Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Callum piled his boxes against the wall opposite — clothes and things on the bottom, books on the top. Just in case anything happened and there was a homebrew flood. Sod the clothes: save the books.

He stood staring at the boxes, then opened the one marked ‘KIDS’ BOOKS’. Pulled out a handful of battered paperbacks, their spines cracked and flaking from years of rereading. The ones he was going to read to Peanut, when he was old enough.

The House at Pooh Corner, The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, Black Beauty, Open the Coffins, Biggles Flies Again ... A lifetime of books — every single volume he’d ever owned since he was little — now just a pile of supermarket-scrounged wine boxes in someone else’s lockup.

Callum put the books back in their box.

Stared at them.

Then carried the box back out to the car.

At least now he’d have something to read.

McAdams held up a hand, eyes clenched shut, wrinkles deep and thick across his forehead. ‘If we could keep it down to a deafening scream, that’d be nice.’

He wasn’t the only one who looked as if he’d rented his skull out to a Death Metal band. Dotty was slumped in her wheelchair, one hand massaging her temples while the other clutched a large wax-paper cup of coffee. Franklin was wrapped around a bottle of Lucozade, making little grunting noises every time she moved. And Watt sported a pair of dark glasses and a pained expression.

Mother, on the other hand, sat back in her office chair with her knees spread wide, tucking into a bacon buttie and a big mug of tea. She beamed at them, washed down her latest mouthful. ‘I don’t know what you’re all complaining about: if you can’t do the time, don’t do the tequila shots.’

Callum had a sip of tea.

Dotty buried her face in her hands. ‘Urgh... Whose bright idea was it to have flaming Drambuies?’

Watt raised a finger and pointed it at McAdams. Who just stood there, propped up against the wall. Groaning.

‘Now, dear children, our masters will be holding their press conference at one, so we have until then to dot-and-cross. Who wants the “i”s and who wants the “t”s? Don’t all rush at once.’

Callum raised his mug. ‘I need to go see Blakey about the paedophile I arrested last night.’

‘When you’ve done that, get your little friend, Dr McDonald, to look over Tod Monaghan’s details. I want a ribbon wrapped around him with a bow on top. Rosalind, how did you get on with our friends at Strummuir Smokehouse?’

Franklin took a scoof of Lucozade, gave another grunt, then picked up a clump of paper. ‘The only one without a criminal record is the woman who cooks chips in the canteen. Everyone else has done time: armed robbery, fraud, assault, murder, possession with intent...’ She was slumping lower and lower with every word, her other hand digging into her hair, keeping her head from hitting the desk. ‘Urgh...’

‘Well, we need to add interviewing everyone and checking alibis to the list. Andy? Stick it on the board. Dorothy, you and—’

A knock on the office door, and a spotty young woman in an ill-fitting fighting suit stuck her head around the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Guv, but you’ve not seen DCI Powel on your travels, have you? The Super’s looking for him.’

Mother turned. ‘How’s the head today, Erika?’

She pulled a sheepish grin. ‘Vodka Red Bull and crème de menthe do not mix.’

‘Thought as much when I saw you doing the Lambada with Sergeant Crilley.’

The rest of Erika’s face went as red as her spots. ‘Oh...’

‘And no: I haven’t seen Reece this morning. Anyone else?’

There was a chorus of noncommittal grunts.

Callum had another sip of tea.

‘Sorry, Erika, your prince is in another castle. Now,’ back to the team, ‘where was I?’

The DC slipped out of the room, taking her blush with her, leaving nothing but a vaguely minty smell behind.

Mother frowned for a moment. ‘Ah yes: Dorothy . You and John set a rocket under the lab: they’re supposed to be getting us fingerprints on the first two mummified victims. I want those bodies ID’d: we leave no one behind.’

That elicited groans from both of them.

‘Don’t whinge. A spot of fresh air will do you the power of good. And John?’

‘Grnnnng?’

‘You actually signed out at the end of your shift last night! A round of applause for DC John Watt, everyone.’ What she got didn’t even pass for lacklustre. ‘Let’s see if you can make it two in a row today.’ She polished off the last of her buttie. ‘Rosalind, seeing as how you won the “Guess How Many Pickled Eggs DI Morrow Can Fit In His Mouth At Once” competition, you can attend Monaghan’s post mortem.’

‘Oh God...’ Franklin’s face went a bit more grey.

‘Andy and I will stay here and produce briefing notes for Chief Superintendent McEwan, so he doesn’t make a fool of himself while claiming all the credit for catching Imhotep.’ Mother sooked the last smear of tomato sauce from her fingers. ‘Right: off you go. Play nice and no running in the corridors.’

‘Well, you’ve got no one but yourself to blame.’ Callum picked his jacket off the back of his chair and pulled it on — wriggling the filthy fibreglass cast on his broken hand down the right sleeve.

Franklin took another scoof of Lucozade. Shuddered. ‘I’m never drinking anything ever, ever again...’

He crossed to the door and stepped out into the corridor, just as Watt and Dotty disappeared into the stairwell, making for the lifts — the pair of them groaning and shuffling like a cut-price episode of The Walking Dead . Or, in Dotty’s case, The Wheeling Dead .

Franklin slumped out of the office and followed him down the corridor. ‘It’s all right for you: you don’t have to sit through a bloody post mortem.’

‘You’re an ungrateful sod, you know that, don’t you?’

‘No one else has to watch them hack Tod Monaghan up into little squishy pieces.’

He paused with one hand on the double doors at the end of the corridor. ‘Teabag never starts his PMs till ten, so Mother’s basically given you a free...’ he checked his watch, ‘two and three-quarter hours to enjoy your hangover in peace.’

‘“Enjoy” isn’t the word I’d use.’

‘Diddums.’ Callum pushed through into the cabbagey reek of the stairwell.