Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

The old man’s shoulders rose beneath the threadbare cardigan. ‘Don’t matter.’

Curled up in his lap, an evil-looking ginger cat scowled out at Callum: You’re not welcome here, this is mine.

‘And you don’t remember seeing any visitors, or anything like that?’ He crossed to the window. Good view of the street from here, even at this time of night. Tod Monaghan’s building was directly opposite, but this side didn’t have an attic conversion, so Callum had to crane his neck up to see the flat. Even from this close, it was impossible to tell that one window was clarted in hardcore porn. Doubtful the old guy could have seen anything more than shadows on the ceiling from here. Like the ones playing across it now; hunched figures thrown into stark silhouettes by the occasional hard-white burst of a camera flash gun.

Two patrol cars blocked this bit of Bellfield Road, one at each junction, their blue-and-whites spinning solid bars through the rain. A dirty Transit van sat outside the building across the road, a slow progression of SOC techs in Smurf suits making their way in and out again. All caught in the streetlights’ sickly yellow glow.

The old boy scrunched his face up and let out a huge sneeze. ‘Urgh...’ He wiped his nose with his fingers, then rubbed them dry on his cardigan. ‘No. No visitors. Keep ourselves to ourselves, don’t we, Tannhäuser?’

The cat gave Callum another stare. We hate you: go away.

‘Right, well, if you remember anything: give me a call, OK?’ Callum left a Police Scotland business card on the mantelpiece and let himself out. Stood on the drab grey landing and pulled out his phone. Checked his call history. ‘HOME ~ INCOMING, TODAY 21:05’ was right there at the top of the list.

Lovely.

He pressed the button. Listened to it ring. Then Poncy Bloody Powel’s voice sounded in his ear.

‘Callum. We said eight o’clock. It’s gone nine.’

‘Oh I’m sorry , is our serial-killer investigation interfering with your evening? Because while you’re sat on your backside, on my couch, I’m doing door-to-doors here.’

‘Callum, we agreed.’

‘No, you agreed. I’ll get there when I get there.’ He hung up on Powel and called Mother instead. ‘Nothing doing. A whole building full of people and not one of them saw a single thing. Ever.’

‘Ah well, it was worth a try. Thanks, Callum. Get yourself back to the Mobile Incident Centre and we’ll call it a day.’

‘Will do.’ He thumped down the bare stone stairs and out through the front door. Into the rain.

The Mobile Incident Centre — AKA: DS McAdams’ red Shogun — was parked not fifteen feet away, its paint turned the colour of dried blood by the streetlight, exhaust curling up into the cold damp air.

Callum hurried across the road and scooted into the back. ‘Any luck?’

Franklin had the other half of the seat, Crimestoppers brolly wedged between her knees. ‘Kingdom of the blind. Never seen so many people who never look out of their windows.’

‘Welcome to Oldcastle.’ Sitting in the passenger seat, Mother rummaged in a small paper bag, then passed it back, chewing around the words: ‘Could be our Tod was just very good at not being noticed?’

Franklin helped herself, then tossed the bag to Callum. ‘I know this might sound a little odd, but I was expecting a bit more... I don’t know, drama? It’s never like this in the movies, is it? There’s meant to be a big high-octane showdown when you catch a serial killer.’

McAdams turned in the driver’s seat. ‘Gwyneth Paltrow’s head in a box.’

Mother’s eyes bugged, then she hit him on the arm. ‘Andy! Callum’s mum...’

‘Oh, yes. Indeed. Sorry, Constable MacGregor.’ As if bringing up severed heads was nothing more than a minor faux pas right now.

Callum glared at him.

Mother hit him again. ‘Andy, apologise properly .’

Sigh. Then a nod. ‘Constable MacGregor: I’ll admit that I enjoy winding you up, but I would never ever joke about someone’s dead mother. It was thoughtless of me and I’m genuinely sorry if my comment upset you.’ At least he sounded sincere.

Callum shrugged. ‘Fine.’

‘Good. Now, where were we? Ah yes, the story’s emotional climax. Let’s make it... “Jodie Foster being hunted in a darkened basement” instead.’

Franklin glanced at Callum for a moment, then back to McAdams. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we caught him, but it feels like a bit of an anti-climax.’

‘I understand. You wanted more drama.’ McAdams shook his head. ‘My dearest Franklin. Real life is never so bold. Death is a dull thing.’

Callum plucked a green jelly baby from the bag and sent it to its doom. ‘Don’t knock “dull”. When it comes to serial killers, “exciting” is to be avoided at all costs.’ He liberated an orange one and passed the bag to McAdams. Peace offering. ‘Do you remember Ian Zouroudi?’

‘Gah...’ McAdams’ shudder must’ve been contagious, because Mother caught it too.

‘Changing the subject,’ she retrieved her jelly babies, ‘we should go out tonight and celebrate.’

Franklin scooted forward in her seat. ‘Karaoke?’

Mother smiled. ‘There’s none as fervent as the recent convert. But I don’t see why not, if...’ She pointed through the windscreen. ‘Clap hands, here comes Cecelia.’

A figure in full Smurf had stepped out of number 39 and peeled back her hood. Now she stood in the rain with her face to the clouds, little tendrils of steam rising from her damp black hair.

Mother poked McAdams. ‘Give her a toot.’

He did, leaning on the horn just long enough to make her start. Stare. Then disappear into the filthy Transit van for a moment. When she returned she was clutching a little red umbrella in one hand and an evidence bag in the other. She wandered over and knocked on McAdams’ window.

He buzzed it down. ‘Four bargain buckets, three with corn-on-the-cob, one with beans, and a Diet Coke, please.’

‘Oh. Ha. Haha. Oh.’ Her face barely moved. ‘Is this you practising your kerb crawling, Andy, or could you just not live without me?’

Mother leaned across the handbrake, smiling up at her. ‘Sorry. Just wanted to know if you’d found anything. You know, significant?’

‘What, other than the mummified corpse on the coffee table?’

‘Hopefully.’

‘Well, we’ve got a number of small ziplock bags full of mushrooms from the fridge and freezer that look pretty damn magic to me. And when we took off the bath’s U-bend the thing was full of dark liquid with herbs and wee bits of bark and stick floating in it. Sound familiar?’

‘Very.’

‘And we found these .’ She produced the evidence bag from behind her back with two watches, and an assortment of piercings, plugs, and rings in it. ‘They were in a shoebox under the bed.’

McAdams held his hand out, as if his drive-through order had actually arrived. Cecelia passed it over and he peered at the contents. ‘Looks like serial-killer trophies to me. This big leathery monstrosity, unless I’m hallucinating again, was Ben Harrington’s watch.’ McAdams held the evidence bag out in the middle of the car, like Mother’s sweeties. ‘Anyone recognise anything else?’

Difficult to tell, but then one piercing looked very like another.

Franklin pointed. ‘I think the red-and-white flesh tunnel might be Glen Carmichael’s.’

Callum raised an eyebrow. ‘Flesh tunnel?’

‘Don’t be filthy. It’s what they call those hollow tubes they stretch their earlobes with. Glen Carmichael had a red-and-white one with a skull-and-crossbones in it.’