Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘OK, if that’s the way you want to play it.’ He stood. ‘Finn Noble, I’m detaining—’

The door thumped open and in marched McAdams, back straight, face like a clenched fist. ‘Well?’

A uniformed PC followed him into the office and shut the door. Stood behind him with her mouth shut and her arms folded.

Callum pointed. ‘At approximately fifteen fifty, Detective Constable Watt and I were being shown round the smokehouse by—’

‘Thank you, Constable MacGregor, but I think DC Watt can handle it from here. You’re going back to the ranch.’ No haiku, no rhymes, no mocking asides.

That couldn’t be good.

‘DC Watt did everything he could. We’ve got it recorded on about twenty mobile phones: he risked his life to save—’

‘I said thank you , Constable MacGregor. Leave the pool car, DC Watt might need it. You can get a lift back with PC Crawford.’

‘He dived in the river and—’

‘ Now , Constable!’

‘Right. OK.’ He put his coffee down on the desk. ‘Fine.’ Then followed Crawford out of the office, down the stairs, through the doors, and into the rain.

She didn’t say a single word all the way back through Castleview, across Dundas Bridge, and through the windy streets of Castle Hill. It was like crawling along through rush hour traffic, being driven by a shop mannequin. Only with less personality. Crawford just sat there, with her face set straight ahead, ignoring every attempt at conversation.

Ah well, can’t say he hadn’t tried.

Some officers were like that, though. Couldn’t actually talk to people unless they were arresting them. Eventually, the job would weed them out and they’d go utilise their lack of interpersonal skills elsewhere. Like teaching or local politics.

No loss.

When she pulled up outside the back entrance to Division Headquarters he hopped out and gave her a cheery wave. ‘Thanks for the lift, it’s been fun!’

It wasn’t far to the rear doors, barely six feet, but by the time he’d pushed through into the building his clothes had gone from damp to wet again.

They hadn’t exactly tried very hard when they were decorating this part: breezeblock walls painted an institutional beige; scuffed concrete floor with suspicious brown stains that were either dried blood or something worse; signs with ‘CUSTODY SUITE →’, ‘PROCESSING →’, ‘← INTERVIEW ROOMS’, and ‘CUSTODY SERGEANT →’ on them. The delightful scent sensation that was microwaved cabbage, fresh urine, and pine disinfectant. A slightly gritty taste of stale digestive biscuits, free with every breath.

‘MacGregor.’

Callum stopped. Turned.

A big man with Seventies sideburns was leaning against the back wall, rolling a packet of Fruit Pastilles back and forth in his fingers. DS Jimmy Blake.

Callum nodded. ‘Blakey.’

The skin around both eyes had darkened like aubergines and there was a thick T-shaped chunk of plastic covering his nose with the arms of the T taped to his forehead. Clearly, when Franklin punched you in the face, you stayed punched. ‘You got a minute?’ At least he didn’t sound quite so bunged up.

‘How’s the nose?’

He narrowed his bruised eyes, the left one focusing somewhere over Callum’s shoulder. ‘You tell your friend, the darkie bitch, I’m not done with her.’

‘Yeah...’ Callum bared his teeth and hissed in a breath. ‘Maybe not the best idea, Blakey. She could kick your arse from here to Kingsmeath and back again without breaking a sweat. Mine too. Let bygones be bygones, eh?’

Blake just scowled at him from behind his plastic nose guard.

‘Oh, and Blakey, I know you’re bigger than me, but if you ever call DC Franklin a “darkie bitch” again I’ll straighten your wonky eye with my fist. OK?’

Outside a siren kicked off, followed by a roaring engine and the screech of tyres. It faded into the distance. A phone rang somewhere in the custody suite.

‘OK.’ Callum patted him on the arm. ‘Good talk.’ He turned and limped down the corridor, towards the stairs.

Blakey’s voice echoed off the breezeblock walls. ‘DCI Powel wants to see you in his office. Don’t keep him waiting.’

Sod.

Callum stopped outside Powel’s door. Straightened his clip-on tie. Brushed at a dirty patch on his suit trousers. Probably dried blood, from when that cannibalistic little sod tried to chew his leg off... Yeah. Maybe best not to dwell on that, given what happened next.

Besides, there’d be plenty opportunities for blame and recriminations coming right up.

The stain didn’t come off, just smeared into the damp fabric.

And yes: given this afternoon’s monumental fiasco, an internal review was inevitable. Member of the public dies while being pursued by the police? The newspapers would be stumbling over each other, drunk with righteous-indignation and delight, competing to see who could give Police Scotland the biggest kicking.

But did the review have to happen right away? They couldn’t even give him half an hour to put on dry clothes?

Of course not.

Ah well, no point putting it off. Callum pulled his shoulders back and knocked.

A voice from inside: ‘Come.’

Deep breath.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

Powel was behind his desk, face poker still. Mother sat on the couch with her back straight, looking disappointed. A bloke in uniform was next to her, with three pips on his epaulettes — that would be the chief inspector Watt mentioned, here to run the review. And last, but not least, everyone’s favourite avuncular, fake-bumbling, non-sequitur-spouting, inquisitor from Professional Standards: Chief Inspector ‘Call me Alex’ Gilmore.

And they were all staring at Callum. Like a firing squad.

Oh joy.

Powel pointed. ‘Shut the door, Detective Constable MacGregor.’

He did. Nodded. ‘Boss. Detective Chief Inspector. Chief Inspectors.’

Gilmore pulled on a smile. ‘I understand you had a spot of bother out at Strummuir, Callum.’

Understatement of the year.

‘It wasn’t Watt’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The guy ran, we chased him, he jumped in the river. Watt went in after him, but he struggled and the river swept him away.’

‘I see.’

‘It was filmed on about two dozen mobile phones — we commandeered the lot. Soon as they’re checked into evidence, watch the footage and you’ll see.’

Gilmore nodded. ‘I did. At least five of them uploaded the whole thing: Twitter, Facebook, YouTube... We’ll have to call in the Police Investigations and Review Commissioner, but it’s just a formality. Nothing to worry about. As far as I’m concerned you both did everything you could.’

‘Oh.’ A smile crept its way across Callum’s face. Thank God for that. ‘Great. Watt deserves some sort of commendation, though. He blames himself, but he—’

‘Moving on.’ Powel produced a blue folder from his in-tray and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘We got a call this morning from a little old lady walking her border terrier in Holburn Forest. They’d barely gone twenty feet when “Captain Muffin” hauled a carrier bag out from beneath a bush. And do you know what was in that carrier bag, Detective Constable?’

Callum kept his mouth shut.

‘Human remains. A severed head to be precise: female, sawn off between the fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae. Sound familiar?’

What?

Of course it didn’t. Why would...

Hold on: yes it did. ‘When I was in your office this morning, someone came in and told you about it. You went off to the scene.’

‘And that was the first you knew of it?’

‘Yes. Why?’