Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Callum leaned back against the windowsill again. ‘You’re all mouth and no trousers, aren’t you?’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Winston is very much all trousers, thank you very much. He told you this was going to be a challenge, and he’s not going to give up till it’s done, but until then you should leave him alone and let him get on with his work.’ He raised a hand from his keyboard and made shooing motions. ‘Away with you. Winston will call when, ultimately, he is triumphant.’

Police Scotland really needed a moratorium on hiring freaks and weirdos.

‘Fine.’

Callum headed back down to the car, phone clamped between his thumb and the fibreglass cast. ‘Mother?’

McAdams’ voice oiled its way into Callum’s ear. ‘She goes to stand firm. At the press conference. The top brass to save.’

He clattered down the stairs. ‘A simple, “she’s not here” would’ve done.’

‘Then: “she’s not here,” you artless spud. And she won’t be back till two or three, so if you’ve got information: spill it.’

‘Voodoo’s done the CCTV analysis for us.’ Callum pushed out through the old station doors and into the rear car park — surrounded by an eighteen-foot-high brick wall topped with barbed wire. ‘They’re nominating three small vans as possible abduction vehicles.’

‘Good. Return your backside to DHQ; you and I are going visiting.’

Callum scuffed to a halt ten feet from the pool car. ‘Erm... Maybe you’d be better off staying there and coordinating things? You know, if Mother’s going to be tied up at the press conference? Somebody needs to be in charge?’

Fingers crossed...

‘Nice try, Constable.’

Don’t give up!

‘And now I think about it, maybe Dotty or Watt would be better—’

‘Backside. Back here. Now.’

Sod.

Division Headquarters was remarkably quiet for noon on a rainy Saturday. No clatter of boots on the stairs, no shouting in the corridors. No drunken singing echoing up from the cells.

A couple of PCs were having a heated argument by the coffee machine outside the Productions Office, but other than that: dead.

And there was still no sign of McAdams. ‘I’ll be down in five minutes.’ His arse.

Callum pushed through into the stairwell and froze, fingertips of his broken hand resting on the bannister.

That was Detective Superintendent Ness’s voice, wafting up from the floor below. ‘... problems. For God’s sake, Reece, I know you’re having a rough time at the moment, but that’s no excuse for not turning up for work! This is completely unacceptable.’ The sound of feet pacing on the concrete landing. ‘Look, call me when you get this, OK? If we have to rejig your workload till things calm down... well, we’ll sort something out. Bye.’

A loud sigh. Then something muttered too low to hear.

Callum waited till the door below clunked shut before scurrying up the stairs like a rat. Along the corridor and into the Misfit Mob’s office.

As if he was going to hang around, getting drawn into a conversation about DCI Bloody Powel. No thank you.

He scooted into his chair and logged back into his computer.

The email about Irene Brown’s known associates was sitting in his inbox, between a memo about not leaving half-eaten takeaways in the pool cars and a lookout request for an OAP who used to specialise in jacking security vans.

Looked as if Irene Brown had lousy taste in men. Eight of them: all violent, all with criminal records.

What on earth was wrong with some women? How could they possibly find that attractive? Oh, you’re an aggressive scumbag who steals things and deals drugs? That sounds dreamy !

Callum stuck the names into the Police National Computer and ran them again, just in case. Attempted murder. Drugs. Assaults. Housebreaking. Armed robbery. Stealing cars. Rape... Irene Brown certainly could pick them.

Going by the mugshots on file, she was into the sullen muscly type. Tattoos an added bonus. Like Bachelor Number Four.

Callum scooted forward in his seat.

Previous for shoplifting, theft, breaking into old ladies’ houses and robbing them blind, nicking other people’s cars, and that was it. Nothing on his docket for the last five years. Either he’d gone straight, he’d died, or he’d gone somewhere else. But the most interesting thing was his name: Donald Newman.

Benny, Willow’s brother, said his dad was called Donald.

Mind you, he also said his dad owned a tiger, a helicopter, and “loads of bitches”, so: pinch of salt.

But still. Bit of a coincidence if it wasn’t.

And Newman was what, eight years older than Irene Brown? That was wholesome, wasn’t it? A twenty-four-year-old wannabe gangster talking her into bed on her sixteenth birthday. Assuming he even waited that long.

Callum scowled at the screen.

It wasn’t as if they could do anything about it, after all this time. If she was over sixteen it was legal. And if she wasn’t, try proving Newman was in violation of sections 13, 14, or 15 of the Sexual Offences (Scotland) Act 2009, seven years after the fact. Assuming she even wanted to press charges after all this time.

Still might be able to do him for breaking his daughter’s arm...

Mind you, even then, how would you prove it beyond reasonable doubt?

Might be worth getting in touch with Social Services, though.

Yeah, unless they took one look at Irene Brown and decided her kids would be better off growing up in care.

Sod that.

Callum slouched down the stairs, out the back door, and into the rain. Hurried across the rear car park and into the dysentery-brown Mondeo. Wiped the water from his face.

Checked his watch.

Detective sergeants were a pain in the backside at the best of times, but McAdams took the Jammie Dodger. Still no sign of him.

And you could bet your last fifty-three pounds and seventy-two pence that if anyone caught Callum hanging about in the office, doing nothing, they’d find him something unpleasant to do. Much better to hide out here, waiting for McAdams to turn up. And at least he could do something productive while he was waiting.

Callum took out his phone and made a call.

‘Scenes Examination Branch.’

‘Cecelia? It’s Callum. I’m calling about the Gossard crime scene — two twenty-three Johnson Crescent. The abduction?’

‘Oh I remember that one: blood everywhere.’

‘Did you get any decent fingerprints or DNA?’

‘Still working through the samples, but it’s all the victims’ so far.’

Sod.

A frown. What was it the posh-sounding bloke had said? The one on Dr McDonald’s phone when they were going through Brett, Ben, and Glen’s fixer-up flat... Right.

‘Did you try under the taps and door handles? He would’ve been clarted in blood, he’s not going to risk being spotted looking like an abattoir’s floor. He’ll have washed his hands.’

‘Course we did. I got Brian to do it. Hold on...’ There was a muffled conversation on the other end that escalated into a muffled argument. Then a sigh. And she was back again: ‘I’ll head round there soon as I’ve finished my tea.’

‘Thanks, Cecelia, you’re a star.’

Callum hung up, stuck the seat back as far as it would go, pulled Open the Coffins from his jacket pocket and settled down to read.

A knock on the window made him flinch. He blinked at the dashboard clock — 12:15. A whole five minutes’ peace and quiet.

McAdams slithered into the passenger seat and clunked the door shut. Sat there, staring across the car with one eyebrow raised. ‘Any time you’re ready.’ He’d brought a slightly bitter aroma with him: like pear drops laced with marzipan and vinegar. An unwell smell.