A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  Stop it!

  Pregnant girlfriend, remember? Even if she had been off sex for the last five months.

  Yeah, but …

  No. No staring.

  He cleared his throat. Stared at the wall instead.

  The second floor was almost identical to the first – two pairs of red doors, some with welcome mats, some with browning spider-plants and dying ferns in pots. Numbers on the doors. Plastic or brass nameplates.

  A little old man cracked his door and glowered out at them. ‘You from the Council? About time. Tell those bloody hooligans to turn their music down! Can’t hear myself think in here.’ He slammed the door shut again.

  OK.

  Callum hurried past, trying very hard not to ogle Franklin’s bum as she climbed the last two flights and stepped out onto the third floor.

  She reached into her jacket, came out with a pair of purple nitrile gloves. Snapped them on. Frowned. ‘Are you all right, Constable? Your face is all red.’

  ‘It … I … Just, you know, the stairs and that.’ He cleared his throat and snapped on his own gloves: blue. ‘You want to kick the door in, or shall we do it the old-fashioned way?’

  ‘Hmm.’ She knocked.

  A skylight sat in the middle of the ceiling, right above the void in the stairwell. A scuffling scratchy noise followed two blurred outlines across the cloudy glass. Seagulls?

  He shifted his feet, locked his eyes on a spot six inches above her head. ‘So who’s O’Neil Gillen, when he’s at home?’

  ‘Osiel Guillén, not O’Neil Gillen. AKA: El Mata Amigos, the Friend Killer. Mexican drug lord.’ Franklin knocked again. ‘Hello?’

  She squatted down and lifted the letterbox.

  Music pulsed out onto the landing, Led Zeppelin hammering on and on about giving someone a whole lotta love.

  ‘Hello?’ Another knock.

  Callum wrinkled his nose. ‘Can you smell that?’

  Sort of a cross between rancid sausages and pine air freshener.

  ‘Mr Carmichael? Police. I need you to open this door. Mr Carmichael?’ She glanced up at Callum. ‘Is it just me, or does this scream “dead body” to you?’

  He took a step back. ‘Two choices: we dunt it in, or we go get a warrant.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Franklin let go of the flap, cutting off the music. ‘Dunt it.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’ He raised a foot and slammed it into the wood, just below the handle. The whole thing rattled in its frame. One more. Then a third and the door sprang open, battering into the wall. It didn’t bounce back.

  The smell got a hundred times worse.

  The music got a lot louder too – thumping away from somewhere deeper inside the flat.

  Oh yeah, there was certainly something rotten in there.

  Percussion solo.

  Franklin gritted her teeth and stepped into the hallway. ‘THIS IS THE POLICE! I WANT EVERYONE IN THE FLAT TO STAY WHERE THEY ARE!’

  Gloom filled the hallway.

  A sheet of plasterboard slouched against the wall, the bottom edge bowing under its own weight, anchored there by two big ten-litre tubs of magnolia paint.

  She crept through the door at the end of the hall.

  Callum followed her into a reasonably sized living room. Two windows should have given a view out across the harbour and the river, instead they were completely covered with … Yup, that was hardcore pornography. What little light filtered through it picked out the shape of a platform ladder, a collection of hand tools, and a stack of paint pots. A wallpaper table in the corner bent slightly under the weight of a tool belt, three electric drills, and a small, portable CD player – not quite turned up full volume, but close to it.

  Franklin switched the thing off.

  Now the only noise was the droning buzz of fat lazy bluebottles making drunken circles in the rancid air. The little dead bodies of their fallen comrades crunched beneath Callum’s feet.

  ‘GLEN CARMICHAEL?’ She reached into her jacket and came out with an extendable baton. Christ knew where she’d been hiding that. A flick of her wrist clacked it out to full length. ‘HELLO?’

  Callum pulled out his pepper spray. ‘COME ON, GUYS, LET’S NOT PLAY SILLY BUGGERS!’

  Two bedrooms led off from the living room, their windows similarly coated in bits of porn mag. One of them looked almost finished – the walls smoothly plastered and painted a neutral beige. The other was stripped back to the bare breezeblocks.

  The kitchen was awash with pizza boxes and takeaway containers. A bong, half-full of dirty water, sat on the unit by a sink mounded with dirty dishes. A stack of empty lager tins that was taller than Callum.

  Three university graduates and they still lived like teenaged boys.

  The smell had been much stronger in the corridor than it was in the rest of the flat.

  He stopped in the middle of the living room. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’

  She frowned at him.

  ‘These flats didn’t go up in Queen Victoria’s time, did they? So where’s the bathroom?’

  Back into the hall, where that big sheet of plasterboard leaned up against the wall.

  He hefted the paint pots out of the way, then grabbed the plasterboard and pulled, dragging it over to the other side.

  A flat panel door. That would be the bathroom.

  Callum turned the handle and it swung open inwards. He—

  Oh dear God, the smell …

  It crashed out into the hall like an avalanche, the dark-sweet taint of rotting meat riding on a wave of cloying pine.

  Behind him, Franklin made little retching noises.

  He reached for the light switch and clicked it on.

  About a million bluebottles leapt into the air, buzzing and swarming, battering at the bare lightbulb. Setting it swinging.

  The room was just big enough for a white bathroom suite, which looked brand new, with a shower above the bath. Dark water filled the tub, the surface flecked with floating mats of white and orange mould. A crust of brown made a tidemark around the rim, tiny crystals that glittered in the swaying light.

  There was someone in the bath, lying facedown, skin all blackened and swollen. Crawling with little white things where the body’s shoulders protruded from the water.

  Franklin stepped up beside him. ‘Christ …’

  Yeah.

  And then some.

  9

  Callum stuck his notebook back in his pocket, stepping out of the stairwell and into the drizzle. The view hadn’t improved, if anything it was worse. Low cloud and mist hid everything on the other side of the river, reduced the MacKinnon Quay to little more than a collection of random shapes.

  The whole world rendered in shades of grey.

  Getting dark too.

  Oh no … He checked his watch: just gone half six. The Polish deli would be closed. No pickled cucumbers, onion rolls, or anything else.

  So much for Elaine’s cravings.

  Yeah, he was going to be popular when he finally got home.

  He scuffed along the path then down the stairs to road level, made his way past patrol cars and manky Transit vans. Someone had finger-painted a big willy in the dirt across the back doors of one, complete with hairs.

  McAdams’ shiny red Shogun took pride of place in front of the Willymobile, engine running, inside lights on. Callum limped over to the thing and slid onto the back seat. Closed the door on the cold dreich evening. ‘God, it’s perishing out there.’

  Sitting in the passenger seat, Mother took a sip of something in a large wax-paper cup. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Detective Constable MacGregor.’

  He sighed. ‘What am I supposed to have done now?’

  Her sidekick turned the blowers down and turned in his seat. ‘You kicked in the door. Didn’t call for permission. You should know better.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, Sarge.’ Callum cupped his hands over the heater mounted between the
seats, trying to get some feeling back in his fingertips. ‘If it wasn’t for me you’d still be investigating odds and sods – I brought in a murder, OK?’

  Mother still hadn’t turned around. ‘What makes you think it’s a murder, Callum? Man falls over in the bath, drowns, happens all the time.’

  ‘And did he accidentally drown in the bath, before or after dragging a big sheet of plasterboard and two tubs of paint in front of the bathroom door?’ Callum poked at the heater. ‘Can you turn this thing up?’

  McAdams fiddled with the dashboard and warmth flowed. ‘What about the door-to-doors?’

  He produced his notebook. ‘Sixty-three flats in the immediate vicinity. Twenty-four of them did nothing but complain about their neighbours, thirty-one wouldn’t answer the door or weren’t in, and nine want their hats re-tinfoiled. Not one of them had a single thing to say about Glen Carmichael or his mates.’ Shrug. ‘Well, other than the downstairs neighbour complaining about Led Zeppelin playing on a loop, full blast, for the last two days.’

  ‘Interesting …’ Mother tapped her fingers along the wax-paper cup. ‘Officially, I should reprimand you for breaking into a crime scene without authorisation, Callum, but our new girl put her hand up to it. Said you were dragged along against your better judgement.’

  McAdams snorted. ‘I didn’t even know you had one.’

  ‘So you, my little man, may have a sweetie.’ Mother dug into her pocket and produced a bag of jelly babies. Held them out.

  Callum helped himself to a green one. ‘Thanks.’

  She put the bag away. ‘I always love this bit. Forensics are going through the scene, we don’t know who the victim is, there’s a killer on the loose. Excitement. Adventure. And …’ She frowned. ‘Can’t remember the end of the quote, but you know what I mean.’

  McAdams nodded. ‘The main plot is unfolding. What we need now is a flashback from the killer’s perspective then some sort of investigative montage to show how much research the writer’s done.’ He clicked his fingers again. ‘Constable MacGregor, get yourself and your new best friend DC Franklin back to the lair. I want a murder board ready to go by … I’m in the mood for pizza, so call it an hour and a half. And get a lookout request on the go for Glen Carmichael and his two mates while you’re at it. Most people stick to rubber duckies in their bathtub, a dead body requires a bit more explaining.’

  Ah. ‘Sarge, I was kinda hoping to go home and—’

  ‘Oooh.’ Mother made a sooking noise. ‘And you were doing so well, Callum. I even gave you a jelly baby.’

  ‘Time to be a team player, Detective Constable.’

  His shoulders slumped. ‘Yes, Boss.’

  Yeah, Elaine was going to kill him.

  The wet road hissed beneath the pool car’s tyres.

  Franklin frowned out of the window. ‘I thought Division Headquarters was that way?’

  ‘Technically, yes.’ Callum took a right at the roundabout, heading back along the boundary between Castleview and The Wynd. ‘Just got a quick errand to run first.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Is this what it’s going to be like, Constable? All moaning and “wee errands”?’

  ‘Five, ten minutes tops. I swear.’ After all, the traffic wasn’t too bad for a Tuesday. ‘Someone stole my wallet this morning. A guy might have it at a shop in Kingsmeath.’

  A sigh. A shake of the head. ‘Thought you were supposed to be a police officer.’

  ‘I was trying to save a little girl’s life: that OK with you?’ Up and over the Newton Bridge, and back into Blackwall Hill again, with its modern sprawl of cul-de-sacs and middle-class housing estates.

  ‘By losing your wallet?’

  Past the lights, the road opened up into dual carriageway, everyone sticking to the outside lane to avoid Oldcastle City Council’s award-winning collection of potholes. ‘I didn’t lose it, it was stolen.’

  ‘This isn’t helping us put a murder board together.’

  ‘We’ll be fine.’

  ‘They’re only going for pizza, we—’

  ‘I’ve done loads of murder boards: it’ll be fine. Trust me.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘And why on earth would I do that?’

  Fair point.

  Montgomery Park drifted by on the right-hand side, a bunch of big white marquees with tartan stripes already sprouting on the grass around the boating lake.

  ‘OK. Full one hundred percent honesty time: the reason everyone hates me, is they think Big Johnny Simpson bribed me to sod-up a crime scene so he’d get off. But I didn’t. Not a penny. Ever.’

  She frowned at him. ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you’re incompetent instead of corrupt?’

  ‘I’m not incompetent!’

  ‘Could have fooled me.’

  ‘Fine. I was trying to share, but why don’t you just sit there in sulky silence. See if I care.’ He clicked on the radio. Let it drown out her pouting.

  ‘… headline the main stage on Saturday, of course, it’s Oldcastle’s very own Donny “Sick Dawg” McRoberts! Donny, my man, good to have you in.’

  A fake London patois burst out of the speaker, not quite good enough to conceal the Kingsmeath burr underneath. ‘Yah, it’s Sick Dawg, right? Donny’s what me foster mum called us, and you ain’t my mum, bro.’

  ‘Ha, ha. Right. Yeah, I got you, man. Respect. “Sick Dawg” it is …’

  The massive Blackburgh Roundabout loomed before them. Burgh Library sat on a hill in the middle, all lit up like a 1960s idea of a spaceship – glass and concrete, curving walls and wonky rooflines. The Kingsmeath side of the roundabout was ringed by seven massive tower blocks, eighteen-storey headstones soaring above a scrubby patch of woodland. More 1984 than Star Trek.

  ‘So, “Sick Dawg”, welcome to Deathbed Discs on Castlewave FM, where we find out what tracks you’d take with you to the grave. And you’re kicking us off with “Stan” from Eminem’s fourth album, The Marshall—’

  ‘Yah, I been thinking about it, right? And I’m-a not about that no more.’

  Callum swung the pool car around the outside lane, then took the first turning into Kingsmeath.

  It was as if someone had turned down the lights, leaving the buildings in gloom. Rows and rows of council houses. Tenements. Grey faces and grey buildings.

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘Nah, man. I go to my grave I’m not gonna be surrounded by stuff from the oldtimers, you know what I’m sayin’? Nah: I’m-a play my own stuff, bro. You know, from the heart.’

  ‘OK …’

  An old couple stood on the pavement, screaming at each other, a wee dog cowering on its lead as they yelled.

  ‘Well, why don’t we just play the song anyway. It’ll give us time to completely abandon all the music your publicist told us you wanted to talk about and reprogramme the whole show …’

  Fake rain clattered out of the speakers, followed by Dido singing over a heavy bassline.

  Franklin made a little growling noise then jabbed her hand out and turned the radio off. ‘Bloody rap music.’

  After that she kept her mouth firmly shut all the way through the bleak housing estates, past a dilapidated playing park – the swings and roundabouts reduced to slumped blobs of fire-blackened plastic – past Douglas on the Mound with its scaffolding-shrouded spire and vandalised graveyard …

  It wasn’t until Callum pulled into a potholed car park that she opened it again. ‘Is this it?’

  The car park was bordered on three sides by what were probably billed as ‘single-storey retail units with excellent potential!’ but looked more like something off the news when a riot’s just passed through. Three of the eight were boarded up; all were covered in a tattoo of graffiti; all had the kind of metal grilles over the window that were meant to roll up out of the way, but probably spent all their time firmly locked in the down position. A newsagents, a chip shop, a convenience store that looked a
bout as welcoming as a shallow grave, a charity shop, and right at the far end: Little Mike’s Pawnshop. The sign above the frontage boasted, ‘WE BUY AND SELL ALL MANNER OF THINGS!’ ‘CASH FOR GOLD!’ ‘PAYDAY LOANS AT EXCELLENT RATES!!!’ ‘EST. 1995!’

  Callum parked in front of it. ‘Won’t be long.’

  ‘Oh for … You’re here to redeem some manky family heirloom?’

  ‘Five minutes. Promise.’ He climbed out into the rain. Ducked his head and hurried inside.

  The door made an electronic bleep-blonk noise as it swung closed behind him. Shelves lined the walls, packed with other people’s things. Free-standing display units turned the shop into a labyrinth. Old video game consoles, a collection of musical instruments, microwaves, hairdryers, boxed cutlery, vases, what looked like a brass urn with ‘IN MEMORY OF AGNES MAY ~ BELOVED MOTHER’ engraved on it. All of it marinating in the gritty stench of dust and mildew.

  Callum picked his way through the maze to the counter, where a wee fat man was bent over a copy of the Castle News and Post. His white shirt was just a bit too big for him, the collar and cuffs stained and frayed. A maroon waistcoat with buttons missing and brown stains down the front. Bald head glinting in the shop’s dim lighting.

  ‘You Little Mike?’

  The man behind the counter looked up, squinted, then pulled on a pair of small round glasses. ‘I am indeed, young sir, welcome to my emporium of delight.’ He swept a chubby hand from left to right, indicating his second-hand wares. ‘How may we assist you this drizzly September evening?’

  The door made its bleep-blonk noise again and Franklin appeared, as if by magic. ‘Are you not finished yet?’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Little Mike smiled like an indulgent parent. Then he folded his paper and moved it off to one side, revealing the glass countertop. A collection of rings and watches sparkled against dusty purple velvet. ‘An engagement ring for the lady, perhaps?’

  Franklin stiffened. ‘What?’

  ‘Definitely not!’ Warmth bloomed in Callum’s ears. ‘Someone tried to use my credit and debit cards in here today. You destroyed them.’

  He sighed. ‘A shame. You make such a lovely couple.’ A finger poked the glass. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’