Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

She turned in her seat. ‘What?’

Last night — outside Willow Brown’s house. When he’d arrived, lights and sirens blaring, that big black Mercedes was just pulling away. Not exactly the kind of car you’d expect to see swanning about Kingsmeath. No: drive something like that down there and you’d be lucky to get home with all the wheels and doors still on it, never mind the hubcaps. So why was it there, on Manson Avenue? Why would—

‘Callum!’ Franklin poked him in the arm. ‘We’re moving.’

He blinked.

The cars up ahead had shuffled forward twenty yards.

A horn blared behind him, followed by a rising chorus of angry beeps.

He slid the Mondeo up to the car in front’s rear bumper.

It couldn’t have been Willow’s dad’s Mercedes, could it? He’d gone up in the world, if it was... Mind you, since when was being a wife-and-child-beating scumbag any barrier to success?

With any luck, the dashboard cam had got the Merc’s number plate before it disappeared around the corner. Then it wouldn’t matter how ‘not a snitch’ Willow and her mum wanted to be — a quick check on the Police National Computer would spit out the wee sod’s name, address, and inside-leg measurement.

And speaking of PNC checks, what the hell had happened to the one he’d requested on all Irene Brown’s old boyfriends? Have to chase that up. Honestly, you had to stand over people beating them with a stick to get anything done.

‘... sometime today?’

‘Hmm?’ He looked up and the gap had opened in front of them again. ‘Sorry, miles away.’

Franklin thumped back in her seat. ‘Knew we should’ve gone the other way.’

‘Everything round Montgomery Park is shut for the music festival, everything near the park is all tailbacks and diversions. Doesn’t matter which way you go, you’re just as stuck.’

‘Gah...’ She clicked the radio on and a throbbing bassline and kick-drum beat burst into the car.

A woman’s voice, rich and dark, amplified over the top: ‘Come on, let me see those hands in the air! Yeah!’

More drum and bass.

Franklin stared out of the passenger window. ‘What happened when you went to pick up your stuff, last night?’

‘Sing it with me: You are the fish in my sea.’

A crowd roared it out, like a football chant. ‘YOU ARE THE FISH IN MY SEA!’

Callum’s shoulders itched. ‘You know: the usual. Powel banging on about how we’re all adults and they didn’t mean for it to happen.’

‘You are the birds in my tree.’

‘YOU ARE THE BIRDS IN MY TREE!’

His good hand tightened on the wheel. ‘Said Elaine never loved me. She was just going through the motions.’

Franklin nodded. ‘He is a bit of a dick, isn’t he?’

‘You’re the honey in my bee.’

‘YOU’RE THE HONEY IN MY BEE!’

She clicked the radio off again.

The traffic crawled forwards.

A cough. Then Franklin puffed out her cheeks and sighed. Picked at a stain on the dashboard. Sighed again. ‘OK, so Pike wants to go to prison, yes? What if you threaten to take that away from him?’

‘We caught him molesting himself to a video of two little boys being raped. He’s going to prison and he knows it.’

‘Hrmmm... What about telling him you’ll put out a statement about how helpful he’s been in exposing whatever ring he’s part of? Soon as he gets inside they’ll tear him apart.’

The traffic crawled forward another six foot.

‘Or, how about— Sod.’ She hauled out her phone. ‘DC Franklin... Uh-huh... Hold on, I’ll put you on speakerphone.’ She pressed the button and held the phone up.

Dotty’s voice thumped out into the car. ‘... not telling you again!’

Watt, in the background: ‘You’re not allowed to use a mobile phone while driving. It’s illegal .’

‘Oh, go bugger yourself with a loo brush.’ A pause. ‘Rosalind, we’ve chased the labs up and guess what: fingerprints.’

‘You’ve already been in one horrible car crash, Hodgkin, let’s not make it two.’

‘Genuinely, it was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. They soaked the hands in glucose, peeled them off the bones, and got one of the APTs to wear them like gloves. Urgh...’

‘I’d like to go home tonight with both my legs, if that’s OK with you?’

Callum raised his voice. ‘Did they get an ID off the prints?’

‘Oh, hello, Callum. Can you do me a favour and tell Watt he’s being a big — girl’s — blouse?’

‘Do you two always have to do this?’

Watt: ‘And you can tell her she’s being petty, irresponsible, and childish! Traffic laws are there for a reason.’

He slid the car forward another length. ‘Dotty, give Watt the phone.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Just do it, OK? Please?’

Watt’s voice came through loud and clear. ‘Thank you. It’s about time someone —’

‘And you can stop being a dick. Stick us on speakerphone.’

‘That’s right, take her side. Everyone always—’

‘Don’t be such a Jessie! I’m the one—’

‘OH FOR GOD’S SAKE, THE PAIR OF YOU! You’re not six!’

Silence from the phone.

A gap opened up and Callum slid the car into it, crawling along as the line of traffic snaked back to its own side of the road. A massive road grader growled its way along the central reservation, flanked by soggy-looking men in dripping high-viz jackets and hard hats.

The Mondeo thumped over a hard line in the tarmac, marked ‘RAMP’.

Still nothing from the phone.

‘Fine: I’m sorry.’

Dotty sniffed. ‘That’s better.’

‘You are six.’

‘It’s not my fault he always—’

‘Did you get an ID off the fingerprints, or not?’

‘Hmmph.’

Watt sounded a bit smug, as if he somehow thought he’d won something: ‘I’ll answer that one, shall I, Sergeant? Apparently they have to wear the hand in order to flesh out the fingers, so to speak. We got them to run the prints and they came back with two matches.’

A coach crawled past on the other side of the dual carriageway, full of pre-teen girls waving home-made placards with things like ‘WE ♥ MR BONES!!!’ and ‘MARRY ME TAYLOR!!!’ on them.

Franklin scowled at the phone. ‘This isn’t Who Wants to Be a Millionaire , Watt. Stop milking it.’

‘Sorry, had to check my notes. The body from the tip was one Roger Barrett. Did five years for armed robbery, got out last January. Hasn’t been to see his probation officer in nine months.’ That smug tone was back. ‘And you’ll never guess where he worked—’

Dotty hammered in over the top: ‘Strummuir Smokehouse!’

‘I was actually telling them that!’

‘Rosalind’s right: you were milking it.’

No wonder Mother went around with a pained expression on her face most of the time. ‘So who’s victim number two?’

‘The mummy from the car boot was one Richard Duffy. No criminal record, but his prints are on file, cos someone broke into his house on Christmas Eve and stole a thousand quid’s worth of electronics and jewellery from under the tree. So his wife got him a last-minute fill-in present: a charcuterie and artisanal curing-and-smoking course at Strummuir Smokehouse. He took it in January. His wife reported him missing in March.’

Which made sense.

Tod Monaghan was a creature of habit, picking his victims from the people he saw at the smokehouse. Too thick to realise that it left a trail leading straight back to Strummuir.