Right underneath the main story, was ‘DRUG DEN UPSTAIRS MADE LIFE A LIVING HELL’, a ‘shocking exclusive with Murder Flat’s downstairs neighbour!’ continued on page six. There was always someone.
Callum dumped the paper and dipped into his rucksack instead, pulling out The Beginner’s Guide to Shoplifting. Settled back to read the first short story. A bit heavy on the adverbs, but other than that, it was OK.
He was just starting the second one when the door through to the office opened and a middle-aged man in uniform poked his head out. His hair had abandoned its post, retreating to a defensive position around both ears, a set of jowls lightly blued with stubble. A pair of evil-scientist glasses, all narrow with silver frames. He smiled. ‘Ah, Callum. Good, good: in you come. Sorry about the wait.’ He held the door open and gestured inside.
‘No, it’s fine.’ Callum stood. Stuffed the book in his backpack. ‘Gave me a chance to catch up with my reading.’
‘Good, good.’ He moved aside, then closed the door behind Callum. ‘I know we should have done this weeks ago, but you know what it’s like. Busy, busy.’
It was a small-ish office, with a desk on one side and a round table in the middle. Some filing cabinets. A coffee machine. A small digital video camera on a tripod.
‘Please, please, take a seat. Coffee? I’m having one anyway …?’
‘Thanks. Just milk.’
‘Perfect.’ He wandered over and started pushing buttons and inserting cartridges. ‘So, Callum, I understand you’re going to be a father in two weeks’ time. How exciting. Most fulfilling thing you can do as a man.’
‘Well—’
‘There you go. One white coffee.’ He sank into the chair next to Callum’s. ‘I can’t abide all this “flat white” nonsense, can you? Oh,’ he stuck his hand out, ‘Chief Inspector Gilmore, we spoke on the phone yesterday, but you can call me Alex.’
OK …
‘Chief Inspector.’
‘Ah, almost forgot.’ He raised himself half out of his seat and pointed a remote control at the camera. A little red light blinked on. ‘There we go. Can’t do these things without a proper record, can we? The Boss would have my guts for garters. And I understand your good lady is in the job too?’
Callum closed his mouth, then opened it again. ‘Well, yes. I mean, she’s on maternity leave, but—’
‘Let me see now …’ He checked a notepad. ‘Ah, here we are: Constable Pirie. Elaine. You know, I had an Aunty Elaine when I was wee. Lovely lady, used to give us Advocaat every Christmas because she thought it wasn’t alcoholic. And I see she’s been seconded to the Scenes Examination Branch?’
What?
Chief Inspector Gilmore held up a hand. ‘Sorry, your Elaine, not my aunt. How’s she getting on? Weird cravings, I’ll bet. My Pauline used to chew the rubber hose from the spin dryer. That dates me, doesn’t it? Amazing our sons didn’t come out with two heads. How’s the coffee?’
Was the man some sort of idiot? How …
Callum sat back in his seat.
No, of course he wasn’t. Didn’t matter what crime novels and TV dramas said, you didn’t get to be a chief inspector without having a considerable amount of grey matter packed between your earholes. The rambling avuncular act was all about putting people at ease and off their game at the same time.
Well that only worked if you didn’t know he was doing it.
Callum took a sip. ‘It’s great. Thanks.’
‘Better than the stuff from the canteen anyway. So, Callum: tell me all about Big Johnny Simpson.’
‘Well …’ He cleared his throat. ‘I want to start by saying I’ve never taken a bribe in my life. Ever.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Gilmore raised an eyebrow. ‘But …?’
‘No, no buts.’ He picked his rucksack off the floor and upended the contents onto the table. Three burgundy ring-binders, a Tupperware box, and a banana. He retrieved his lunch and pushed the binders towards Gilmore. ‘Bank statements. Well, building society statements, but it’s the same thing. Feel free – go through them with a nit comb. And if you want to contact the Royal Caledonian, I’ll tell them you’ve got free rein to look at any account I’ve got.’
‘I see. That is awfully kind of you.’ Gilmore stacked them into a neat pile on one side. ‘But in the meantime,’ a smile pulled his jowls up at the edges, ‘why don’t you tell me all about Big Johnny Simpson?’
‘Urgh.’ Callum dumped the rucksack on his desk. Collapsed into his seat. Powered up his computer. Grabbed his desk phone and called the control room.
‘Aye, Aye?’
‘Brucie? Any word on my lookout requests?’
‘Hud oan, I’ll check …’
The office was empty, no sign of Dotty or Watt-the-Moaning-Dick. They’d been at the murder board, though: no mistaking Watt’s drunken-spider scrawl.
Didn’t look as if they’d made a whole load of progress. The column headed ‘OPEN TASKS’ had gained a bunch of actions allocated to the pair of them, more on the bottom waiting for someone to take them on. Mostly interviewing friends and family of the three amateur property tycoons. Franklin’s name appeared on the list only once: ‘ATTEND POST MORTAM ~ 10:30’.
God’s sake.
‘You still there? Aye: Benjamin Harrington, Brett Millar, and Glen Carmichael – no sightings. You could get yourself a warrant and see if they’ve used their bank cards?’
‘Thanks, Brucie.’ Callum hung up, then hauled himself out of his chair and over to the board. Wiped the word ‘MORTAM’ out and wrote ‘MORTEM’ in the gap. Chief Inspector Gilmore might have been putting on an act, but Watt wasn’t. He truly was an idiot.
‘And what exactly, my dear Constable Callum, are you up to now?’
Wonderful: Haiku Boy.
Callum corrected the spelling of ‘INTERVIEW COLLEEGES’. ‘I’m fixing the murder board.’
‘You keep away from that, young Callum. That’s for grown-ups.’ McAdams settled on the edge of Dotty’s desk. ‘While we’re at it: what time do you call this? It’s ten o’clock. Shift starts at seven a.m., not whenever you feel like it.’
‘You know fine well where I was.’
A grin. ‘Ah yes, Professional Standards.’ He put one hand on his chest. ‘They interview cops, who are dirty and bent, / To punish their sins, till they wail and lament, / Then cast them down low, in the dirt at their feet, / And I do hope they fired you, cos that would be sweet.’
‘Yeah, go screw yourself, Sarge.’ Callum chucked the whiteboard marker back onto Watt’s desk, then sank behind his own. ‘What happened with Dugdale, he cop to it?’
‘That’s no longer your concern, Constable.’ McAdams checked his watch again. ‘When the lovely DC Franklin gets in, you can give her a lift to the overflow mortuary. You’re going there anyway.’
Oh great.
He sagged back in his seat. ‘I am?’
‘Of course you are. As a minor character you’ve been farmed out onto a subplot: discovering which museums have lost their mummies. Mother’s even made you SIO. Isn’t that fun?’
‘Gah …’ Callum covered his face with both hands. ‘I hate you all.’
‘And they’re post-morteming your first mummy at half ten this morning. Don’t be late.’
‘No, don’t put me on hold, I just need to know if … Hello? Hello?’ A pan-pipes version of ‘Green Sleeves’ rattled out of the phone’s earpiece. Wonderful.
Callum printed the letters ‘D.I.C.K.’ next to the museum’s name. Third one in fifteen minutes.
There had to be, what, a dozen active murder investigations in the division right now? And what was he doing? Sodding stolen mummies.
The office door clunked shut.
Probably bloody Andrew McAdams, back for another gloat. Maybe he’d come up with another hilarious poem. Oh ha, ha, ha.
Dick.
Franklin’s face appeared over the top of Callum’s cubicle wall. ‘Where
’s everyone else?’
He held the handset away from his head and frowned at it. ‘Is it just me? Am I hallucinating and this isn’t really an actual phone? Is that why I’m the only one who can see it?’
‘Somebody’s touchy.’
‘Yes, hello?’ A little voice replaced the pan pipes. ‘We’ve checked and we’ve never had a human mummy here. We’ve got a mummified dog and a stuffed polar bear in storage, if that helps?’
‘No. Thanks. You’ve been a lot of help.’ He hung up and stuck two lines through the museum’s name. Sat back and massaged his temples.
Franklin sniffed. ‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘So where is everyone?’
He pointed at the murder board. ‘Off interviewing Glen Carmichael’s mates.’
‘Ooh, there’s stuff on the board.’ She disappeared from view. ‘Wait a minute, how come I’m down to do the post mortem?’
Callum stood.
She was in front of the murder board, hands on her hips, frown on her face. ‘What, I’m stuck in the mortuary with a decomposing corpse while you’re all off interviewing people? Thank you very sodding much!’
He pointed at the list of tasks. ‘If you didn’t want to do it, why put your name down?’
‘I didn’t. None of this was on the board last night.’
Hmm … ‘You didn’t mark up the actions with Watt and Dotty?’
‘No. We ate the pizzas, then Mother told me to head off and not come back in till quarter past ten, as I’d been here till late.’
Lovely. So even though he’d been here three weeks longer than she had, Franklin got to call DI Malcolmson ‘Mother’ while he had to call her ‘Boss’. And she got a lie-in.
Franklin sniffed again. ‘What’s wrong with your face?’
‘Nothing.’ He picked his coat off the back of his chair. ‘Get your stuff, we’re off to the mortuary.’
The pool car slid along Camburn Road, following the edge of the woods. They made a thick blanket of green: leaves and bushes trembling in the rain. There were people in there, on the paths and tracks that wound their way between the trees – walking dogs, wheeling pushchairs, jogging. A wee girl on a bicycle …
Callum slammed on the brakes.
‘Aaargh!’ Franklin lurched forward against her seatbelt, both hands slapping onto the dashboard – bracing herself. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re—’
‘Just be a minute.’ He stuck on the hazard lights and scrambled out into the downpour. Flicked his collar up as he jogged between the puddles and in under the canopy of branches. Wiped the rain from his face. ‘Willow.’
Her dirty-blue anorak was frayed at the cuffs and shoulders, hood thrown back, gold ringlets stuck to her shiny face. Pink cheeks and Rudolf nose. ‘Sup?’
Raindrops pattered on the leaves above them, like a million tiny drummers. The occasional drip made it through the canopy, splashing into a puddle big enough to drown a toddler.
He cleared his throat. ‘Is your mum all right?’
‘Been waiting on you for ages, Piggy.’
‘Did Jerome come back and hit her again?’
Willow tilted her head on one side. ‘You perving on my mum?’
‘No.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with my mum?’
‘It’s OK, I’ll keep your name out of it. No one will know you told me who hit your mother.’
‘Get bent, Piggy. I ain’t no snitch.’ She balanced on the pedals, shoogling the bike from side to side to stay upright. ‘You got them toys for Pinky from the wee creepy guy with the pawnshop. Why?’
‘Because.’ Callum shrugged. ‘No one should have to pawn their kids’ toys just to stay afloat. No matter how much of a pain in the arse those kids are.’
She almost smiled.
‘Willow, your dad – the guy who broke your arm when you were four – what was his name?’
‘How come you always asking questions, Piggy?’ She pedalled around him in a slow circle. ‘Nosey, nosey, nosey: oink, oink, oink.’
‘Just interested.’
‘Always sticking your nose into other people’s stuff and that.’
‘Hey, it’s OK if you don’t know.’
‘Course I know.’ She did another lap. ‘You saying I don’t know?’
‘Lots of people have no idea who their dad is. No shame in that.’
‘Yeah, well I know: and I ain’t no snitch. But see if he ever comes back? I’ll break his arm.’
‘Sure you will.’ Callum turned in place, facing her as she circled.
‘Break his little bitch legs too.’
A seven-year-old girl, with blonde ringlets. And the worst thing was: she probably meant it.
‘You don’t have to be like him, Willow. You can be so much better than that. Hell: put your mind to it and you can be anything you want.’
‘You’re a nutjob, Piggy.’ She pedalled away a couple of feet, then dug into her pocket and came out with a small blue bag – the kind dog-walkers used to collect moist, soft, stinking presents – and chucked it to him.
Please don’t let it be warm, please don’t let it be warm …
It wasn’t. And what was inside wasn’t cold and squidgy either, it was a thin, flat rectangle.
Callum opened the bag, and there it was: one tatty leather wallet, the lining dangling loose from one side like a Labrador’s tongue. A smile pulled at his face, but when he looked up Willow was already fading into the distance, pedalling for all she was worth.
He took a deep breath and bellowed it out anyway: ‘THANK YOU!’
Then the car horn blared from the roadside behind him. Franklin, being her usual patient charming self.
Right.
He puffed out a breath and slipped the poo-bag in his pocket.
Time to visit the dead.
12
‘Thanks. Thanks a lot. And now I’m late.’ Franklin sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, scowling.
‘It’s only just gone half ten.’ Callum swung the pool car around the roundabout and into a shabby industrial estate. Past boarded-up business units with empty car parks and rusty chain-link fencing speckled with ancient carrier bags – their colours bleached and brittle. Through puddles the size of lochans, sending arcs of spray up onto the pavements. Windscreen wipers thumping back-and-forth across the glass. ‘It’s like going to the pictures: first fifteen minutes is all adverts and trailers.’
‘I happen to like the trailers.’
Yeah, she would.
Left, past a garage selling shiny four-by-four flatbed trucks, and down to the end of the road.
A thick line of green bushes – at least twelve foot tall – stretched out from either side of a big automatic gate topped with razor wire. An intercom unit sat in front of the gate, mounted on top of a big concrete bollard. Callum pulled up beside it and wound down his window. Pressed the button.
Its speaker crackled and popped, then hissed something unintelligible at him. So he stuck his thumb on the button again and held it there till the gates squealed and rumbled their way open.
The pool car rocked its way over a speed bump and into the compound.
If the architect was going for warm and welcoming when he designed Oldcastle’s overflow mortuary he’d done a sodding rotten job of it. The building looked like something out of a Cold War thriller – a concrete bunker with tiny windows along its length. A Transit van sat outside the loading bay, down the far end, two men in grey overalls manhandling a plain gunmetal coffin onto a gurney.
It wasn’t the only vehicle there – a handful of manky pool cars had been abandoned as close to the mortuary’s front doors as possible. Because clearly police officers weren’t waterproof.
Callum parked on the periphery of the clump. ‘There you go: five minutes. They’ll still be going on about switching off your mobile phone and getting a drink and a snack from the lobby.’
‘You’re
an idiot.’ She climbed out into the rain and slammed the door behind her.
‘So people keep telling me.’ He locked the car and followed her inside.
They’d decorated since last time, the smell of fresh paint fighting against several plug-in air fresheners and the dirty-bowel-like stench of decay. All the posters were new too – motivational landscapes and quotes about peace and forgiveness. As if that was going to do any good to the poor sods who had to come all the way out here to identify their dead child’s body. The wee stainless-steel reception desk hadn’t changed, and nor had the big dusty rubber plant in the corner. Its thick waxy leaves like slabs of green liver, aerial roots searching the walls for sustenance.
A little old man lounged behind the desk, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he wrestled with the Castle News and Post crossword. The effort must have been quite something, because his wrinkles were even more tortured than normal, his hair a mixture of silver and cigarette-tar yellow.
Callum went over and had a look. Poked the newspaper. ‘Three across, “Decapitated”.’
The old man glanced up, showing off a pair of dark, glittering eyes. ‘It doesn’t fit.’
‘It does if you spell “Robespierre” properly, Dougal. Three Es, two Rs and an I.’
‘Oh.’ He made the correction, then put the paper to one side. Grinned at Franklin with a big grey wall of perfectly straight false teeth. ‘Well, well, well, when DS McAdams called to say you were coming over he didn’t tell me you were such a beauty.’
She bared her teeth back at him, but it wasn’t a smile. ‘Where’s the post mortem?’
‘Ah, straight to business.’ Dougal winked. ‘I like that in a woman.’
‘Do you also like a punch in the throat?’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a little light spanking. But maybe I should just show you through to the cutting room?’
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