Stuart MacBride - A Dark So Deadly

Going to have to beat that out of him.

He’ll never learn otherwise.

Beat it out of him till he learns his bloody lesson.

After all, it never did Paul any harm, did it?

The back garden sways and lurches as he... he... why is he out here again?

Oh, yeah, right.

A swig of beer from one hand, while the other fumbles... fumbles his cock from his trousers.

Used beer splashes into the compost bin, adding its steam to the heap’s.

Dark out here. Just the light of the moon filtering through clouds.

Watching everything.

Never mind God an Jesus an... an all the rest of that crap . Moon. Moon was... what they should be worshipping. Like the old days with... you know... with virgins an sacrifices an... yeah.

Bitch in the basement... crying. Always crying. Specially afterwards.

Pff...

He’s not a bad man. No, he’s a priest !

A proper one.

Not a shep... shepherd.

No.

He keeps his flock... his flock in line the old way. Proper way. Unner the Moon’s eternal... eternal eye.

A wolf.

Paul takes another hit of beer, an... an throws back his head an howls out his devotions.

‘That’s very generous. Thank you so much.’ Paul takes the cheque and smiles, even though it’s barely half what he got here a year ago. Doesn’t do to burn the goose, even if it is only laying silver eggs right now. ‘The Romanian orphanages will make good use of this.’

The skinny bitch in the twinset shows off her dentures — stained with dark red lipstick. ‘I’m so glad we could help.’ Protestants, just as bad as the Catholics, only without the sense of theatre. Holier-than-thou on the outside, deviant scumbags on the inside. ‘Now, we must get a photograph for the church newsletter.’

He sighs and shakes his head. Puts a hand on her revolting shoulder, among those nasty little flakes of dandruff. ‘I’m just His humble servant, I don’t deserve all that limelight and praise.’

‘Oh, but—’

‘No. You should take the credit, Mrs Ingram. After all, you’re the one who raised all this money. I’m just the one who’s lucky enough to spend it on a very good cause.’

‘Lies and liars . All of them.’ Paul takes the last swig from his tin of Special, crumples it in his fist and hurls it into the corner. ‘And morons !’

The living room sways slightly, the wallpaper twisting like the tattoos on a topless dancer.

‘Boy! Justin, or whatever. Gimme another beer!’

After all, can’t celebrate without beer, can you?

No.

And whisky.

He takes a swig of Glenmorangie, straight from the bottle. It tingles on the way down like a thousand little watch fires, flickering in the darkness.

‘BOY!’

And there he is, the horrible little snivelling boy. Standing there in his stupid shorts and cartoon T-shirt. Eyes all big and shiny, like he’s going to burst into tears any moment. Pathetic. He’s six, for Christ’s sake. Far too old to be acting like that.

He holds up a tin of Special, dew beading on the outside, and Paul snatches it off him. ‘About time.’

‘Sorry, Father.’ That annoying, wobbly little voice.

‘You should be happy.’ Paul grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him close. ‘I saved you, boy. You know that don’t you?’

‘Thank you, Father.’

‘Damn right.’ He pushes the little shite away. ‘I saved you from the grey. From the beige. From all the crap they shovel down kids’ throats.’ He rips the tab from the beer and swigs down a mouthful. ‘Your mum didn’t love you, Justin. She would’ve killed you and eaten you. I know. I’ve seen it before.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

Better. Bit of respect for his elders and betters.

Paul swills beer between his teeth.

After all, he’s a rich man. He deserves respect.

And soon as he’s spent it all, there’s always another congregation of pious pricks desperate to throw money at him for all his ‘good works’.

He toasts the crucifix on the wall. His generous benefactor.

Oh yes, today is a day to celebrate.

‘Boy?’

‘Yes, Father?’

‘Tell your new mummy to wash herself. She’s going to be blessed tonight. And if you’re a very good boy, I might even let you watch.’

Callum turned his back on the garden, the thumb of his broken hand poked into his right ear, phone clamped to the other. ‘Sorry, Cecelia, can you say that again?’

The roar of small petrol motors battered back and forth, screaming, then falling, then screaming, then falling as three Smurfs with brush cutters fought against the thicket of brambles. Chopping it down to the ground. Making good progress too — half of it was already gone, the curled jagged stems carted away, leaving the ground grey and bare.

‘I said, we’ve finished our second sweep of the Gossard house.’

‘Cool.’ He marched away from the noise, following a wheelbarrow-pushing Smurf around the side of the burned-out house. ‘Anything?’

‘Won’t know for sure till we analyse it, but there was a tiny smear of blood under the knobs on the kitchen taps. Nothing in the sink, or on the knobs — so he’s tried to clean up after himself — but there’s always traces.’

Professor Whatshisface might have been a bit of a dick, but he obviously knew what he was doing.

‘Let me know, OK?’

Wheelbarrow Smurf tipped his load of bramble clippings into a skip parked outside the house.

‘I heard about Elaine.’

Great.

Callum ran his fingertips across his forehead. ‘Can we not do this just now?’

‘I just think it’s a good time to tell everyone the truth about who really cocked up that crime scene.’

‘Who’s going to take me seriously? They’ll all think I’m lying to get back at her for shagging Powel behind my back.’

‘Don’t make me stage an intervention, Callum.’

‘Bye, Cecelia.’

Mother appeared from the house’s blackened doorway, SOC suit rolled down and tied off around her waist. Talking into her phone as she wandered down the path. ‘Is he? That’s great, thanks, Duncan... No, we’ll be there soon as we can... OK... I owe you one.’ She hung up, turned and waved at him. ‘Callum, how’s it going?’

He pointed back towards the garden. ‘Another couple of hours to finish clearing the scrub then they can get the Ground Penetrating Radar in. They’ll find the rest of him.’

‘Good. Now do me a favour and give Dotty a call: see if she can find us a connection between Jeffries and Monaghan. She’s good at digging things up and I get the feeling our boys knew each other.’ Mother held out an arm and he took it, helping her balance as she shimmied her way out of the Smurf costume. ‘I miss the white Tyvek suits, don’t you?’

‘Nah.’ He pulled a face. ‘I always thought we looked like a bunch of sperm in those. Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Crime Scene Investigation But Were Afraid to Ask.’ He pulled out his notebook. Flipped through to the details he’d copied down. ‘Assuming the ecclesiastical trust people started proceedings on the day Jeffries died, that’s twenty-seven years ago. Monaghan would have been eight.’

‘Probably not best friends, then.’ She puffed out her cheeks and turned to face back towards the house. ‘What does your gut tell you, Callum: are these Paul Jeffries’ bones?’

‘Bit of a coincidence if they’re not. Jeffries goes missing twenty-seven years ago, but he never even leaves the property, just turns to bone in a shallow grave.’ Callum sniffed. ‘Well, it’s that or he killed someone, buried them in his back garden, and did a very thorough disappearing act.’