‘It’s not like we employ sex offenders, or anything like that. It’s people who’ve had difficult lives, who’ve made mistakes, who need a second chance.’

‘What — did — he — do?’

Noble licked his lips, all attention focused on those shoes. ‘The gang here have to be able to trust me. If they thought I’d just hand over their personal details, rat on them, without putting up a fight? Nah.’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t.’

Watt shifted the tea towel full of ice. ‘I can still change my mind about charging you.’

‘Yes, I know, but I can’t . It’d undo all the good we’ve worked for. Six years , ruined.’