A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  The mummy’s ribcage lay on a trolley against the wall, its covering of leathery skin too dried-on to remove like in a normal post mortem.

  ‘No external sign of trauma, other than the discolouration around the throat – which could just be pigmentation from the preservation, but looks more like ante-mortem bruising to me. And then there’s this.’ He held up a little jar full of tiny discoloured spheres and gave it a shake, making them rattle against the glass. ‘You’ll need to get it tested, but unless I’m very much mistaken, it’s silica gel. The kind of thing that comes in those little sachets they stick in bags, shoes, and handbags to sook up moisture and stop them going mouldy. His mouth was stuffed with it. More in the oesophagus, trachea, and sinus cavities. We’ll have to rehydrate the stomach to find out, but I’m willing to bet we’ll find some there too.’

  Mother wandered back to the table. ‘Excuse me, Dr Jenkins, I have to borrow Detective Constable MacGregor here.’

  Oh. That didn’t sound good. Whatever horror she and McAdams had come up with, it was about to spatter down on Callum’s head.

  ‘Please, it’s Harrison. And by all means. The young man’s a bit of a fidget anyway.’

  Everyone’s a critic.

  She pulled on a smile. ‘Thank you.’ Then headed for the exit. ‘Come on, Constable.’

  Here we go.

  Callum leaned closer to Franklin. ‘Try not to punch anyone else, OK?’ And followed Mother out, through the changing room, past the rows and rows of refrigeration units, across the reception area, and out into the rain.

  She shrugged her shoulders up around her ears and hurried across the puddled tarmac to her battered Fiat Panda. Hurled herself in behind the wheel and beckoned at him from the safety of the car.

  What would it be: door-to-doors in the freezing downpour? Digging into the archives for some obscure file that hadn’t been seen for three generations? Talking to small children about road safety? Or maybe she was just going to fire him?

  He high-stepped between the water-filled potholes, collar pulled up against the rain, and clambered in the passenger side.

  A furry penguin hung from the rear-view mirror, along with a yellow air-freshener that smelled of chemical lemons. Inside, the car was a mess. Mud, grit, gravel, and old magazines in the footwells; plastic bags, a collection of cardboard wine-carriers full of empties, and for some bizarre reason a quarter-size inflatable sheep with sunglasses, littering the back seat. Dust coating the dashboard like a furry blanket. The bottles clinked and rattled as he thumped the door shut.

  Ooh, sodding hell: it was like climbing into a very filthy fridge. Cold air nipped at his ears.

  Mother stuck her hands in her pockets, her breath fogging in front of her face. ‘Callum, Callum, Callum … What am I going to do with you?’

  Oh great. She’d dragged him all the way out here for a bollocking. Could they not have done it inside in the warm?

  ‘Thought I told you not to lead our new girl astray? And what do I find? She’s running around assaulting detective sergeants on DCI Powel’s Major Investigation Team. Care to explain yourself?’

  What? ‘How is this my—’

  ‘I had Powel on the phone this afternoon, and he wasn’t a happy hedgehog. Says after the assault you waded in and interfered with the victim – to wit one DS Jimmy Blake. Got him to change his story and say he slipped and battered his own nose to a wee bloody lump.’

  ‘All I did was point out that the whole thing would be caught on the mortuary’s CCTV system.’ A shrug. ‘For some reason, Blakey wasn’t keen on anyone seeing it.’

  ‘Right.’ Mother nodded. Then sighed. ‘Callum, I’m all in favour of sticking up for the team, I really am …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But probably better get a copy of the footage. Just in case Powel or Blakey decide to make it disappear. Blackmail only works as long as you’ve got the negatives.’ She grinned, then dug a paper bag out of her fleece pocket. ‘Have a jelly baby. Hell, take two.’

  He did. An orange and a yellow.

  Mother shoogled down a bit in her seat and helped herself to a red one. ‘And when you get the footage, pop past my office with it. About time someone tried to introduce Blakey the Octopus’s nose to his rectum by first-class fist-express; I’m going to get some popcorn in.’

  ‘Yes, Boss.’ He popped the yellow baby into his mouth, chewed on its lemony sweetness.

  ‘I don’t know what to make of you, Callum, I honestly don’t. One minute you’re this vast pain in my backside, and the next you’re saving Franklin from herself.’

  He ripped the head off the orange baby. ‘I didn’t take a bribe from Big Johnny Simpson. Talk to Professional Standards – they’re looking through every penny I’ve got. Yes: I cocked-up the crime scene, but I didn’t do it on purpose.’

  ‘Hmmm …’ She chewed in silence for bit.

  A squall of wind rocked the car, rain buckshotting the roof, setting it ringing.

  Mother devoured another baby. ‘They’re going to grab this case off us if they can.’

  Of course they were.

  ‘Two victims mummified and a third brining, ready for smoking? That spells “serial killer” in eight-foot-tall flashing neon letters. There’ll be a media outcry, public panic, press briefings, idiots hanging about outside Divisional Headquarters doing serious pieces to camera …’ A yellow jelly baby lost its life. ‘They’ll want a superintendent running it.’

  Callum wrote his name in the dashboard dust. ‘Yes, but a superintendent won’t want to get their hands dirty, will they? No, they’ll want someone else to do the actual police work, in case it all goes horribly wrong. Plausible deniability.’

  ‘Oh goody, a poisoned chalice. My favourite.’ She held the paper bag out again. ‘We’re fighting for this one, Callum. It’ll probably be the last chance Andy gets to put a killer away. I won’t let them take that away from him.’

  ‘We should run a dental records match on Glen Carmichael and his two mates. Just in case.’ He popped a green jelly baby in, feet first. ‘And Powel’s got a forensic psychologist down to consult on his severed feet, Dr McDonald. She was the one they brought in to work the Birthday Boy case? We could tap her for some Behavioural Evidence Analysis.’

  ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘They’re not allowed to call it “profiling” because of the TV. Might help?’

  ‘Not if it’s Glen and his mates who’re the killers …’ A shrug. ‘But what the hell. We’ll get DNA and a facial reconstruction on the go too. I’ll fight with our esteemed masters about the budget later.’ She put the sweeties away. ‘Anything else?’

  Callum wiped the dust from his fingertip onto his trousers. ‘When you dragged me out here, I thought you were going to fire me.’

  ‘Did you?’ A shrug. ‘I just fancied a jelly baby – they always taste funny in the mortuary. Like death.’

  Sharp salty cheese, soft claggy bread, smooth silky butter, and the tangy vinegar crunch of Branston Pickle. Callum sat in the APT lounge and chewed.

  Elaine had stuck another little note in with his sandwich. Today it was a lumpy drawing of a flat fish, with a speech balloon above its head: ‘YOU’RE MY SOLE MATE!’, with the subtitle, ‘BARRY THE FISH IS TERRIBLE AT PUNS’, and a lipstick kiss.

  He smiled at Barry, then tucked him into his jacket pocket – ready to join the others when he got home.

  A copy of Hey You! magazine lay on the coffee table, all shiny and shallow. Apparently some plastic-faced, talentless, Z-list nonentities were celebrating the first anniversary of the renewal of their wedding vows! Picture exclusive! Oh my God! How exciting!

  No wonder people turned into serial killers.

  Still, it was his own fault for finishing The Beginner’s Guide to Shoplifting that morning, instead of saving it for lunchtime. Could’ve had something decent to read instead of this.

  He flipped the magazine open to a big photo spre
ad of Mrs Plastic Face and her equally gormless-looking husband of eighteen months. Eighteen months married and they’d already reached the heady milestone of a vow-renewal anniversary.

  Someone grunted their way down into the couch on the other side of the coffee table.

  Callum took another bite. ‘According to this, she’s just signed a publishing deal: two million quid for four books.’

  ‘How is that fair?’ McAdams sighed. ‘A book deal for an idiot who can’t write her own name, / The public should know better, but they’ll buy it just the same, / The publishers will lap it up, to boost their bottom line, / And if they’ll publish crap like that, why won’t they publish mine?’

  Callum flipped the page again. ‘Move over Pam Ayres, we have a new Poet Laureate.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be doing something?’

  ‘I am. I’m eating the sandwich my pregnant girlfriend made me for lunch.’ He held up a finger. ‘And before you start: I’ve already got the DNA sent off from all three bodies, got Lucy to X-ray their heads for dental chart comparisons, contacted Dundee University’s facial reconstruction bods, asked the media department to send out “have you seen these men” posters for Glen Carmichael and his mates, and Dr Alice McDonald has agreed to pay us a visit as soon as she’s finished drafting her preliminary report on Powel’s severed feet.’ Another bite of cheesy pickly goodness. ‘So yes, right now I’m eating my lunch and reading about vacuous nonentities who spent more cash on a vow-renewal anniversary celebration than you or I will make in a year.’

  ‘Just because Mother’s softening on you, doesn’t mean I am, Constable. And for the record: summary narrative is the hallmark of a lazy writer.’

  He turned the page. ‘Ooh, look here: it says she’s bringing out a line of perfumes, that’ll be nice, won’t it? Silicone Implants → la Botox, a fragrance for women.’

  ‘Fine.’ McAdams stood. ‘When you’ve finished your meagre repast, I want those dental records checked. And find out who they bought the flat from. Maybe he’s the one in the bath. God knows I’d happily kill the idiot who sold us our house.’

  ‘Sarge?’ Franklin poked her head around the door. ‘Sorry, but there’s a Dr McDonald in the observation room asking to see the team. Says she’s consulting?’

  ‘That’s me.’ Callum popped the last chunk of sandwich in his mouth and sooked his fingers clean. Flipped the magazine shut and stood. ‘Feel free to tag along, if you like.’

  He sauntered out, past a frowning Franklin, and down the corridor into the observation suite. It was subdivided into booths by a series of half-height partitions, each area looking out over one of the dissecting room’s twelve cutting tables. The booths all had their own whiteboard, DVD recorder, collection of uncomfortable plastic chairs, and TV screen.

  Dr McDonald was sitting cross-legged on the floor right in front of the TV, still wearing her pink scrubs and stripy top, elbows on her knees, hands on her cheeks – holding her head up. Like a little kid watching cartoons. In front of her, the screen had a top-down plan view of the cutting table, a wrinkled leathery body lying dead centre curled up on its side. Figures flickered and swam around it, moving impossibly quickly, lurching in and out of frame.

  She’d swapped her mortuary-issue wellies for a pair of red high-tops, and added a pair of glasses to her ensemble. The fast-forward post mortem reflected in their lenses.

  She looked up as Callum walked in. ‘I’ve watched it five times now.’

  He waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. No babbling. No non sequiturs.

  OK …

  She unfolded her legs and stood. ‘I’ll need to see the crime scene.’

  ‘I can probably swing that.’

  McAdams marched into the room, followed by Franklin. Still no sign of Mother.

  A big smile and McAdams stuck his hand out for shaking. ‘Detective Sergeant McAdams, you must be Dr McDonald.’

  She looked at the offered hand as if he’d grown a vast pale hairless spider at the end of his arm.

  The awkward silence stretched.

  He lowered his hand. Stuck it in his pocket instead. ‘This is DC Franklin.’

  ‘Before we start, here’s how this works,’ McDonald walked to the whiteboard and wrote ‘VICTIMOLOGY’ on it in red marker, ‘I give you a series of educated guesses, based on the information you give me. If I don’t know something I’ll mark it as an assumption and you have to take anything based on that with a whole carton of salt. Agreed?’

  ‘You’re going to profile our serial killer?’

  ‘OFFENDER BEHAVIOURAL INDICATORS’ went on the board next.

  ‘No, I’m going to give you educated guesses, remember?’

  ‘CRIME SCENE INDICATORS’

  McAdams leaned back against the partition wall. ‘Go on then, guess away.’

  ‘PSYCHOLOGICAL GEOGRAPHY / BOUNDARIES’

  ‘From what we know right now, our suspect is probably a goal-orientated killer. It’s possible preserving the victims turns them into some kind of fertility totem, but I don’t think he kills them for sexual release. He kills them so he can mummify their bodies. That’s his goal – it means something to him. What is the bigger question.’

  ‘I’ll settle for who.’

  ‘Statistically it’s going to be a white male, mid-twenties. He’ll have access to a facility for smoking meat, and or fish, and experience in using it. You don’t jump right into this kind of thing without practice.’

  McAdams snapped his fingers at Callum. ‘I want a list of every smokehouse in a twenty … make it fifty-mile radius.’

  Dick.

  Callum made a note anyway. ‘What about Glen Carmichael, Brett Millar, and Ben Harrington? Any chance the three of them are killing as a team?’

  Dr McDonald looked back at the TV, with its flickering ghosts. ‘There’s a chance, but it’s not very likely. Two of them, maybe – one dominant, one submissive – but three would be very unusual. It’s hard enough getting three men to agree on what pizza toppings to order, never mind how to select, kill, and preserve their victims.’

  Fair enough.

  She leaned in closer to the screen. ‘Our offender’s an artisan and an artist. This kind of work takes time, care, and skill. He’s probably unattached, lives alone where no one can interfere with his work. He’ll drive a big car, or a van – he needs to be able to transport the bodies.’

  Franklin shook her head. ‘We found one of them in the boot of a wee Kia Picanto – small four-door hatchback. You don’t need that much space.’

  ‘Not when they’re mummified, but while they’re still alive? You need more room.’

  And Franklin explodes: in three, two, one … But she didn’t. She just nodded.

  ‘His post-murder activities are highly ritualised too. Removing the organs and preserving them separately, then stitching them back into the body cavity.’ She wrapped the fingers of one hand into her hair, fiddling with the curls as her eyes narrowed and her voice dropped off to a murmur. ‘You don’t just mummify people for fun, do you, no you don’t, you do it because you want them to live on in the afterlife, you deify them …’ She let go of her hair and straightened. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some sort of religious upbringing.’ She pointed at the whiteboard, where ‘PSYCHOLOGICAL GEOGRAPHY / BOUNDARIES’ was written. ‘I need to know where the victims came from before we can work out where he’s likely to live.’

  Callum nodded. ‘We’re working on it.’

  ‘Also,’ McAdams took a marker from the shelf beneath the board and uncapped it, ‘we need to decide what we’re calling our boy. Can’t have a serial killer novel with an unnamed antagonist.’ He printed ‘IMHOTEP’ right in the middle. ‘Before the tabloid newspapers come up with something more lurid.’

  ‘Ah …’ Dr McDonald bit her top lip. ‘It’s a nice thought, I mean I know we’ve got to call him something, but “Imhotep” doesn’t actually work, does it, because Imhotep was Egyptian a
nd Egyptian mummies are always preserved lying flat, and the curled body posture our suspect uses to pose his victims is more reminiscent of ancient Peruvian burial techniques, which results from a completely different cultural and religious background.’ She shrugged. ‘“Paddington” would probably be more accurate, you know, strictly speaking, because of the Peru connection, I think we should definitely call him Paddington, it just makes a lot more sense.’

  ‘And one final thing.’ McAdams smiled. ‘Aren’t you going to say it?’

  Dr McDonald wrote ‘PADDINGTON’ on the board. ‘Aren’t I going to say what?’

  ‘It’s a cliché of the genre, but the profiler always says it at the end of the briefing.’

  A frown. ‘Nope, you’ve lost me.’

  ‘He will kill again!’

  ‘Of course he will.’ McDonald stuck the lid back on the marker pen. ‘He’s a serial killer, it’s what he does.’

  — Imhotep —

  “Well, well, well,” the God Wolf growled, “if I’ve not just caught the tastiest little morsel in the whole dark world.”

  “You can’t eat me!” gasped Imelda. “I’m made of bones and stones and glass and groans, and if you eat me you’ll get a terrible tummy ache and die!”

  The God Wolf smiled at her. “I’ll take my chances,” he said. And swallowed Imelda whole.

  R.M. Travis

  Imelda’s Miraculous Dustbin (1999)

  Stay away from ma b*tches, they ain’t down with no snitches,

  I got me my riches, givin’ punks like you stitches!

  Donny ‘$ick Dawg’ McRoberts

  ‘Livin’ Free Or Dyin’ Tryin’’

  © Bob’s Speed Trap Records (2014)

  17

  The God-In-Waiting sways gently in the smoke, head down, hands making delicate figure-eight patterns as it swings. No movement of its own, just that final rattling breath, then peace and stillness. Grace and purity.

  It’s time.