Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Finally. ‘Hello. Yes.’

‘Right, I’ve had a word with Davey: he can’t remember a mummy, but he’s only been here a year longer than me. Marge’s been here for donkeys’, but she’s on holiday till the twelfth. Gone to Norwich for a BDSM festival. You want me to give her your contact details so she can drop you an email when she gets back?’

Callum folded forward until his forehead rested against his keyboard. Don’t swear. Don’t swear. ‘That would be great. Thanks.’

‘Yeah, OK.’ And the line went dead.

He hung up.

Dot’s chair squeaked across the room. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Until it was right next to him. When he looked up, she smiled. ‘So... chocolate?’ She fiddled with the wheelchair’s push rims, twisting the whole thing left and right. All coy and fluttering eyelashes. The left leg of her jeans was stitched closed and trimmed off, just below where her knee should have been.

Suppose a little help getting some chocolate wasn’t too much to ask for.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Then nodded. ‘Yeah. Could do with a break anyway.’ He pushed back from his desk. ‘Curly Wurly, coming right up.’

She nodded at the list sitting next to his phone. ‘No luck?’

‘You got any idea how many museums there are in Scotland?’ He stood, bent over and scooped Watt’s hurled fiver from the floor. ‘Then there’s all the universities and private schools with natural history stuff in display cases. Never mind private collections.’

‘You want a hand?’

He blinked. Turned back to her.

At least one person on the team didn’t treat him like something they’d stepped in. ‘Thanks, Dot.’

‘Don’t get all emotional about it. I’m only helping so you’ll be my chocolate monkey.’ She wiggled her fingers above her head, cackling it out: ‘Fly free, my pretty!’

Over in the corner, Watt gave a frustrated wee scream.

Callum slumped his way up the stairs. Two years since they stopped doing proper meals in the canteen. Two years and the stairwell still smelled of boiled cabbage.

His phone went off as he reached the fourth-floor landing. Sodding hell.

He dragged it out. ‘What?’

There was a pause. Then a high-pitched man’s voice squeaked in his ear. ‘Mr MacGregor? I’m calling from the Royal Caledonian Building Society’s Fraud Prevention Department. I need to ask you a few security questions. OK?’

Callum glowered at the wall. ‘No, it’s not OK.’

‘I’m sorry, have I called at a bad time?’

‘Someone’s just nicked my wallet, and I’ve got no idea who you are. I’m not giving you my security details. You want to help? You prove who you are by answering my security questions.’

‘I... I don’t think we’re allowed to do that.’

‘Tough. What’s the third, fifth, and first letters of my mother’s maiden name?’

‘Errr... Look: why don’t you call us , then? That way you’ll know it’s not a scam. You’ll find the number on the back of your cards.’

‘On the back of my stolen cards? The cards I don’t have?’

‘Ah... Right.’ What sounded like an argument echoed up from the floors below, followed by a door clunking shut. ‘Well, maybe you could pop into a branch and they can help you?’ Was that a note of hope and desperation there at the end? Please go away and become someone else’s problem.

‘Yeah. Why not.’ He hung up and clunked his head against the wall. Breathed in the cabbagey smell. Then opened his eyes and swore. No wallet meant no cards. And the little sods had wheeched off with his last fifteen quid, leaving him with... He rummaged in his pocket and came out with two pounds fifty-six in change, a button, and a Mint Imperial that had gone all hairy with pocket fluff. So Elaine could have a jar of Polish pickles or a jar of Nutella, but not both. And forget the onion rolls.

Because it wasn’t as if he could steal the change from Watt’s fiver.

Could he?

He puffed out a breath. Of course he sodding couldn’t.

Callum lumbered up the stairs to the fifth floor. Pushed open the door. And froze.

DCI Powel was standing right in front of him, mug in one hand, manila folder tucked under his arm, phone in his other hand. A big man with ears to match, silver-grey hair swept forward from his temples to cover the bald bits. Smart suit with matching tie. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Hang on a minute, Margaret, there’s someone I need to talk to.’ He lowered the phone.

Callum backed away, into the stairwell again, but Powel followed him.

‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t our very own answer to Mr Bean: Detective Constable Callum MacGregor.’

‘Guv.’

‘I hear you managed to catch Ainsley Dugdale this morning, Constable. He’s one of Big Johnny Simpson’s goons, isn’t he? That’s a first for you, isn’t it? Big Johnny won’t like that.’

Don’t rise to it.

‘And we all know how much you love Big Johnny Simpson, don’t we?’ A massive finger rose and poked Callum in the chest. ‘Don’t think I won’t screw you to the wall for that, Constable. I don’t put up with dirty cops in my division.’

Callum curled his hands into fists. ‘Permission to speak freely, Guv?’

‘Not a chance.’ He leaned in closer, bringing with him the stench of aftershave and dead cigarettes. ‘I don’t like you, Constable.’

‘You hide it well, Guv.’

Was that a twitch of a smile?

Then Powel backed off, turned and marched away down the stairs. ‘Enjoy your meeting with Professional Standards, tomorrow. I’ll bring in a cardboard box so you can empty your desk afterwards.’

Clunk . The door closed, and Callum was alone again.

‘And screw you too, Guv.’

Powel’s voice echoed up from the landing below: ‘I’m still here, Constable.’

Of course he was.

Callum logged off his steam-powered computer, stretched, yawned, slumped in his seat for a moment, then hauled himself to his feet.

The office’s fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead, giving everything the warm and welcoming ambience of a horror film. Shame he was the only one there to enjoy it.

One more yawn, a sigh, and a rummage in the bottom drawer of his desk for the paperback-sized Tupperware box he’d stuck in there first thing this morning. He went back in for the dog-eared hardback copy of The Monsters Who Came for Dinner . Checked his watch. Just gone two. With any luck the lunchtime rush at the building society would have petered out by now, but if it hadn’t at least he’d have something decent to read.

Callum pulled on his jacket and stuffed his sandwiches in one pocket, crisps in the other. Right, time to—

The office door swung open and McAdams loomed into the room.

Sod.

McAdams frowned. ‘And where, exactly, do you think you’re going, Constable MacGregor?’

So near, and yet so far. ‘Lunch, Sarge.’

‘Lunch? Off to hide in the park reading... What is that, a kid’s book?’

‘It’s a classic .’

‘Maybe if you’re six years old.’ He checked his watch. ‘And you don’t have time. That mummy needs its home found. Get your arse to work.’

Again with the sodding haikus.

‘I’ve been working.’ Callum picked up the list, all eight pages of it, and shoogled it. ‘Now, I’m going to waste my contractually mandated lunchtime in the building society, trying to get them to give me some of my own money, so I can buy food for my pregnant girlfriend. That all right with you?’

McAdams snatched the list from his hand and flicked through the sheets. Frowned. ‘Constable, why do these museums have the word “dick” written next to them?’