Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

‘Oh most certainly.’ A frown. ‘I can’t decide if the teddy bear should harbour the soul of the boy’s dear departed grandfather: killed in the trenches, I think. Maybe mustard gas. Or would that be too dark?’

Callum just stared at him.

‘Of course, it’s semi-autobiographical. I didn’t have a talking cat or a haunted teddy bear, but I definitely had a stepfather. I’ll leave out the bits where he shared me with his friends, though. No one likes a tattle-tale, do they?’

Was that supposed to make him sympathetic?

Tough.

Callum held out his good hand for the PC’s notebook, then slid it across the table. Passed Pike a pen. ‘Sign at the bottom there. And date it.’

‘I’d like a south-facing cell, if at all possible?’ He scrawled his name across the bottom of the page, followed by today’s date. ‘Would that be possible?’

‘You said you recognised the man who abducted my parents and brother.’

‘I suppose it all depends on what’s available, but it’d be nice to feel the sun on my bars.’

‘You said he was famous.’

‘Oh I said many things, Detective Constable. And now,’ he poked the notebook with its signed confession, ‘I’ve got what I wanted, so why should I help you with anything? Supply and demand.’

‘All I want is a name.’

‘I know. And all I want is a south-facing cell. Something on an upper floor so there’s a nice view. If you can’t supply me with that, then our business here is concluded.’ A wink. ‘So why don’t you scurry off and see what you can do about my cell? Off you go. Scurry, scurry.’

Callum snatched the notebook back and returned it to the PC. ‘I can’t believe I was afraid of you, all those years. You’re pathetic.’

‘Oh, indubitably. And now I’ve got power over you all over again.’ The slug smile grew. ‘Isn’t that delicious ?’

Shannon leaned back against the wall in the cupboard masquerading as the Downstream Monitoring Suite, mug of tea clutched to his chest. ‘Told you: men like him, they like screwing with people.’

Callum closed the door behind himself and slumped into one of the three office chairs lined up in front of the monitors — the screen in the middle had a view of Interview Room Two on it, peering down from the corner at the empty chairs and table. He covered his face with his hands. ‘Did you see?’

‘Oh, “indubitably”. Urgh... I mean, who uses words like “indubitably” these days? Dicks, that’s who.’ A sigh. ‘I should’ve let you play bad cop.’

‘He saw him. He saw this guy, this “Lion”, attacking my parents and he didn’t do a thing.’

‘We had twenty-six flights of stairs for him to fall down.’

‘He could’ve called the police. Taken the number plate down. He could’ve done something.’

‘I know.’ Shannon’s hand landed on Callum’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Look on the bright side: at least now we know the rumour was true. That drunken DI was right, it was someone famous. And they drove a white Range Rover.’

‘I was terrified of that lardy sack of crap...’

‘Callum, it’s OK. I’ll get my OAPs to go digging through their notebooks and attics and sheds. We’ll find out who he is.’ One last squeeze. ‘But it’ll take a day or two. Meantime, you sod off home and get some sleep. I’ll give you a call soon as we know anything.’

Callum thumped the Mondeo’s door shut and stood on the pavement, in the drizzle, staring up at the third floor. Twenty to twelve and the lights were still on in the flat.

Home.

Or what used to pass for it.

He pulled his shoulders back and let himself in through the communal front door. Ignored the pile of post on the windowsill at the back. Marched up the stairs.

The cats had been at Toby’s pot plants again.

Tough.

Callum took out his key and slid it into the lock of 3F-A. It didn’t turn. And the little brass plaque above the letterbox was gone too, replaced by a white plastic rectangle with ‘R POWEL & E PIRIE’ carved into the surface. They hadn’t even waited till his grave was cold...

So he bunched his left hand into a fist and gave the door the same three hard knocks Shannon had given Gareth Bloody Pike. The police are here, and they’re not sodding happy.

Took a while, but eventually the door swung open and there was Powel, in jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt. Big white trainers that looked as if they’d never seen the outside world. He didn’t seem as intimidating out of a suit, more like someone’s dad trying to be trendy and ‘down with the kids’. And failing.

He scowled out at Callum. ‘I’ve been waiting .’

‘Where’s my stuff?’ Pitching it as a challenge, rather than a question.

Powel closed his eyes and shook his head, then turned and marched back into the flat on his ridiculous white trainers. ‘Elaine packed everything into boxes.’

‘I’ll bet she did.’ Callum followed him. ‘And did she pack the TV and the couch and the bed and the microwave and—’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Callum, will you grow up?’ Powel turned, arms out. ‘Yes, OK, I get it: you’ve been betrayed. We hurt your feelings. Everything’s terrible and it’s all my fault.’

Callum’s left hand curled into a fist. Chest out. Shoulders back.

‘Does that make you feel better, Callum? I admit it: it’s — all — my — fault.’

Grab him by the throat and squeeze the life out of him.

‘But do you think you were so easy to live with? Do you think Elaine didn’t struggle every day, with your moods and your obsessions and your neediness ?’

Kill him.

‘We fell in love, OK, Callum? We reached out for someone and we found each other.’

Kill him right now .

Powel’s arms dropped to his sides. ‘She didn’t love you, Callum. She was just going through the motions because she didn’t want to hurt you. It wasn’t a conspiracy, it just happened.’ He walked through to the living room. Pointed at the cardboard boxes stacked up by the window. ‘I know it doesn’t help, but I’m sorry.’

They’d obviously raided the nearest supermarket, because the pile was a mixture of small boxes that used to contain wine, big boxes that used to contain frozen chips, boxes for toilet cleaner, crisps, bin-bags, cauliflower florets, and Stork vegetable fat. Each one sealed with brown parcel tape and marked with black pen: ‘CLOTHES’, ‘CDS & DVDS’, ‘LEGO’, and ‘MISC’.

But by far the largest number were marked ‘BOOKS’.

‘Elaine packed your favourite mugs and cookery things. There’s some ornaments in there too, and photos of the two of you. She says, if you don’t want them just let her know. Don’t throw them away: she’d like to hold onto them for old time’s sake.’

There it was, his whole life for the last five years, all neatly packed up in scrounged cardboard boxes.

Callum stared at the floor. ‘What about the furniture, the TV, the crib ? All the stuff I paid for?’

A sigh. ‘If I write you a cheque, will that make you happy?’

‘Happy?’

There was a lamp, sitting on the empty bookcase at the back of the room. They’d bought that on a weekend away in Anstruther. Back before she’d got pregnant.

He picked it up, turned it over in his good hand.

Powel folded his arms. ‘And we’ll need to sort something out about the flat. Putting it up for sale isn’t going to do much good, not with the market like it is.’

Pale-brown pottery, the colour of a hen’s egg. A little scene of boats and dinky wee houses wrapped around it. Heavier than it looked. Seagulls on the blue shade. They’d been happy then.