Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘Come on, Brucie.’

‘You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. Won fifty quid on a scratchcard this morning.’ The sound of a keyboard being tortured clattered through the phone. ‘Here you go: Robert Michael Shannon, seventy-one, lives at Canaries Cottage, Leveller Road, Fiddersmuir.’

‘Thanks.’ Now all he needed was a car.

Callum eased through the double doors into the corridor. Wandered down to the manky little offices of the Divisional Investigative Support Team, nice and casual. Mother’s door was closed and so was McAdams’. No sound of voices coming from within.

The main office was quiet too.

Which was nice.

He eased open the door.

Empty. They’d all be out trying to track down Imhotep.

Good. That meant no awkward questions, forced sympathy, crappy haikus, or complaints about him nicking one of the pool cars.

There was a little whiteboard, over by the kettle and microwave, no bigger than a sheet of A4 — split up into three columns. A magnetic hook sat at the bottom of each one, a printed number plate at the top. And a bit in the middle to write your name and why you were taking the associated car.

Dotty’s wheelchair-adapted Vauxhall was checked out, as was the battered Audi, leaving just one set of keys dangling on its magnetic hook: the ancient dirty-brown Ford Mondeo estate. And it was an automatic, not usually a plus point, but perfect if you only had one working hand to drive with.

Callum liberated the keys with a ‘Yoink!’ then scrawled something unintelligible in the details section. Probably wouldn’t fool anyone for long, but it was worth a go.

He would’ve got away with it too, if it wasn’t for that pesky DC Franklin.

She was marching down the corridor, clutching a sheet of paper when he slipped out of the office. Stopped and stared at him. ‘Callum.’

He wheeched his hand behind his back, hiding the car keys. Pulled on a smile. ‘Thought everyone was out.’

‘Had to hang about, waiting for this.’ Franklin held up the sheet of paper. ‘Warrant forcing Strummuir Smokehouse to hand over all their employees’ details. I’m off to serve it.’

‘Right.’ Sod. That meant she needed the last pool car. ‘So they’ve not recovered the body yet? From the river...’

‘Could you look more shifty than you do right now?’

‘I don’t—’

‘ And you’re meant to be on compassionate leave.’

‘What happened to “get off your moaning backside and do something about it”?’

Franklin narrowed her eyes. ‘What are you up to?’

‘Me? Nothing. Nothing at all. Just changed out of my damp suit.’ Callum forced the smile a little wider. Jiggled his bad arm and its decorative bin-bag. ‘Tell you what, as I’m not doing anything right now, how about I come with you? You know: keep myself occupied. I’ll drive if you like? Not a problem.’

‘Hrmmm...’ Then a nod. ‘OK, get the keys.’

‘Way ahead of you.’

Rain. Rain. Rain. It pattered on the pool car’s roof, rippled the windscreen — shifting everything in and out of focus.

The Strummuir Smokehouse car park was nearly empty. Six o’clock on a Friday night. The staff and visitors would be long gone. All except for the owner of the white BMW, parked in a spot marked ‘RESERVED FOR MANAGING DIRECTOR ~ MR FINN NOBLE’.

Callum had a scratch at his thumb, where the skin poked out of the cast.

Clicked on the radio.

A weird dirge-like groan filled the speakers, slow and dark. ‘And I burn inside like the stars, / A million thoughts and pains and scars, / Running away from you, Angelica...’

He turned it down a bit.

Should’ve brought a book.

How? How was he supposed to do that when they were all back at the flat?

Yeah, well, should have thought about that before he stormed out yesterday, shouldn’t he?

Sodding hell...

Callum thumped his head back against the rest, then peered through the window.

What the hell was taking Franklin so... Ah, there she was.

Franklin pushed out through the smokehouse front door and into the rain.

‘See me burn, / See me run and hide, / See me dying, / See me cyanide...’

She hunched her shoulders and ran for the car. Clattered into the passenger side. ‘Gah... Does it never stop raining here?’

‘You get the names?’

‘I swear to God, it’s like Oldcastle’s cursed.’

In so many ways.

‘But no, / You can’t see me, / You can’t breathe, / You can’t hear me...’

She shook the rain from her hair. ‘And what are you listening to? Sounds like a funeral for depressed monks.’

‘No idea.’ He cranked the blowers up full, drowning it out. Turned the car around and headed back along the road, through Strummuir. Driving with one hand in a cast wasn’t so bad when you didn’t have to bother changing gears. ‘So: names?’

‘Yup.’ She dug out her phone and poked at the screen.

‘Planning on telling me at any point?’

‘Hold on.’ Franklin put her mobile to her ear. ‘Mother? Yes, it’s Rosalind. I got the employee details from the smokehouse... No, rolled right over soon as I flashed the warrant... Uh-huh.’

A right at the roundabout took them out past the rows of little Scottish houses with their grey-harled walls and slate roofs. Fields of green and grey on either side of the road, streaking past as Callum put his foot down.

‘According to Mr Noble, the man Watt tried to save from the river was one Tod Monaghan... Hold on, I’ll put you on speaker.’ She held it in the middle of the car and Mother’s voice fought against the blowers’ roar.

‘Monaghan, Monaghan... Right, here we go, Andy’s just bringing it up now. Tod Monaghan, thirty-five. AKA: Toby Hutchinson, AKA: Timothy Liddell, AKA: Todzilla. Did six years for attempted murder. Released on licence eleven months ago... da, da, da... Oooooh: form for indecent assault. That’s interesting, isn’t it? And there was a rape case, but the gentleman he attacked didn’t want to go to court.’

‘Sounds lovely, doesn’t he?’

‘You know what I think, Rosalind? Violent sex offender, attacks men, works in a smokehouse, does a runner soon as John and Callum show up. I think we might have found our Imhotep. Isn’t that...’

Silence from the phone.

A little graveyard slipped by on the left, its church a crumbling ruin. Woods on the right.

Some auld biddie, walking her dog in the downpour, clambered onto the grass verge as they approached. Stuck two fingers up as they passed.

And finally Mother was back: ‘Rosalind? Why did you put me on speakerphone?’

Franklin glanced across the car.

Callum put a finger to his lips and mouthed, ‘I’m not here!’

‘I’m... driving. Don’t have a hands-free set. Safety first.’

‘Oh, yes. That’s a good idea.’

A right at the junction with the main road took them back towards town.

‘Just in case, I’m going to run everything past Dr McDonald. And we better get a warrant sorted for his home address too.’ Mother’s voice faded, as if she’d turned away from the phone. ‘Can you sort that for me, Andy? Top floor left, thirty-nine Bellfield Road, Cowskillin. Thanks.’ Then she was at full volume again. ‘Good work, Rosalind.’

‘Thanks, Mother.’ The line went dead and she slipped the phone back in her jacket pocket. Then frowned as Callum took the next left onto a country road. ‘I thought Division Headquarters was that way?’

‘Ah, yes. It is.’ He gave her his best smile. ‘Just got a quick stop-off to make on the way. Ten, twenty minutes tops.’